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Chapter Text

Moro'a gazed out towards the chalky bluffs that stretched along Terncliff's edges, thoughts as deep as the sapphire sea that lapped at the silent town's foundations. The town square was nearly deserted, the windy quiet only punctuated by the occasional march of a resistance soldier or Ironworks engineer's hurried footsteps, and the occasional cry of a seagull braving the winds overhead.

It was over. The Weapon project had been terminated, Valens had met his violent end, and Werlyt would begin its arduous yet welcome journey towards rebuilding itself, free at last from the Empire's clutches.

If only the cost hadn't been so dire. He thought of Allie, trapped in the waking nightmare of her trauma, scarred as all victims of war and imperialism were. She'd been listless as he'd carried her from the smoking wreckage of the Diamond Weapon, the consequences of her torment evident on her tear-streaked face. He didn't know the first thing about how he might help her. If it was even in his power or his place to try.

Breathing deep of the coastal air, Moro'a spotted the shadowy figure of Gaius van Baelsar standing by Avilina's memorial. Not for the first time, Moro'a felt a strange twinge of emotion as he watched the somber Garlean - once masked mortal enemy, now Ascian hunter, imperial defector, Eorzean ally. Foster father.

He was nothing like Moro, and yet somehow, he couldn't help but be reminded of her. Like Gaius with the many, many orphans he'd taken in, she'd cared for him as a mother, with affection, patience, firmness. He can't help but wonder once more - what would she say? After all that had befallen him, all he had accomplished and wrought? What would she think of the man he'd become?

If you can turn even just one sorrow into one joy, alleviate one's burdens for just a moment, that's one less onze of pain in the world, she'd often tell him.

He sighed, breath mingling with the salty, slightly sweet air. She'd have loved it here.

With a resolute nod, he turned away from the bluffs and began walking towards the memorial.

Chapter Text

“You seem to have a question for me, my friend.” The statement came as a surprise to Moro'a, who looked up from the tome he'd been reading in the corner of Haurchefant's quarters. Despite being a ward of House Fortemps and thus free to stay at their manor whenever he wished, he found himself gravitating back to Camp Dragonhead twice, even thrice a week at times – perhaps it was the feeling of warm security it still held for him, free from prying eyes and pointing fingers. And perhaps, no, certainly, he noted with embarrassment – it was the camp's exuberant garrison commander who drew him so.

Haurchefant Greystone had an uncanny affinity for reading Moro'a's intentions, which would be unsettling were it not for the fact that he had near-complete trust in the man. Indeed, a question had been burning at the tip of his tongue, ever since Lord Artoirel had brought up his half-brother's parentage.

Looking at Haurchefant but not quite looking at him directly, Moro'a nodded, tail sweeping the ground gently with light nervousness. “Artoirel mentioned something about you, something he thought I already knew.” The elezen's gaze didn't falter, but he shifted ever so slightly. “Count Edmont is...”

“My father, yes.” Haurchefant was smiling. “I suppose it was foolish of me not to mention that detail when I pledged to champion the Scions and your cause.”

Moro'a shook his head. “I'm sure you had your reasons.” His brow furrowed as he considered his next question. “Err, I apologise if this sounds wholly ignorant, but...if Artoirel's your half-brother, that means...”

Haurchefant regarded him with his chin resting on his interlocked hands and a bemused twinkle in his eyes. “Pray tell Moro'a, you wish to discuss my esteemed father's sexual and romantic relations?”

Moro'a choked. “That's not how I would...gods, Haurchefant,” he sputtered. The knight laughed boisterously.

“Forgive me, 'twas worth the look on your face,” he chuckled, relenting with his hands up in the air when the miqo'te levelled a glare at him. “More seriously now, you wish to know my mother and father met, and how I came to be born?” he asked. Slowly, Moro'a nodded.

And so Haurchefant recounted the story of how his mother, a sickly woman from the Brume, had come to work at the Fortemps manor as a cook. Despite being of poor health, she'd earned her keep with her culinary skills. But it was her kind yet lively spirit that had won the Count's favour, and later, his adoration. The Countess had been away, and a night of passion had ensued; one that would be talked of amongst the nobility and their servants for years to come.

“Men and women like me are more common than you might think,” Haurchefant explained. “We have a surname made for us, after all. But 'tis extremely rare for the noble parent in question to publicly acknowledge their bastard child, as has been the case for me.”

Moro'a searched Haurchefant's face for sadness or resentment, but found only a thoughtful, if slightly pensive look in his eyes. “I don't really get the whole...bastard thing,” he admitted, feeling a bit like a child. “I can see why it might be considered atypical or frowned upon in Ishgardian society, but there's a layer of stigma attached to having a different parent that just confounds me.”

Haurchefant hummed, tapping his thumbs together in a steady rhythm. “We have ever been a proud people; our pride stems from an unshakeable belief in our heritage,” he said, the corner of his mouth turning ever so slightly. “And what is a noble heritage if anyone, even a lowly denizen of the Brume, could lay claim to it? The divide between nobility and commonfolk is pre-ordained and for our greater good...so some might say.”

Such a presumption filled Moro'a with disgust, but he tried not to let it show. Haurchefant shifted in his seat and regarded him with an odd expression. “I pray that you will not think of my father in a poorer light,” he said. “He has treated me well and stood up for me throughout my life, and I have naught but the highest respect for him.”

Moro'a wasn't entirely sure if he agreed with Haurchefant, but he could appreciate that the Count had not thought to abandon his second son, when it would've been the easiest thing for him to do. “Nay, you need not worry,” he replied. Though one last question tugged at him, and his curiosity got the better of him. “And what of your mother?”

“Ah.” Now Haurchefant looked away, and his smile became sadder, softer. “I loved her, as any son would. And though I had but a few short years with which to know her, they were spent knowing she loved me too, in whatever ways she could.”

The elezen's certainty in his parents' love, in spite of the extraordinarily compromising circumstances he'd been born into, was difficult for Moro'a to grasp. How strange it seemed in contrast to his own upbringing, where a stable and typical Keeper community had not guaranteed acceptance. But if there was something Moro'a knew all too well, it was that family was always complicated.

“Thank you, my friend,” Haurchefant said, to Moro'a's surprise. “It was heartening to be able to speak of my family in this way. I hope you might tell me of yours someday, if you ever wished to.”

Though he didn't feel ready yet, Moro'a found that he didn't dislike the prospect. “Someday,” he agreed. “And...thank you for telling me about yours.” A pause, and then against his better judgment he added, “For what it's worth, I think you're a good friend and a wonderful person, heritage be damned. I'm sure your mother would be proud of who you've become.”

Before he had any time to second-guess his impulsive words, Haurchefant's smile widened, and the look he gave Moro'a was so warm and affectionate, it set his heart ablaze.

Chapter Text

Music had scales for all sorts of emotions. That was the beauty of song to Guydelot; that twelve notes alone could produce a seemingly-infinite combination of tones, moods, and timbres, from ditties that delighted the heart to elegies that could bring out the deepest depths of mourning. The best bards were the ones who not only possessed the technical skill to perform well, but a soul attuned to the emotions of those around them, such that their music would reach their hearts and bolster their spirits.

Guydelot prided himself on being one such bard. Jehantel once said his greatest musical strength was his knack for picking out just the right scale for a song; finding the range of notes that would best resonate with the emotions sought, the tonal colours with he could paint the most fitting harmonies.

He'd also said, albeit gently, that it was his greatest weakness. That he should take care not to assume he alone knew what sounded best for that something or someone. Guydelot had taken his mentor's words to heart somewhat, but a stubborn, independent part of him yet rebelled against that notion. Should an occasion prove more challenging to attune to, why, he'd need only to patiently persist before he'd strike it eventually.

Writing a love song for Sanson was proving to require several tonzes of patience and persistence.

With a loud groan, Guydelot crumpled his latest failed creation into the tighest ball he could before throwing it away. It landed neatly atop the steadily growing pile of similar parchment balls, which would soon be large enough that a Padjal might come knocking on his door, demanding to know why he was taxing the Twelveswood's beloved trees so.

Sprawled out on the bed with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, he wondered if perhaps he should just give up. There were plenty of wonderfully-written love songs out there – surely he could find a suitable few for his obstinate, beloved captain. Yet he also knew he would not rest till he'd nailed down this song – this wasn't just for Sanson now, his pride as a bard was on the line, for gods' sake! He vowed to have the foundations of the song laid out by sundown.

Three bells later he was at Buscarron's Druthers alone, three drinks in and no closer to a melody he was satisfied with. The alehouse's proprieter had served him with an understanding look in his eyes; he was familiar with Guydelot's tavern habits by now, including his creative ruts.

He was groaning into the counter and about to order a fourth drink when Buscarron's eyes lit up, and the hyur waved over to someone standing at the doorway. “Moro'a! Been too long since you stopped by, come on in!”

The bard swung around his barstool to look and sure enough, the Warrior of Light was there, looking a little more tired, a little more travelled, but otherwise the same as he remembered him. Stepping into the alehouse, Moro'a smiled at Buscarron and nodded in greeting, before glancing towards Guydelot; his eyebrows shot up in recognition. “Fancing meeting you here of all times and places,” he remarked.

Guydelot grinned, just as surprised to see his fellow bard in this part of the Twelveswood. “In case you hadn't yet noticed, I live here,” he jested.

Moro'a rolled his eyes. “What, in the alehouse?” he shot back good-naturedly; Guydelot laughed. “I hope whatever realm-saving mission you're on right now can wait, I need a drinking partner,” he said hopefully.

“You're in luck then, no realm-saving missions tonight,” Moro'a replied in earnest, settling on the barstool next to Guydelot. “Buscarron, I don't suppose you still make that special honey and elderflower cider of yours?”

And so the evening wore on, Guydelot sharing more on his experiences with Sanson and the bard unit, and Moro'a detailing some of his latest adventures. It was one thing to hear the rumours about the Warrior of Light travelling to another world, only to return alive and well; it was something else entirely to hear it straight from the chocobo's beak. Moro'a spoke discreetly, clearly trying to ensure that his words wouldn't reach the wrong ears – though his tales were so absurd, Guydelot doubted anyone would've taken them seriously. Light-tainted creatures infesting the world and terrorising its remaining survivors? A time-travelling guardian, from the Source no less, who helped the First's people build a community and watched over them for more than a century? Guydelot would've called anyone else a liar, except that this was Moro'a swivin' Kihshimo.

“Where's Sanson, by the way?” Moro'a asked, after a time. “I'd meant to ask earlier, but I thought he'd be coming too.”

Guydelot grimaced; he wasn't keen on being reminded of the project he was avoiding. Then again...maybe Moro'a was just the right man to help him. He was becoming desperate and tipsy enough to admit he might not be able to crack this one on his own.

“Came here on my own tonight,” he answered simply. “In fact, there's actually something I could use that bard brain of yours for. It's, well, it's about me and Sanson.” Moro'a regarded him with keen interest, and gestured for him to proceed.

After Guydelot explained his predicament, the miqo'te held a hand to his chin, looking a little perplexed. “So you're having trouble writing a song for Sanson because you're not sure what kind of scale would suit him best?”

“Aye. You'd think I'd have him figured out by now, but I dunno, every time I try to write something out it just feels like somethin's missing.”

“Why not just spend time with him and find out from there?” Oh. It did seem ridiculously obvious that he might be inspired that way, now that Moro'a had pointed it out. But there was that stubborn part of him again, denying the seemingly too-easy solution. “Doesn't work that way for me,” he said instead. “Why don't you write it with me instead? We can put two of the greatest musical minds in Eorzea together and write a ballad that'll be remembered across all the realms!”

“You know I'm not as good a bard as you, nor a good composer,” Moro'a pointed out, though he was smiling at the compliment. “I've tried, mind you, but I was trained as a musician purely to perform songs from the Bhulan.”

“How about you sing me some of those then?” Guydelot proposed, intent on finding something by tonight. “They're songs dedicated to Menphina, right? Gods, she's literally called the Lover, it'd be a perfect place to start.” But Moro'a only shook his head resolutely.

“Sorry, but I can't,” he lamented. “I would, knowing it might help you, but they're sacred tradition; it wouldn't feel right to use them that way.” Guydelot felt a twinge of irritation, and opened his mouth to argue further, but Moro'a continued, “And besides, I can't sing them anymore anyways. It's...too painful.”

That gave the bard pause; painful? He sensed the deep sadness underlying Moro'a's words, and wanted to ask why, but thought better of it in the end. Disappointing as it was, he'd just have to abandon this route and try yet another. “Alright. If that's the way of it, we'll just have to talk about the subject instead of the music,” he decided. “Tell me Moro'a: what kind of man is Sanson the Stiff?”

Moro'a seemed glad for the change of topic, and they discussed for another bell or so, drinking till they were both well-inebriated. Sanson Smyth was kind, pompous, stubborn, determined, awkward, passionate, even adorable at times. He liked consistency and rules and order, but had an open mind and a discerning heart that made him more than just another typical Gridanian. “Handsome,” Moro'a offered unexpectedly, and Guydelot wouldn't stop probing him for ten minutes on that, but the miqo'te only laughed and sidestepped his interrogations.

It was getting very late now, and Buscarron was politely but firmly indicating that they make ready to head home. Guydelot still had nothing to show for his efforts, but at least he'd had a good time catching up with Moro'a. Speaking of which...the Warrior of Light was properly drunk. A sleepy one, slumped on the counter and breathing deeply with heavy-lidded eyes.

“Hey, drowsy-whiskers,” Guydelot said, shaking his friend's shoulder. He was still lucid, but he wasn't prepared to carry a fully-grown miqo'te man home, smaller than average or not.

A low, sweet tune stopped him in his tracks. Moro'a was singing – murmuring words unintelligible and foreign to his elezen ears. The melody was set to a scale unlike any he'd ever heard, with haunting chromatics and guttural inflections. It was gentle and sad and brimming with power, like a goddess's lullaby. Guydelot knew in an instant that he wasn't meant to hear it.

Moro'a woke with a start, and the song was cut short. “Nnnghh, sorry Guydelot,” he mumbled, shaking his head vigorously to try and rouse himself. “Let's get home...why are you looking at me like that?”

The bard quickly glanced away. “Nothing,” he lied. It was decided – he'd spend time with Sanson till he could craft a fitting song for his lover. There were more ways to spin a melody than his limited knowledge suggested, and perhaps Jehantel and Moro'a were right; maybe he had to let the subject guide him towards his creation for once. He wouldn't tell Moro'a what he'd heard – he would probably be mortified, and the Warrior of Light had more than enough burdens to bear.

“Come on then,” he said to his friend, helping him stand, and together they made their way out of the alehouse, the vestiges of a song from lands unknown echoing in Guydelot's mind.

Chapter Text

It had been nothing more than a trick of the light, Alisaie told herself. Her battle-addled senses had overwhelmed her, made her think she'd seen what she saw. In her heart she knew she wasn't entirely convinced.

She stood at the doorway of the infirmary at Rhalgr's Reach, gaze lingering for a moment on Y'shtola's injured and unconscious form, before drifting over to the next bed where another miqo'te slept.

Exhaustion had overtaken Moro'a not long after the battle, and Alisaie could hardly blame him – he'd faced a monster, and had not only lived, but immediately rushed over to where Y'shtola and Commander Kemp lay to aid Krile and Alphinaud in their healing efforts. She saw how glad they'd been for his help, even as they were concerned for his own well-being, but he'd paid no heed to his own wounds till they were sure their fallen comrades would live.

As she looked at his face, a spark of fear flared up in her, then died just as quickly. She immediately felt guilty. This was Moro'a. Warrior of Light, savior of Eorzea twice over now, her staunch ally and someone she hoped she could consider a friend.

But she couldn't stop thinking about it. Just where had that look in his eyes come from?

When Zenos's telling blow had struck him down, she'd cried out, fearing the worst. Then she'd almost shouted with relief when she saw him get up and stand – only for her voice to die in her throat as she'd beheld the ferocious red glint in Moro'a's eyes, where they should've been cyan. A dark presence had seemed to form around the healer as he rose, glaring at the imperial viceroy, and Alisaie could only watch, transfixed; waiting with dread and anticipation to see what would happen next.

But she'd blinked, and the darkness was gone, as though it was never there. “Pathetic,” Zenos had sneered, after he'd cut down the Warrior once more. Alisaie couldn't tell if the insult was meant for Moro'a, or the broken blade he'd cast aside like a ruined plaything as he'd walked away.

There'd been no trace of that darkness in Moro'a's eyes afterwards, but Alisaie could no longer will away what she'd seen. It didn't seem right, and yet – something Urianger had mentioned about strange incidents scattered across Eorzea, about a dark knight of unknown origin, lending aid to the weak even as he cursed their names...

With a nod, Alisaie silently made up her mind. She'd follow Moro'a on their next mission, and keep an eye on him. Mostly out of concern, she told herself. If what she suspected was true, Moro'a might be hurting inside more than he was letting on. But also out of disquieted caution; the last thing the Scions needed was another threat. Even if that threat was the Warrior of Light himself.

Chapter Text

The gold-ensnared marble tiles are cold against Moro'a's hands, heedless to the stare of the sinking sun.

He's lost track of how many healing spells he'd cast, throwing out card after card as each attempt had grown more desperate and haggard. It mattered naught, they were always the same – the unfeeling gaze of Halone from an upside down Spear. Aether searing violently through the ragged hole Zephirin's weapon had wrought through his stomach. The reversed Sun, Azeyma turned away from his plight. His final smile as Moro'a had cradled his weak hand, the so-called Warrior of Light's own feeble attempt vanishing as he'd faded away.

The world seems to sway in a golden kaleidoscope as someone, Estinien perhaps, hoists him up to his feet. He blinks, and he can see the shape of the knight's still form on the ground through tears. Blinks again, and they're approaching the main doors of the Vault. He thinks he's still shaking from exhaustion, and the taste of blood coats the back of his throat, but the sensations barely register, left to sink and fade away like pebbles in a dark and clouded well.

The light of the dying day casts a harsh glare into Moro'a's eyes as he realises he's reached the Fortemps manor. Alphinaud and Tataru had arrived before him, hadn't they? To break the news to his family.

And if he'd silently prayed that he would be too numb to feel yet more pain at this point, well. One look at Count Edmont's hunched form is almost too much to take in. When he falls to his feet, keening as he mouths those dreaded words over and over, Moro'a does exactly what he'd resolved not to do. He ignores Alphinaud calling out his name as he flees, tumbling through the doors of the manor and once more into the unforgiving light.

Moro'a grips the stone railing with both hands till his knuckles ache, trying his best to do anything but scream and weep.

Chapter Text

The Scions' footsteps echoed off the warped corridor as they raced through, running with all haste along the cramped confines of the tower. There was no telling how time, how little time they had left; the wretched Ascian could have completed his foul plan, and if he had...

A harrowed scream tore through the corridor from above, and Urianger nearly stopped cold, alarmed as he was by the Warrior of Light's obvious torment. He willed his feet to move – do not stop, do not dither and lapse into despair, lest thy be too late –

“Call upon a name, any name! Who alone would grant you the succor and salvation you seek? Hydaelyn? Some other hidden source of vaunted strength? Oh, I can't wait to see!”

At the head of the group, Y'shtola burst through the doors as they disintegrated from the force of her spell. “Stop!” Urianger heard her cry out. Crossing the threshold, his eyes widened as he beheld Moro'a – bloodied and battered, head hung low as his arms strained against his shackles. The inner walls of the tower had begun to glow, their black light pulsing to the beat of the miqo'te's laboured breaths. Thancred lunged towards Fandaniel, but he danced away from his gunblade, cackling.

“Know this, Scions – you have failed! And I, I bring about the ultimate arbiter of your world's ruin!” he crowed he sent down a final burst of dark aether onto Moro'a. The cast hit him in full, and he screamed again, the unending wail ringing in Urianger's ears...

From Moro'a's hunched form rose swirls of darkness that seemed to claw at the very air, before expanding outward at an alarming speed; a heaving, pulsating swell that filled Urianger with utmost dread.

“Fall back!” he shouted, spinning his astrometer as he cast a shield, surrounding the rest of the Scions as they stumbled into its perimeter.

Was this to be their end? How terrible, how atrocious, that they would meet their deaths at the hands of their strongest ally, he whom many considered a hero. They had failed the Source; they had failed him.

The darkness was changing. From its center, a bright silvery blue light had begun to emanate; it grew outward, tendrils rapidly overtaking the dark as the glow began to fill the room. It was bright, so bright – Urianger was forced to shield his eyes, and he could only hear the sounds of rushing water and thundering hooves, Fandaniel's hysterical laughter...

A powerful shockwave sent Urianger and the others flying back. His shield dissipated as he crashed into the floor, gasping. Pray forgive us, he thought. Then, more selfishly, he thought of Moenbryda.

But death did not come. Urianger lifted his head, and froze before the figure that towered above them. Ink-black tassels for hair, streaked with silver, floated around the primal's shoulders as though suspended by an invisible wind. Chain armor glittered like a waterfall of moonlit diamonds, dripping over the gaping hole in their midsection; the cavernous pit seemed to shift in and out of focus, like a desert mirage. A long flowing tail of water and starlight, its dagger tip sharper than any mortal weapon.

Somewhere to Urianger's side, he heard Alphinaud gasp. He soon knew why: below the twin sets of ears, below the crimson horn that spiralled from atop their head, was a face of impossible serenity, split into two. Each half was completely different from the other: one a miqo'te woman's, the other an elezen man's. He couldn't help but tremble at the gentle, dreadful curve of their lips; the fathomless pools of blue that pierced straight through his soul.

“Such a marvelous aberration...and nothing like what I had expected!” The Ascian twirled around the primal's feet; Moro'a was nowhere to be seen, Urianger noted dimly. “Now show me – what will your first great and terrible act be?”

Chapter Text

“Do you think Moro'a fancies you?” The question falls out of Sanson's mouth like a cat knocking a glass off the table. He feels Guydelot shift from where his head lay on the elezen's chest.

“And what gave you that impression?” There's a curious, teasing note in his voice, and Sanson can't help but feel like this is going down a dangerous path.

“Well, whenever he's met with us for a chat or for drinks lately, he always seems rather...distracted?” he explains. “I'll be telling him a story and he'll be nodding along, but halfway through I have to get his attention again. Or the other day, when he dropped the entire stack of leather circles he was carrying as he walked into the Adders' Nest – I thought it was because I looked funny, but then you were behind me.” He'd had his hair down at work that day, owing to a rushed morning start; surely it hadn't looked that awful?

“It's just, he's normally very collected and attentive, so it's strange to see him behave this way,” he continues. “I thought maybe...because you've always been around when it's happened...”

Guydelot makes a stifled noise, and Sanson's eyebrows shoot up when he realises he's holding back laughter. “What??” he demands.

The bard takes a moment to compose himself, before looking at the hyur with a fond smile. “Sanson. My sweet, sweet Sanson. I'll bet an entire rolanberry tart he fancies you.”

He can only stare back, the information refusing to register in his mind. “You can't be serious.”

“When have I ever not been serious with you?” Sanson levels him with a look, and Guydelot acquiesces. “Right right, point taken. But I'm being perfectly serious about Moro'a having a thing for you. At least, I'm quite certain.”

Sanson scrutinises him, still in denial of the possibility. “And what has you so convinced of this?”

“He called you handsome once when we were out for drinks, and wouldn't give a straight answer when I tried to ask him what he meant,” Guydelot replies with a smirk. Shuffling back to sit up, he stretches his arms lazily before looking back at Sanson. “So, wanna bet?”

Sanson groans, lying back on his pillow to stare up at the ceiling. “No.” This wouldn't the first time he's been remarkably oblivious to someone else's interests. The prospect of their mutual friend thinking of him in such a way, however, admittably fills him with curiosity. He doesn't mind, he realises. Not in the slightest.

“How do you feel about it?” he asks after a time, reaching down to slot his fingers between Guydelot's in a light grasp. Guydelot's never struck him as the jealous type, but better to be sure, he thinks.

The elezen shrugs. “I don't mind. It's rather sweet.” He's still smirking, but it's softer now, tempered by a touch of emotion Sanson can't quite identify. “In fact, you have my express consent to woo the Warrior of Light, should it please you,” he declares with a flourish.

Sanson scoffs. “I don't woo, that's your area of expertise,” he replies. It's a relief that Guydelot has no objections, even if it's a little odd that he himself feels alright with the idea of another relationship – he never thought he'd be the type to want more than one partner. Then again, he never thought he'd fall for someone like Guydelot either.

“I could teach you. He probably has suitors lined up outside his apartment day and night. You'll need some, ah, private lessons.” The implication makes Sanson scoff again, and he reaches out and ruffles Guydelot's hair roughly, making the elezen squawk.

“You can give me private lessons after you've finished planning out those advanced song drills for the bard unit.”

“Nnnghh...deal.”

Chapter Text

Today was a good day, Haurchefant thought as he smiled to himself. He and his knights had faced off an unusually large horde of Dravanians, and had suffered few casualties for it. Those who were injured would swiftly recover, he'd been assured, and there was naught left to do but write up a report on the battle, and to see what supplies might need to be replenished in the coming days.

But after that, he decided with hearty aplomb, Camp Dragonhead would have a feast.

It was a modest one, by any Ishgardian noble's standards, but let it never be said that Haurchefant Greystone didn't do his very best to bring whatever warmth and jubilation he could to his isolated outpost. Bitter cold, constant exertion, and tough rations were all that he and his soldiers knew most of the time, and he knew what a difference a hearty meal could make, not just for morale in the face of an ongoing war, but for the heart and soul. Everyone deserved a taste of comfort and luxury; such joys should not be reserved for a privileged few.

And he did his best to ensure that “everyone” included the many adventurers who came and went, allies from beyond Coerthas's borders who exchanged their skills for the joint promise of thrill and coin.

The dining hall rang with talk and laughter, as knight and adventurer sat and broke bread together, eating and drinking the day's hardships away. And to Haurchefant's delight, tonight had been made even more special by a rare form of entertainment – a musician, no less, and a simply fantastic one at that.

The knight commander watched the man in question, a fellow elezen, as he performed an expert rendition of 'Lady Leuroix's Lewd Laces'. He'd succeeded in drumming up the crowd to sing along with him, going so far as to perform atop one of the long tables. He had an easy, relaxed air to him as he strummed on his harp and sang of the lady's lingerie (Haurchefant snickered at a particularly bawdry line), no doubt in his element. His curiosity was further piqued when he realised he recognised the man – he'd been at the battle earlier, picking off several of the smaller dragons with well-timed arrows.

A skilled musician and a proficient archer...and undeniably attractive. Haurchefant would be lying if he claimed he wasn't smitten.

The man finished his song to a thunderous round of applause, and gave a single bow before hopping off the table. He seemed in no hurry to leave, and so later that evening Haurchefant boldly made his move, striding towards him with two tankards in hand.

“That was a most splendid performance, my friend. 'Tis not often we at Camp Dragonhead get to enjoy music, given the nature of our occupation,” he said by way of greeting. The adventurer looked up from the honey-glazed bun he was nibbling on to meet his gaze; they were roughly the same height, though the man seemed four, maybe five years his junior. His short, boyish hair was dyed at the tips: a light shade of aero that matched his eyes perfectly. And if Haurchefant had the right of it, those eyes were sizing him up with a curiosity to match his own.

“Thanks, Ser...Lord? Haurchefant,” he replied, with the barest trace of apology. “You're the Garrison Commander here.”

Haurchefant nodded. “I am indeed. And you need not fret over my title – “Haurchefant” will suffice.” That earned him a smirk from the adventurer, not one of contempt or derision, but approval.

“Guydelot,” he offered, in exchange for Haurchefant's own forward sincerity. “You from one of the Houses then? Can't say I care much for titles, so s'nice to see that not all the Ishgardian high horses have their noses up in the clouds.”

The knight laughed softly at Guydelot's remark. “Yes, House Fortemps to be precise. And we are not all so cavalier,” he countered, though amicably so. It was impressive that Guydelot knew this much about the Holy See's highly-private society. Unless...

“I don't suppose you hail from Ishgard yourself?” he asked. Now that he was looking for it, Guydelot's accent did seem unusual. Not that it sounded fake, rather it seemed practised, honed to sound natural over time. But his question had the opposite intended effect on the adventurer; his smirk dropped, and he became guarded.

“Who's to say?” he said carefully, keeping his steady gaze trained on Haurchefant as he folded his arms. “Adventurers come from all over Eorzea and beyond. I could hail from Radz-at-Han, for all you know.”

Haurchefant lifted his tankard-laden hands in his best approximation of a surrender. “You have the right of it, my friend, and I should not be so base as to scrutinise anyone because of their background,” he responded. “We need not discuss this further; as far as I'm concerned, you have more than earned your welcome tonight.” He offered one of the tankards to Guydelot, who, after a raised eyebrow and a moment of hesitation, accepted it. His eyebrows rose again as he drank; now that was a reaction Haurchefant sought for.

“This is good,” Guydelot remarked. “Really good. Not what I expected from a Coerthan outpost, I'll admit.”

“Daniffen's Joy, my good friend,” Haurchefant declared, beaming with pride. “My favourite, as it so happens. I keep a bottle on hand whenever possible, for special occasions such as this.”

“Is that so.” Guydelot drank deeply, draining the rest of the wine with fervour before regarding Haurchefant once more with a wolfish grin. “Rather kind of you to share it with me then. You do this with every adventurer who impresses you?

Skilled, attractive, and sharp-witted to boot. “Some, though not all,” Haurchefant relented. “I merely chanced to see you on the battlefield earlier today, and observed that you were just as proficient in archery as you are in music-making. One cannot help but think you would make a fine bard, were the practice still upheld.”

Guydelot chuckled at that, a musical sound that rang pleasantly in Haurchefant's ears. “Funny you should say that.” His expression shifted to something else – something more akin to desire. “Good wine, smooth compliments...one might suspect you're trying to seduce me, Commander.”

Haurchefant's smile grew, and he stepped forward slightly, just enough to lean in towards Guydelot's side. “And what if I am?”

– – – – – – – – –

Haurchefant intended to wait till they were both securely in his chambers before making a move, but Guydelot didn't have the same reservations; his hands were all over the knight, searching for ties to loosen and clasps to undo, and at the click of the door's lock Guydelot dragged him with both hands into a hungry kiss.

The knight commander relished in the warmth of the other man's tongue against his, tasting heady notes of wine mixed with sweet honey. It had been a few moons since he'd last had such a bout, and this was certainly not Guydelot's first time, though there was an impatience to his movements that reminded Haurchefant of his own impetuous passions when he was a younger knight.

“Eager,” he murmured into Guydelot's mouth. The adventurer moaned once, then again as Haurchefant probed deeper still, exploring each and every ilm till Guydelot's breathing grew desperate, fumbling as he tried to remove his armour. Haurchefant indulged him then, pulling back as he showed him how to remove his pauldrons first, followed by his belt, and then the haubergeon itself.

“It becomes far easier once you've had to don chainmail yourself,” he said half-teasingly, as he set about removing Guydelot's own attire. The man was smirking again, touching his bare, muscled shoulders and pecs the way one might admire a well-wrought sculpture.

“I reckon there's more I can learn from you than shedding off one's armour, then?” he asked, more than a little breathless. Haurchefant helped him out of his tunic, before taking a guess and immediately going for his ear. His instincts were right; Guydelot crumpled against the wall as the knight pinned him, biting gently from lobe to tip till the adventurer's arousal seemed to reach a near-unbearable height. He groaned loudly as Haurchefant ground against his hardening cock with his own, then pushed Haurchefant away from his neck, looking straight at him with glazed eyes. “Much as I was enjoying that, I think I might bust my load from this alone if we don't move on now,” he panted.

Haurchefant chuckled. “Worry not. We'll both be satisfied ere the night's end,” he promised.

And Haurchefant delivered – Guydelot experienced the fullness of his pleasure, from the knight commander's devilish tongue and teeth trailing down his body, to serving his prick with his mouth as Guydelot pulled and pulled at his silver hair till he was almost spent. Then Haurchefant had taken him to bed, pounding into his ass as he'd scrabbled at the sheets, shouting into the pillow as they came one after another.

“If you'll indulge me, tell me a little more of yourself,” Haurchefant bid him, after they'd both recovered. After such a wild and satisfying tumble, Guydelot seemed willing to let him in on a few details.

“I learned the harp first, archery came shortly after,” he told him. “Hadn't thought to combine the two together till I met this bard – he used to be a captain at the Gods' Quiver, you see. Said that I might find what I was seeking if I tried my hand at being a bard myself, offered to mentor me even.”

Haurchefant hummed thoughtfully. “What purpose, exactly?”

The younger elezen shrugged at that. “Long story. But you're a Greystone, aren't you? Some things, some people, just don't feel meant to stay there.”

Seeking purpose outside of Ishgard's walls...yes, that he understood well. Still, Ishgard was his home; he'd found a way to serve in his own capacity, and was content with what he'd managed to achieve. But he knew nothing of Guydelot's background. “You mean to go to Gridania, then?”

“Mhmm. Tomorrow, in fact. Sorry if you were expecting anything more outta this.”

Haurchefant shook his head. “'Tis a shame for a fine adventurer such as yourself to leave Camp Dragonhead so soon, but that is often the way of things. I only wish you the best on your travels.” He sensed a bright spark of passion in the younger elezen, beneath his calm and guarded exterior, and hoped that Guydelot would find what he sought.

Chapter Text

Beneath watchful boughs of spruce and cedar, Moro tended to a patch of chysahl greens, checking the sprouting leaves for signs of rot or pests. She found none, and hummed with satisfaction. As a pair of footsteps approached quietly, she smiled to herself, instantly recognising whom they belonged to.

“Ah, Seno. I was just finishing up at this patch; there're a couple more closer to the river. Mind lending me a hand for a moment?” When there was no response from the young Miqo'te, Moro turned around to face her, and saw Seno standing a few paces away, her tail curling around one leg nervously as she spoke.

“There's...something I need to talk to you about. Is now a good time?” she asked in a hushed tone. Moro nodded in response. It wasn't uncommon for Seno to confide in her about certain topics; things she found difficult to discuss with her mother and siblings. “Of course,” she answered warmly, settling onto a large tree stump that was polished smooth from years of use. She patted the spot next to her. “Another vision bothering you?”

“No, not this time. Uhm.” Seno came over and sat down, arched forwards such that her head was bent low, hands clasped together. Though her long blue locks hid most of her face, Moro could see a frown creasing her brow. “Have you ever sensed something...different about me? Different from my sisters.”

Moro considered the question from all sides, thinking carefully. The short answer was yes; the most obvious difference was Seno's unusual ability to see snapshots of other people's pasts, and with alarming clarity at that. Though such visions were rare, they were nevertheless startling, not least for those whose memories Seno unintentionally stumbled upon. But Moro had a feeling that she was hinting at something else.

“I have, though it has never troubled me,” she answered truthfully. “You're fun to talk to, you're as dedicated as the rest of your sisters in your training, and you've not given anyone trouble. On all accounts I'd say you're growing up to be a fine young woman.” Seno flinched at those last words.

“That's the problem,” she admitted, her voice barely audible now. She looked around their surroundings, as though afraid of being overheard, before continuing. “I...don't think I am one.”

Moro blinked once, understanding slowly dawning upon her like the fit of a dovetail joint. “I see,” she responded as calmly as she could. She smiled at Seno, hoping to reassure the young Keeper. “Do you know who you really are, then?” Seno's eyes widened with a mixture of shock and relief.

“You...you don't think there's something wrong with me?”

Moro shook her head. “I met folks such as yourself while adventuring in Eorzea, those who lived as their true selves even if they weren't born as such. One of my friends was an Au Ra who loved cooking so much, they travelled across the continent tasting and learning from every cuisine they could. And they made the most excellent steaks.” She looked Seno in the eye. “You've nothing to worry about from me. Though I'm sure you're thinking about how your mother and sisters might react.”

Seno scowled. “Yeah. Mother never likes me spending so much time with the men when they visit. I think it's because she thinks I get along better with father, but it's not that – I feel more me when they're around. I don't have to pretend as much.” Cautious, tentative hope lit up in the young Keeper's eyes, before turning back into worry. “If I'm a...boy, man, whatever, what do I even do? I don't know if I can convince them to believe me, I don't even know how I feel about it half the time myself...”

Moro thought for a bit, before regarding Seno with a firm nod. “For starters, you might want a new name.”

His ears perked up. “A new name? I was thinking about that, yeah...” He grimaced and stuck his tongue out. “I don't like how “Rhunh'to” sounds though.”

Moro laughed and put her arm around her young friend, patting his shoulder. “Don't worry, kit. I'm sure you'll find something you like before long. One step at a time, okay?”

At that, Seno looked up at her, finally smiling. “Okay.”

Chapter Text

Y'shtola entered the Waking Sands to find their newest recruit hanging by his legs and tail from one of the beams outside the Solar, while Thancred and Urianger gawped at him from below. Even behind his thick goggles, the concerned expression on Urianger's face was evident.

"Pray tell me what's going on," Y'shtola demanded in her driest, “you have 5 seconds to tell me exactly what's happening” tone.

"Thancred...deemed it necessary to ascertain the extent of Moro'a's physical capabilities, after learning of his lifelong mentorship in the acrobatic arts," Urianger answered, not taking his eyes off Moro'a the whole time, as though he worried that the Keeper would plunge to his unfortunate end at any moment.

Y'shtola folded her arms, raising an eyebrow at Thancred. "I strongly advise against subjecting Moro'a to hazing, and I highly doubt Minfillia would approve, either,” she said, before turning to focus on the upside-down arcanist. "How long have you been up there?"

"Err, about five minutes?" Moro'a called out, craning his neck to look at her with a sheepish expression. To his credit, he only seemed slightly out of breath.

"Did you know he used to be a dancer?" Thancred asked, his voice tinged with fascination as he continued to stare. "How'd you even go from mastering dance to basing your whole combat style off magic and arcanima anyways? I reckon you'd make a fine rogue."

"What are you all staring at – oh heavens!" Just then, Papalymo exited the Solar, followed by Yda and Minfillia; evidently the Lalafell had just noticed their new colleague dangling precariously from above.

Minfillia was already zeroing in on Thancred. "This is your doing, isn't it?" she sighed, and the Hyur was finally distracted enough by her accusation to look away from Moro'a. Yda, meanwhile, was positively ecstatic. "Ooohh, that's impressive!” she said cheerily. “I think I could do that too..."

"Before you all interrogate him further, let the poor man stand upright on solid ground," Y'shtola interjected, pinching the bridge of her nose with a huff. "Can you get down on your own, Moro'a?"

"Mhmm.” In a single fluid motion, Moro'a righted himself so that he was sitting atop the beam, before carefully hopping onto the archway below and scaling down its length. He dropped onto the floor with a light thud and looked at the Scions shyly, seemingly unsuited to all the attention levelled at him.

Thancred shook his head. "You Miqo'tes have the most unfair advantages," he whinged.

"Jealous curiosity is hardly an excuse for making someone hang upside down, even if they're fully capable of the feat," Y'shtola admonished, before addressing him and Moro'a together. "Anyroad, I believe you two are needed at Camp Drybone. Try not to get into too much trouble.”

As she waved Tataru goodbye and exited the building, she couldn't help a small smile. It was reassuring, in a way, to know her instincts hadn't been wrong about Moro'a. Hydaelyn's chosen or no, she looked forward to seeing what he might accomplish in the coming weeks.

Chapter Text

The waves of the Ruby Sea lapped against the shore, their shade more akin to raw garnet in the failing light as dusk began to overtake the land. Moro'a stumbled along the dock, the rhythmic ebb and flow of the waves washing over his ears as he shook himself, trying to clear his head of the peculiar, dream-like fog that violated his senses.

The Confederate crew were smoking something back at Crick, some kind of herb he didn't recognise, and the fumes had pervaded the campsite with a bitter flora. But what should've only been a light, heady buzz to celebrate their hard-won victory against Yotsuyu seemed to have hit Moro'a harder than it should've. He'd excused himself after a time, saying he'd needed some fresh air.

He hadn't mentioned that there was more to his need to get away. This battle had been an important success, no doubt; they'd secured the Confederacy's support, however conditional, and could now advance to the next crucial step of journeying to Yanxia. Would that he could feel anything other than the barest murmur of progress, amidst the emptiness that threatened to consume him when he wasn't fighting or sleeping. It was that emptiness that he now sought to chase away on this lonely shore, away from anyone else.

Still caught in his strange haze, Moro'a stared up towards the heavens, searching desperately for a celestial body to focus on. But the sky swayed, heavily obscured by clouds; had Tansui mentioned it would storm later? The roiling ceiling could have been a hurricane, for all his addled perception knew. He turned his attention to the horizon instead, looking for something, anything.

"Out for a stroll too?" A low, cheery voice called out to him from somewhere above. He whipped around towards the voice's direction, ears swiveling wildly as his vision swayed and shimmered like light bouncing off fish scales. A local fisherman? One of the Confederates?

There. Up on the stone above him, framed by swaying trees: dark hair that ended in a long tail, hands clasped behind her back as she shifted from one leg to the other. The dagger at her hip sparkled crimson from the sea's reflection, as did her calm, discerning eyes.

Moro'a felt the world grow hot and cold all at once.

"No use standing there with your mouth like a gasping trout, kit," the woman teased, in that gentle, awful voice. "You won today, didn't you? A little pride never hurt anyone."

Was this Myste's doing? Moro'a cast about wildly, but saw no sign of the girl.

"Just you and me, I'm afraid. It's been a long, long while...I was wondering when you'd find me."

"Don't," he croaked out, hands shaking into curled fists as he refused to look. I buried you. In the back of his mind, an unseen shrine at the bottom of a lightless lake. I buried you. No farewells, no last words to make peace with; just a fleeting glimpse as she'd run towards their assailants, giving him time to make his escape.

“Moro'a!” Alisaie's voice cut through the fog with sharp clarity, though he started from being caught unawares. The young Elezen stared at him, caught somewhere between concern, fear, and frustration.

“Alisaie.” He glanced up at the rock, but the other woman had vanished. Was she ever there?

“Are you...Moro'a, are you alright.” It wasn't the first time she'd asked. She'd been asking him since that disastrous ambush at Rhalgr's Reach. Each time, Moro'a had been unable to give a completely honest answer. But that foul drug was still fogging his senses, and combined with the shock of the apparition that had seemed so real to him, he felt too weary for self-preserving reticence.

He slumped down onto the docks, not caring that his boots would be drenched as they sank into the cold seawater. “I don't think so,” was all he could say.

“Well, that's a start, I suppose.” She settled down next to him. “I know better than to push, but...when you're ready. Talk to someone, alright?”

Talking. He'd never found someone he could confide in so closely since her. Not even Haurchefant, as gently and carefully as his beloved had tried to pry open his walls. But as he pulled his crystal necklace from under his shirt, part of him felt all but lost. Desperate for a way out.

So he nodded, and answered. “I'll try.”

Chapter Text

It didn't take long for Sanson to find Guydelot, already strumming a tune on his harp to the quiet peace of the Shroud.

"It doesn't look good on our unit when you immediately take off after receiving a medal, you know," Sanson admonished.

The bard didn't stop playing, only shrugging at his reprimand. "Didn't care for it," he said, in an odd voice. "I did some good in a war and got a shiny trinket to commemorate it.” He plucked a wrong note and frowned. “Besides, that ceremony was boring me near to tears, all full of pompous prats preening away. Surely the Adders have better things to put their time towards?"

"It's important that the Twin Adders acknowledge the exceptional accomplishments of their...never mind," Sanson cut himself off, knowing that any further argument would be wasted. Guydelot remained steadfast in his opinions about Gridania's Grand Company, as did he, and the more they butted heads about their differing perspectives, the less it made sense to bring them up.

He let Guydelot return to his music, watching the bard play for a time. He was amazed, as he always was, over the ease with which he settled into song; from the tranquil focus that adorned his face, to the sweet melodies he produced with seasoned hands. He recognised this one: a delicate song about a caged bird who dreams of the skies she'd once soared through.

"That said," Guydelot began, to Sanson's surprise, "I thought I'd feel...different? I dunno, it's strange."

"What is?"

Guydelot stopped playing then, looking up from his harp. "Didn't get called 'The Spent' for no reason,” he elaborated. “I just thought...now that I've officially proved myself and all, maybe I'd feel something. Proud? Relieved? But now that I've done it, with something tangible to show for my efforts...all I want is for things not to change.”

Sanson crossed over to Guydelot, seating himself next to the bard. It was rare for him to express doubt, to seek certainty and confide in such a way: a kind of trust that felt small and precious in his hands. And he knew all too well the burden of others' expectations when you'd succeeded once, before they trusted you to do so again, and again. “Like you feel good, but there's also a weight on your shoulders that wasn't there before?” he asked, gently.

“Aye. Exactly that, actually.” Guydelot sighed, before turning to Sanson. “Seems unfair that they didn't award you a medal though,” he complained. “You protected the recruits when they'd all but lost their wits, bought me time to rally everyone together.” His hand reached out to Sanson's forehead, thumb brushing lightly along the scar on his forehead: his latest one, from the imperial laquearius he'd fended off to protect one of the fledgling bards.

Sanson shrugged, though he warmed to Guydelot's touch as the elezen's hand trailed down from his forehead to one cheek. “I did as any good captain should,” he replied modestly.

At Guydelot's beckoning, he rested his head against the bard's shoulder, and they listened to the sounds of the forest, content just to be by each other's sides.

Chapter Text

Moro'a sensed Ardbert's soul stirring within his own, in both the quiet moments and the loud.

Like the rumble of levinshower, his emotions rang with a new cadence that was unlike his, yet at the same time so familiar. He'd almost been overcome with rage when he'd beheld Elidibus in the Exedra, wearing Ardbert's body – his body – like a perverted costume, as the Ascian addressed the people of the Crystarium. He'd felt a bitter roil of resentment, tempered with compassion for a dear friend, as he'd faced Cylva down at Laxan Loft. The joy that'd sparked through him when he'd greeted Seto had been like a thousand dancing currents, so happy was he to see his old friend; as the amaro had affectionately nuzzled his cheek and crowed, the tears that welled in his eyes could've belonged to either of them.

Now, Moro'a stood at the edge of the lookout tower, the selfsame one where the other Warrior had encouraged him to keep going, when all hope seemed to have been lost. In the distance, billowing clouds foretold thunderous showers.

A bell later, he hovered before the portal in the Ocular, moments away from returning to the Source. The crystalline vessels bearing the Exarch and the Scions were safely stowed in his pouch; they'd said their tearful goodbyes to Ryne and Beq Lugg, and he faced the next leg of their journey with his head bent low, tense with urgency. But somewhere amidst his own emotions, he felt his companion's presence: a rumble that echoed wordlessly through his being. This time, it was heavy as the rainclouds that hung over the Crystarium, and Moro'a understood.

“I won't forget you,” Moro'a whispered. “'And I'll visit the First. I can't guarantee when – but I promise I will.”

Chapter Text

“Well? Who do you think'll get it?” Lyse prodded Seno's shoulder, staring at the stage where the audition results would soon be announced.

Seno shook her head. “I don't know,” she sighed, tail twitching nervously. “There're a lot of talented members. I think they could go to anyone, really.”

Lyse hummed. “You know what? I bet they'll cast an elezen as the Silver Crane,” she lamented with dramatic exaggeration. “Even though we all know Moenbryda would be absolutely perfect for the role.”

“Moenbryda's too busy with her aetherelogy project to participate in a main role,” Seno reminded her.

The hyur sighed. “I know...but still. I'm betting it'll be Estinien.”

“He's got the grace and flexibility for it, but he's too dour. The role needs someone with flamboyance – that's like, the Silver Crane's whole thing. He'd be better as the Red Crane.” Stern passion, to contrast the Silver's lively charm and the Blue's timid determination. He would know; he'd studied the play at every opportunity for the past five weeks.

Lyse stuck out her tongue. “I know you're biased,” she teased. “You're hoping it'll be Haurchefant, won't you?”

Seno's tail sweeped the floor. “I mean, he's our friend. Why wouldn't I want him to have it?” Sure, maybe there was some bias to it – but Seno did genuinely think he deserved the role. Out of everyone in the club, he'd probably worked harder than any of them. And it suited him, too! Seno pictured him dancing in the Silver Crane's costume: billowing white sleeves tossed about an elegant whirlwind, the red crest atop his silver hair like the morning sun seen through mist.

The Dance of the Cranes. A classical Doman ballet that revolved around three kingdoms on the brink of war, and three royal heirs to the throne caught in a tangle of arranged marriages, politics, and of course, love. What was unique about the ballet was how it was flexible when it came to the main three characters' genders – it either involved two princes and a princess, or the other way round; the ballet's narrative changed depending on who was cast.

“I still think this is a bit much to take on for a college production.” Guydelot sidled up next to Seno, scanning the crowd with interest. “I know they have high hopes for us 'n all because we've got a strong troupe this year, but ehh...can't help but feel we're biting off more than we can chew.”

“You're only saying that because you don't want to have to rehearse with the orchestra every week for the next five months.” Like the other pea in the pod, Sanson was right beside him, scribbling away in his notebook as he always did. “Besides, if you were paying attention when Miss Warde announced this year's production, you'd know that we're performing a shortened version of the original.”

Guydelot rolled his eyes and made a snarky comment, prompting a round of their usual bickering, which Seno decided to ignore. She looked around the room, feeling strange. For the past few weeks, the other members of their ballet club had been rivals, competitors vying for the three coveted main roles. Any moment now, the winners would be decided...only for everyone to have to return to cooperation once more.

Oh well. There was no guarantee that she'd be getting the role of the Blue Crane. She'd strived and given it her all, practising as often as her already busy schedule had allowed, powering through her mother's strict corrections and criticisms till she'd stood at the doors to the audition room. It'd been a decent performance, she'd reasoned to herself by the end of it. But that nagging doubt sat in the back of her mind always.

Her eyes swept across the room once more. There was G'raha, chatting with Mikoto and Lyna animatedly in one corner about an unknown topic. Aymeric and Estinien were at the back of the room, talking quietly. All in all there were about sixteen students in the room waiting anxiously. It was only then that Seno realised someone was missing.

Right on cue, the doors swung open, and in rushed Haurchefant, panting as though he'd been running the whole way to the arts building. There were murmurs and barely concealed snickers, but the elezen paid them no mind as he sat down between Seno and Lyse.

“Francel needed help with an assignment,” he said through deep breaths, by way of explanation. Seno shook her head, but smiled fondly. “Close call, but I think you made it just in time,” she remarked.

Haurchefant nodded, before letting out a slightly shaky laugh. “I'm actually so nervous,” he blurted out, rubbing the back of his neck. Seno petted his shoulder reassuringly. “Me too,” she admitted. “Whatever happens, we'll both agree we did our best, okay?” The elezen nodded, smiling warmly.

Just then, the doors opened again: Thancred, entering the cramped dance room with Minfillia. Suddenly Seno felt more than a little queasy. The gaggle of students quietened as their head instructors took to the center of the room.

“Thank you for coming, everyone,” Minfillia greeted them with a smile. “I'm sure you're all excited to hear whom we've chosen for the main roles, and we won't keep you waiting. Thancred, if you will?”

The other instructor nodded, clearing his throat as he addressed them. “Right then – starting with the Red Crane,” he began. “Fiery and serious, whose dances demand utmost discipline and perfect timing. The role goes to...Estinien Wyrmblood.”

Clapping throughout the room; Seno heard Lyse mutter “I knew it” under her breath, and saw Aymeric smile at his friend as the gruffer elezen only nodded, face unreadable as it often was. It was to be expected, Seno supposed.

“The Silver Crane,” Thancred continued. “Extravagance and elegance defined, the role calls for the one playing it to constantly walk the fine line between strength and beauty.” He let the suspense hang in the air for a moment more, before smiling wryly and looking in Seno's direction. “Haurchefant Greystone.”

More clapping; Seno clapped enthusiastically as she turned to look at her friend, who looked over the moon and utterly bewildered all at once. He stood up abruptly, and bowed before the instructors. “Thank you – I shall do my very best!” he swore.

“And we shall expect no less,” Thancred replied with a smirk. “Last but not least, the Blue Crane.” Seno's breath caught in her throat, and she swallowed with difficulty. “Unassuming and subtle, yet no less challenging a role, for the Blue Crane must shine in the ballet's quietest moments.” Each second of waiting may as well have been an hour, as Seno's thoughts raced. Silver and Red had gone to male leads, which meant that it followed that the Blue would go to a female lead. She ran through the potential candidates in her mind – Mikoto, Lyse, Y'mhitra, Yugiri – all skilled dancers in their own right, was she really sure about what chances she might have–

“Seno Mohltaka.”

The clapping may as well have been a waterfall for how it rang in her ears. She stared into space for a moment, before realising a response was probably expected out of her. She stood up awkwardly, and nodded towards the instuctors. “Thank you,” she managed to say, her voice uncomfortably raspy. She sat back down, feeling wobbly all over. Lyse thumped her on the back and cheered, and Haurchefant clapped the loudest out of everyone, eyes wide with excitement and joy.

As Thancred announced the cast for the rest of the roles, Seno felt Haurchefant nudge her on the shoulder. He was still beaming. “I knew it'd be you,” he whispered.

Seno couldn't help but feel flustered at the sincerity and conviction in his statement; her friend was happy for her...that was a great thing, nothing to feel embarrassed about. She scoffed and turned away slightly. “I didn't...but I appreciate it,” was all she could say in response.

Deep down, she allowed herself a tiny bit of pride. They had several months of gruelling practice and rehearsals ahead of them – but Seno was determined to give the ballet her everything. Even if, in the deepest recesses of her heart, something tight and painful twisted, as though silently rebelling against that which she so wanted.

Chapter Text

Moro'a placed his hands over the gaping hole, wincing as the pale, malignant aether stung and snapped at his fingers. Even as they trembled, he remained steadfast, gritting his teeth against the pain as he began to cast Essential Dignity.

The first spell barely reached the wound before fizzling out, like a dying sparkler under rain. Moro'a cast another, then another, hissing as his efforts were met with the same result. Whatever magic Zephirin's spear was made of seemed to be working directly against his own, cancelling out the restorative aether; he couldn't hold the spell long enough to mend the sundered flesh.

"Come on!" Moro'a snarled, willing himself to keep casting. Though he was already starting to feel drained from the amount of aether he'd expended, he forced himself to carry on, heedless to his own well-being. He cast Synastry, wincing as he felt Haurchefant's pain through the aetheric bond. But he wouldn't – couldn't fail. Not when his beloved's life was in his hands. Not when he had the skills to save him.

Haurchefant seemed to be trying to say something; his lips moved weakly, unfocused eyes lingering on Moro'a. Even now the light seemed to be fading from them, and the knight's earlier words echoed in his mind like a death sentence. Do not look at me so, my love.

He fought against the tidal wave of fear that surged through him. Don't think about that. Think about your spells, stopping the bleeding; anything but that.

"Hydaelyn," he gasped, invoking the Mother Crystal's name in desperation. “Lend me your strength. Please.”

A hand clasped him on the shoulder; he spared the barest of glances and saw Aymeric in the corner of his eye, looking anxious but determined. He felt the transference of aether almost immediately after, and nodded in gratitude.

With Aymeric's help he laboured on, and bit by agonising bit, the deadly aether ebbed, at last granting his healing magic passage to Haurchefant's wound. Even with the Lord Commander lending his strength, it was a grueling task: somewhere in the middle of his efforts, he'd begun to feel his own pain, from the throbbing ache in his chest and arms, to the dizzying way the world spun if he even so much as tilted his head slightly. None of that mattered. He wouldn't stop till he was certain Haurchefant was no longer at death's banks.

The mood in House Fortemps was veritably grim. Count Edmont was doing the best he could to accommodate the sudden influx of guests and chirurgeons, never mind his own frayed, distraught nerves over the shocking turn of events. He'd sent Artoirel to carefully, discreetly liaise with the other High Houses, and bid Honoroit to keep a close eye on Emmanellain; the sooner his youngest son calmed down, the less likely he was to make a further mess through some untimely blunder. It was well past midnight by the time he could so much as take a deep, exhausted breath.

Aymeric, Tataru and Alphinaud all sat in the drawing room, tense and weary. He didn't blame them in the slightest for still being awake; he knew full well that he himself wouldn't be getting a moment of sleep tonight. Not when his son lay unconscious just a room away, pale and weak from the grievous injury he'd barely survived. And not when Moro'a lay in a bed one room over, in a medically-induced coma.

According to Aymeric, he'd collapsed in the Vault not long after he'd finished healing Haurchefant. Judging from the sheer quantity of spells he'd cast, both from his planisphere and his arcanamical grimoire, he'd expended an untold quantity of aether to fight through Ser Zephirin's magic. The chirurgeons' assessment had been grave; there was a high likelihood of internal damage. Were he to rouse from his coma, it was uncertain whether the Warrior of Light would return to his former health.

Count Edmont looked towards each of his guests. Aymeric had long since shed his mask of unaffected calm; his eyes were closed as he pressed his forehead against interlocked hands. Tataru seemed as though she'd only just stopped crying, and young Alphinaud remained tight-lipped and deep in thought, staring into the floor like he meant to burn a hole through it.

“I'll send for more tea,” Count Edmont said quietly, settling down into an unoccupied couch with a sigh. “Though I know it may be an impossibility for either of you, pray seek some reprieve if you are able. 'Tis been a long and hard day for us all.”

Aymeric lifted his head, acknowledging his words with a nod. “Thank you for your continued hospitality and understanding, Count Edmont.” A pause. “I shan't sleep, if only because I must deliberate on what we're to do about my...about the Archbishop, and the Heavens' Ward. The Archbishop mentioned a place called 'Azys Lla' – we know not its nature or its location, but we do know that whatever plans they have will not bode well for Ishgard. Lucia is rallying the few Temple Knights still loyal to me, and whatever other allies we may have.”

The unspoken subject hung in the air like static. With difficulty, Count Edmont brought it to attention. “And what of Moro'a? Were he here to speak with us now, I have no doubt that he would have readily volunteered to assist you in your efforts. In his current condition, however...” He thought saw a flash of emotion in the Lord Commander's eyes. Was it remorse? Shame? It was gone just as quickly as he'd seen it.

“Though I am loathe to, I believe it would be best to proceed without Moro'a in the meantime,” Aymeric said slowly. “We do not know when he will awaken, or whether he will be well enough when he does.”

For a long moment, the room fell silent. Then suddenly, Alphinaud stood up, shoulders set and wearing a resolute expression. “I may have a solution to this quandary,” he announced. “Though I will readily admit that I am not entirely certain of its viability.” He looked up at the two of them. “I mean to seek out Ysayle at my earliest convenience, and petition her aid in chasing down the Archbishop.”

“Lady Iceheart?” Aymeric asked, surprised. “I see...knowing the truth of our ancestors' foul deeds, I am not opposed to working with her, though I confess I'm unsure as to whether she would willingly aid us. Unless you believe you could convince her otherwise?”

Alphinaud nodded, clearly prepared for such a question. “I believe it possible, yes. We were able to become more acquainted with one another over the course of our journey to the Churning Mists. Ysayle is a righteous woman, and I believe she would not want to sit idly by while the Archbishop carries out his nefarious plans. Not when an opportunity for peace between Ishgardians and Dravanians has at last presented itself.”

Aymeric hummed in response. “Lucia saw her leave Ishgard on the selfsame evening you returned from Dravania, not long after the fighting had begun to settle. Should you require any assistance in tracking her down, I shall do what I can.”

“Nay, I shall accompany Alphinaud in seeking Iceheart.” Estinien emerged from the shadowy corner he'd been standing in, startling Count Edmont. The Azure Dragoon had been so silent, he'd all but forgotten he was still here. Estinien pointed at Aymeric. “You should keep your focus here, and hold the people of Ishgard together in the wake of this madness. I have an inkling as to where Iceheart may have gone, anyhow.”

The look of gratitude on Alphinaud's face was evident, almost endearing. “My deepest thanks, Estinien,” he said, and the dragoon dipped his head slightly in acknowledgement.

Tataru stood up then, taking a deep breath before addressing the room. “As for myself, I shall do whatever I can here in the meantime. The...chirurgeons will be visiting daily, but I shall keep a close eye on Haurchefant and Moro'a nevertheless.” Her lip quivered for a moment before she pressed on. “And I think now would be a good time for us all to get some much-needed rest,” she finished.

Count Edmont smiled; he appreciated the Scion for ending on an encouraging note. “I am in full agreement with Miss Tataru. We have much to do, and will need all the energy we can muster for the days ahead.” One by one they left the manor, till the Count was left on his own, standing at the door outside Haurchefant's room.

Tentatively, he reached for the doorknob, only for his hand to pause at the last moment. After a moment's deliberation, he turned and made for the room next door instead, entering as carefully and quietly as he could.

It was difficult, to see the Warrior of Light in such a state. Even more so knowing what he'd done, the lengths he'd gone through. Count Edmont sat down next to the bed, thoughts free to wander in the pensive quiet of the night.

Though it had been a reckless act, the Count could not deny the overwhelming gratitude he felt towards Moro'a for saving Haurchefant's life. Their affection towards one another was lost on no one, least of all himself; though they had made no public declarations, it was evident that their relationship had blossomed from friendship into romance over the past several weeks. He recalled the fervent passion with which his son had petitioned him, begged him even, to take in the Scions as the House's wards, not three moons ago. Haurchefant had spoken of his belief in this 'Warrior of Light' – an outsider of supposedly phenomenal strength and character – and the hope he represented for all of Eorzea. So strong was his conviction, that the Count had been swayed to his cause, despite his numerous misgivings.

But now, he understood. He only hoped that Moro'a would soon awaken, and that he would not come to regret the consequences of his noble sacrifice.

Chapter Text

No sooner had Moro'a stepped through the Ocular's doors did rain begin to fall, in gentle sheets of water that grew to a steady downpour. A few unfortunate souls who'd gotten caught in the rain scrambled to find cover; Moro'a grimaced, and adjusted the cloth covering the large basket in his arms. He'd just have to risk crossing over to the residential area, and hope that the cloth wouldn't get too soaked in the process.

He jogged towards the Pendants, running carefully so as not to slip, and made it to the sheltered without any mishaps. Breathing a sigh of relief, he entered the lobby, where the Manager of Suites greeted him with a smile. “Ah, Master Kihshimo! 'Tis good to see you once more.”

“...'Tis nice to be back,” Moro'a replied, in a bit of a daze as he shook the raindrops from his fringe. The manager regarded him with a slight frown. “You needn't have run through the rain,” he remarked.

“Was not expecting it to pour,” the miqo'te sighed. “I'm only dropping in for a short while, anyroad.”

The manager eyed the large basket he'd set on the table “The usual, I see. I'm afraid Ryne and Gaia left for Fort Jobb not two bells ago,” he informed Moro'a. “But worry not, I'll ensure that their gifts are kept safe and secure ere their return.”

“Thank you.” The manager's smile deepened, and Moro'a tried not to blush at the sight. Godsdamned...elves, elezen, whatever.

“It hasn't rained in quite a while, actually,” the manager continued. “We were beginning to worry...but it would seem our concerns might be unfounded after all. I don't suppose we have you to thank for it?” he jested.

Moro'a shook his head. “I may have returned the night sky and saved you from mortal peril a couple of times, but I can't control the weather.”

The manager chuckled. “Some of the more fanciful rumours about the Warrior of Darkness might suggest otherwise. But I shan't keep you. Safe travels, my friend,” he said, bowing slightly. Moro'a started, before dipping his head in thanks . Though he didn't yet know the manager's name, their exchanges had grown from familiar to friendly over time. But he was reluctant to forge anything deeper – in a strange way, the man sometimes felt too familiar to him, like a reflection of someone else.

The weather had begun to lighten, enough for Moro'a to step back out to the Exedra and gaze upwards. It was one of those strange days where the sun shone through, even as it remained overcast. In the odd gloomy light, the Crystarium only seemed to glow ever brighter – a shining beacon of hope for all that beheld it. An earthy, pleasant smell filled the air, and Moro'a took a deep breath, feeling more than a little pensive.

The rains have ceased. And we have been graced with another beautiful day.

“But you are not here to see it,” he whispered, finishing the words as they echoed through his mind, as they did every time he came here.

A shout of laughter rang out from behind him; Moro'a barely had time to dodge the group of children as they barelled past him, chasing after one another. He recognised Riqi-Tio; the miqo'te girl stopped and waved towards him, grinning from ear to ear before returning to her game. Moro'a noticed the conjurer's staff strapped to her back, and he couldn't help but smile and wave back.

As he'd been the few times he was able to visit before, Moro'a was struck by the sense of energy and peace that filled the Crystarium. The people here were no longer surviving, but truly able to live – like a desert flourishing into a meadow, signs of vim and vigour were everywhere, from the myriad businesses that had sprung up around the city, to the flourishing population that continued to grow. The people of the First had been through much; but here they were, in spite of it all.

Moro'a closed his eyes, and let the cool air and the scent of petrichor calm his senses. If this was what he had fought and suffered for, he thought, he was glad to have played a part in it.

Chapter Text

Seno huddled in a tiny, cramped cave, only breathing as much as he dared. Whether he was shivering from cold or fear, he'd stopped being able to tell. All he could do now was wait for night to fall, and try to make his way to one of the coastal towns that had ships bound for Aldenard.

As arduous and terrifying as running had been, evading wild beasts and staying out of sight of imperial patrols, waiting was definitely, infinitely worse. He was left to his thoughts, each terrible memory searing into his mind like knife cuts as the weight of his predicament bore down on him in full.

The village had been in utter chaos, though Seno had barely been able to register what was happening, half-conscious as Moro dragged him through the trees. The din of Garleans firing shots, his fellow Keepers shouting and screaming as fires raged throughout the village. At some point she'd let go, shouting for him to keep running as the imperials closed in.

He should've stayed and fought by her side. Maybe then Moro would have met him by the mouth of the southeastern river like they'd agreed, instead of vanishing without a trace. Maybe they would be making their way out of Ilsabard right now, with one another for company to weather through the ordeal together. But he was alone. He was running for his life with naught but the few supplies in his pack and half-remembered directions, all alone.

With one shaky hand, Seno felt for the crystal necklace around his neck, screwing his eyes shut as the shard dug into his palm. Inwardly, he cursed his powerlessness. He was one Keeper, with some godsforsaken power he barely understood that had ultimately accounted for nothing. His family was either dead or captured, the village likely burnt to the ground. If the tales were true, come morning there would be no trace that they had ever lived there, as the cruel hand of Garlemald swept through and took everything in its wake.

Seno bent over, unable to hold in his tears any longer as he wept, no longer caring if someone heard him. Let the Garleans take him, he thought, and be done with it.

Chapter Text

Part 1: Whitebrim, six minutes to the nineteenth bell.

Moro'a had always thought, from the moment he'd walked into the intercessory, that Aymeric de Borel had the prettiest eyes he'd ever seen.

He was supposed to be listening to Minfillia and Alphinaud as they discussed the Scions' next steps outside Snowcloak, but instead he found himself watching the Lord Commander. The elezen in question was deep in thought, tapping his shoulder with one slender finger as he listened attentively to his second in command. His focused eyes were like twin pools of liquid crystal, their colour drawn out by the walls of ice that surrounded them.

"Are you quite alright, Moro'a?" The miqo'te blinked, realising he was the one being addressed. Aymeric was looking at him with those icy, yet surprisingly soft eyes.

Moro'a cleared his throat, embarrassed to have been caught unawares in such a way. "I'm alright," he answered, meeting Aymeric's gaze directly so as to save some face. "Just dwelling on the day's events."

There was a trace of emotion in the Lord Commander's voice as he spoke again. "I hope your excursion into Snowcloak has not left you overly tired. Ishgard is in your debt for undertaking in such a pivotal mission," he said.

And perhaps it was true that he could do with a hot tea and a fireside nap. But no sooner had he formulated that thought did Minfillia call out to him, no doubt to send him off on some other vital task. Turning to Aymeric, he dipped his head apologetically. “Got somewhere else to rush off too, I'm afraid...ser.”

Aymeric dipped his head in return. “I understand. The Temple Knights will take care of matters here, until such a time when we have a better lead on Iceheart. Until then, may the Fury watch over you.” It was then that a slightly wider, more genuine smile graced the elezen's face, and Moro'a could only smile back as the gesture sparked vexatious thoughts in his brain.

As he walked with Minfillia and Alphinaud back to Camp Dragonhead to make use of the garrison's aetheryte, it occurred to Moro'a that their conversation may well have been the first time he'd heard Aymeric address him by his first name. Gods. He already found one Ishgardian noble pleasing to the eyes – another was the last thing he needed.

Part 2: Camp Dragonhead, quarterpast the fourteenth bell.

It was a bright but chilly afternoon as Moro'a wandered around the center of Camp Dragonhead, slightly drowsy from having just awoken. He paced about, rubbing his eyes as they adjusted to the glare of the snow that covered just about everywhere underfoot.

"Ah, my friend!" Haurchefant emerged out of nowhere, throwing his arms out with his customary vigour and enthusiasm. Which wouldn't have been untoward in the slightest, except the man was dressed in nothing but a dark pair of shorts, drenched from head to toe.

And just like that, Moro'a was wide awake.

"Haurchefant!" If Moro'a's face could generate steam, there would be enough to rival that which rose from the elezen's bare (and highly-sculpted) muscles. He backed himself into a wall in a pitiful attempt to conceal the way his tail was swishing violently from side to side. "Why...are you wet...?"

Haurchefant took a step forward, and Moro'a pointedly avoided further observation of the way the fabric of his shorts clung to his thighs, not to mention the space between them.

"Oh! I thought to take a brief dip in the hot springs next to the northeastern entrance," Haurchefant answered, grinning from ear to ear. "I find the water remarkably refreshing after several bells spent swinging one's sword." Well, when you put it that way. Moro'a's face reddened even further.

"You might care for a visit yourself," Haurchefant suggested further, seemingly oblivious to the state he was putting Moro'a in.

"I- uhhh- thank you, but I haven't been...swinging any swords," Moro'a stammered. Menphina's love what is wrong with me. "You might want to dry yourself and get indoors...it wouldn't do for you to fall ill...”

“I assure you, I am quite used to this,” the knight insisted. “But the garrison is expecting supplies from Camp Cloudtop soon, so I needs must get dressed to meet with the arriving contingent.” He paused and peered at the miqo'te, face scrunching up in mild concern. “Do try and relax from time to time, my friend. You seem awfully tense.”

Moro'a forced a polite smile and nodded. “I'll try.” The elezen nodded back, before turning his heel and making his way to the showers.

Free at last, Moro'a retreated to his quarters to shriek into a pillow, cursing the moon goddess herself for manifesting the concept of physical attraction.

Part 3: Gridania, fourty-two minutes past the eighth bell.

Even this early in the morning, the Leatherworker's Guild was a hive of activity, as members travelled to and fro, working on their respective obligations. Geva hummed with approval as she finished inspecting the last of Moro'a's leather circles on the table.

“Splendid as always,” she remarked. “Bless the Twelveswood that we finally have another reliable hand around the guild; I shan't need to keep inspecting basic tasks for you much longer. Go then, make haste and deliver these to the Adders' Nest! They're not ones to be kept waiting.”

Moro'a thanked her and scooped up the circles into his arms, at once exiting the guild and heading towards the Twin Adders' headquarters. He had only just stepped past the threshold when he caught sight of Sanson, talking to Commander Heuloix as Guydelot stood in the corner next to the barracks entrance; Moro'a stopped in his tracks so suddenly that he almost fell over, the leather spilling out of his arms and onto the floor.

Sanson's hair was untied. The difference was made all the more obvious by the way he self-consciously ran one hand through it as he spoke. Sanson Smyth never wore his hair down, and by gods Moro'a was almost glad he never had, because it was doing things to him. Things he'd neither had the time nor courage to properly consider; at least, not till he was now forced to reckon with their existence.

“Lieutenant Kihshimo, whatever's the matter?” One of the Serpent Officers stood in front of him, clearly alarmed by the fact that his face had nearly met the floorboards. Feeling highly self-conscious as all eyes were on him, Moro'a stooped down to pick up the leather, dusting them off a bit more forcefully than he would've liked.

“Apologies, I was a little too hasty and tripped,” was all he could say. He looked up and his eyes met Sanson's; the hyur wore an odd expression on his face, and behind him, Guydelot...was smirking.

Cursing inwardly, he excused himself and went straight to the Personnel Officer to deliver the leather. From his face alone, Moro'a knew that Guydelot knew. And he knew that the bard would take every opportunity he could to pester him, until he got answers.

Chapter Text

To hear the tale from Francel, the events that led to Haurchefant's knighthood were nothing short of awe-inspiring.

They were at Skyfire Locks, whiling away the evening hours after a hearty dinner. Moro'a listened with rapt attention as Francel told the story, from his unfortunate capture at the hands of the bandits, to Haurchefant's daring rescue as he'd barrelled into the cabin, taking out three fully-grown men on his own. As ever, Moro'a was amazed by the knight's bravery and mettle, the sheer ferocity with which he'd tackled Francel's captors despite the obvious danger. Like a minstrel's tale.

As the younger lord was detailing how Haurchefant had not made a single complaint while the chirurgeon drew the arrow out of his arm, Moro'a glanced over to Haurchefant. He thought the knight would be overjoyed for him to know how he'd won his spurs, but to his surprise, Haurchefant deliberately avoided eye contact, and seemed far more interested in the mug of hot cocoa he was sipping from.

“Did Francel say something untoward earlier?” Moro'a asked later, when they'd returned to Haurchefant's quarters in Camp Dragonhead. “You seemed bothered when he was telling me how you'd earned your knighthood.” The elezen was halfway through removing his greaves, and he paused.

“Oh no, Francel did nothing of the sort,” he said at length. He hesitated for another moment, before continuing. “I was simply...embarrassed.”

Moro'a turned to face the knight then, propped up on the bed by his elbows. “How come?”

Haurchefant finished removing the rest of his armor before settling onto the bedside, feet still on the floor. “I was far angrier, and far more impetuous as a boy than I am now. In hindsight, it was rather unbecoming,” he answered. “I suppose it felt strange for you to learn of that.”

Moro'a could only tilt his head in askance. “What, that you had uncontrollable emotions when you were a child? So does everyone.”

“A far less compelling argument when one is in the company of Ishgardian nobility, I'm afraid.” A vague smile ghosted Haurchefant's lips, as he spoke moreso to himself than to Moro'a. “Small wonder that the countess and I could never see eye to eye.”

Moro'a knew that Haurchefant had never had a good relationship with his stepmother, all the way till her unforeseen passing; he was perhaps one of the only souls not to blame for his father's indiscretion, yet he'd been the one made to suffer the most for it. Pushing himself up, Moro'a wrapped his arms around his lover's waist and nuzzled into his side.

“Emotional or not, you saved your best friend's life, and his family a wealth of trouble besides,” he countered. “I'm sure that's more than most trueborn knights could hope to claim when they were seventeen. Certainly more than I had accomplished at that age.”

Haurchefant chuckled softly at that, the sound reverberating through his muscular frame. Moro'a could listen to the pleasant sound of his laughter from one calamity to the next, and he would still not tire of it. The elezen turned to lie down, and Moro'a adjusted as he did, so that his head lay on Haurchefant's chest.

“My dear brightlily,” Haurchefant said, stroking the miqo'te's hair with one gentle hand. “You've more than made up for that in the years since.” Moro'a hummed in acknowledgment, and they fell silent, happy to lay in each other's arms.

“Besides,” Moro'a added after a time. “I wouldn't say you've entirely lost your ferocious side. Remember when you needed six knights to restrain you from following me into Snowcloak?”

“As if I could ever forget!” Haurchefant sighed, with exaggerated frustration. “T'was a scare I do not wish to relive. You frightened me half to death with that reckless endeavour.”

Moro'a grinned, a little slyly. “While I agree, and I would not have wished for you to risk your life coming after me, I rather liked imagining it.”

At that, Haurchefant's own lips curled, and he leaned in towards Moro'a's ear. “I could think of other displays of ferocity. Ones you might find far more enjoyable,” he growled, sending a shiver of anticipation down the miqo'te's spine. Of the many areas in which the Silver Fuller was notably accomplished, Moro'a thought as Haurchefant bent down to capture his lips in a deep kiss, this one left absolutely no room for doubts.

Chapter Text

There was no glory to be found in war. Sanson had known this for years, owing to the grueling ordeals he'd endured during the Calamity, then a fresh-faced recruit in the recently reestablished Order of the Twin Adders. So it was with a grim but steely outlook that Sanson had travelled to the Ghimlyt Dark, awaiting the long and violent days to come, and he was careful to dissuade any foolhardy delusions of grandeur amongst the new members of the bard unit.

Even so, the constant fighting wore on him, as he fought to keep the bards' morale up as well as his own. He could only watch as their faces grew more haggard and dispirited, and thank the gods that none of them had yet perished, even as a part of him knew it was folly to hope that things would stay that way.

Instead, he sought moments of reprieve – the quiet in-betweens where he could close his eyes and remember there was more to life than dead bodies and magitek gunfire. When he wasn't gripped by images of burnt flesh and blood spurting from the end of his lance, he dreamt of Gridania's verdant woods; of patches of sunlight dappled amongst the shade, and birdsong in the morning. Of the bard's voice that often joined them, his voice as clear and beautiful as any lark's.

So when Guydelot asked him, one still morning before the sun had yet risen, what kept his head up when it seemed like the fighting would never end, he'd answered sincerely, embarrassed as he was to tell it. “Sometimes I dream of you, singing in the Twelveswood.”

Guydelot smirked at that. “You've heard me sing every godsdamned day since we got here. I think I've forgotten what it feels like not to have a sore throat,” he complained, though there was a light in his eyes that betrayed his other feelings.

“You know it's different, though.” Sanson saw a flicker of something else in Guydelot's eyes as he glanced away. “I know,” he responded, quietly.

Sanson knew the fighting had been hard on Guydelot, even if it wasn't apparent to most thanks to his laidback front. Having experienced war before, he was more used to it – the nauseating sights, the persistent hypervigilance that dogged his senses long after he'd retreated from enemy lines. But there were times when he'd woken up to find the bard sitting up from his bedroll, breathing hard as sweat ran down his face. They'd started happening after Sanson's injury, and had not abated since, even though the incident was weeks ago and he'd recovered enough to resume his duties.

As concerned as Sanson obviously was, he'd refrained from bringing it up, worried that Guydelot might dodge the subject or get unduly defensive. But now...

“What about you?” he asked, carefully avoiding any direct mention of the night terrors. “What keeps you going?”

To his relief, the bard considered the question properly. He hugged Sanson a little tighter, deep in thought. Sanson waited patiently.

“You,” Guydelot said at length. “Making sure you're still in one piece.” He met Sanson's eyes with a soft gaze. “Seeing you wake up each morning.”

“I...I see.” Sanson was, quite frankly, unsure of what to make of his answer. It didn't surprise him, not really, but a familiar panic reared its head. Don't put it all on me, he wanted to say. That isn't fair – there's too much at stake, the bard unit's already depending on me.

But it would be equally unfair to ask him not to. Not when he found himself looking for Guydelot at every opportunity when they were on the battlefield, hoping to gods that nothing befell him. Not when he'd been so focused on searching for him that fateful day, that he'd managed to stray away from the unit and get himself lost.

Guydelot kissed him on the brow then – a soft press of the lips, accompanied by a puff of warm air. “No need to brood, Chief,” he said. “I know what you're getting at. Just...give me some time, alright? I haven't forgotten our promise.”

That we could worry about one another, knowing that death's jaws lurked around every corner. Sanson allowed himself a smile then, leaning in to kiss Guydelot back on his jaw. “Thank you,” he replied.

There was no glory to be found in war. But there were silver linings, and so long as he had Guydelot, Sanson would know where to find them.

Chapter Text

The tough leather of Sal's reigns dug into Moro'a's palms, as they hovered at the edge of the Turquoise Trench. The Ruby Princess's sister had not minced her words when she said the palace was deep, deep down; despite the water's pristine clarity, the sunlight could only penetrate so far; Moro'a couldn't see past ten yalms below the upper seabed for all he tried, let alone the bottom.

He shouldn't have agreed to journey to Shisui. He was in no mood to be heroic, still fending off the haze that had followed him from Coerthas all the way to the Far East, barely hanging on to the Scions' primary mission as it was. But the Princess's sister had looked so desperate, and so close to hopelessness, that he'd felt compelled to aid her. And if what had befallen the raen princess was indeed no thanks to Ascian meddling, he had little choice but to pursue the matter.

Sal let out a mournful “kweh”, clearly as uneasy about the depths as he was. Moro'a stroked her neck gently, trying to reassure the chocobo. He hoped she wasn't too alarmed by the way his own heart hammered away in his chest.

Steeling himself, he urged Sal to dive deeper, and thankfully she obeyed. They hugged close to the walls, following the crystals that studded the undulating rock like glowing waymarks. But in the spaces between each one, seconds felt like minutes, and the crystals only grew further apart as they descended down, always down. Despite Soroban's spell protecting them from the weight of the sea, Moro'a felt the ocean close in around him. He felt trapped; his chest grew tight, and his breaths came in shallow gasps. He tried shutting his eyes, but it only worsened the crushing sensation.

If you have any intention of making it down there, breathe. Let the dark guide you. Fray's voice echoed in his skull, somewhere between admonishment and encouragement, and Moro'a nearly stopped Sal in shock. It'd been moons since he'd heard him.

What? I've been here, as always. If it's reassurances you are looking for...I suggest you finish what you started. Stern as he was, Fray's presence was a welcome one. And so Moro'a breathed, keeping his eyes closed as he willed the air into and out of his lungs. Somehow he guided Sal down without smashing into the rocks.

After what felt like malms, he dared to open his eyes, and Shisui of the Violet Tides stood proudly before him.

“Thank you,” he whispered. Fray did not deign to answer, but he felt a faint stir of acknowledgement all the same.

With newfound resolve, Moro'a rode Sal past the gates and into the palace grounds.

Chapter Text

The marble flooring in the Ishgardian ballroom was immaculate as before, this time adorned with drifting snowflakes and roses. A winter garden, fading in and out of sight beneath scores of dancing feet. Moro'a had the sense that he'd arrived to the ball very, very late, but the other guests paid him no mind; they were far too caught up in their own revelry, moving to the beat of the lively quartet like marionettes on a tinkerer's stage.

Moro'a sidestepped the twirling pairs of elezen, searching for Haurchefant. They were supposed to meet at the ballroom entrance, weren't they? What if he'd come too late again, and a stranger had already invited his noble knight to a dance? But at last he spotted him, dressed in a suit of silver armor that sparkled like sunlit rain. A deep green cape flowed from his pauldrons, a tidal wave that swept around as Haurchefant turned to face him, beaming. It had been purple the last time, but no matter the shade, Haurchefant always looked resplendent – and it'd been too long since Moro'a had seen that smile.

Haurchefant bowed with every onze of elegance, before wordlessly taking Moro'a's hand and guiding him to the center of the ballroom. Next to his shining companion, Moro'a felt positively drab in his adventuring gear, but the way Haurchefant gazed at him adoringly from beneath half-lidded eyes made him forget his self-consciousness entirely. Boldly, he leaned towards the knight, who dipped his head to meet him, and they kissed amongst the dancing nobles, heedless to all but the feeling of them.

When they parted, they stood not in the ballroom, but alone in the throne room of the Crystal Tower. The sudden change in destination never bothered Haurchefant in the slightest; he wrapped an arm around Moro'a's waist, gently leading into the first steps of a waltz as a delicate melody floated through the air. Familiar as they were with one another's bodies, he fell into step effortlessly; their dance became faster and faster as they spun across the blue. Haurchefant lifted him up with both arms, laughing, and Moro'a laughed along as he soared through the Sea of Clouds.

His feet landed on golden tiles, and he stumbled as their spinning came to an abrupt halt. The cold light sank in; they were at their final destination, too soon. Always too soon.

Haurchefant planted a delicate kiss on his hand, and Moro'a saw his sad smile before he let go. Rather than let his hand drop, Moro'a tried – as he did every time – to reach for him, but he could no longer move; Haurchefant was already walking towards the airship, armor gleaming in the golden sunset, heedless to Moro'a's pleading.

Don't go.

The rough material of the bedroll scratched at his cheek as he awoke. He wasn't in the Vault, not even in Eorzea. Sweet, unfamiliar birdsong rang through the hills of Yanxia, and all was quiet in the camp; the other Scions still slumbered, no doubt getting as much sleep as they could before they sought the Doman resistance.

The dance had ended. Moro'a buried his face into the pillow, unable to stave off the hot tears that ran down his cheeks.

Chapter Text

It was becoming all but impossible for Moro'a to remain idle in Gridania.

One would've thought the Warrior of Light might never have a moment's time to himself. But the Scions were scattered across the realm, attending to various leads and objectives in preparation for the inevitable war against the Telophoroi. Strangely, none of them had asked him to accompany them, nor even suggested possible causes to devote himself to. Or perhaps they'd all sensed how distracted he'd been.

It was true that his thoughts these days often drifted elsewhere. With no further attacks from Fandaniel, and relations with the myriad beast tribes stable enough to put a pause to primal summonings, he was left to ponder the events of the past couple of moons, particularly the incomplete conclusion of the Scions' battle with the unsundered.

What dogged him most was that hint of a revelation in Amaurot, that which had been suggested of his identity. As he'd held the orange crystal of the fourteenth Convocation member in his palm, Moro'a had felt an uncanny sense of...connection? Self? There were no adequate words to describe the feeling.

He'd never been one to wholly believe in fate, and the thought that his path might have been pre-ordained all along, not just by the will of Hydaelyn but by the origin point of his very soul, disturbed him on a level he couldn't describe. It would be better to forget it all, to focus instead on the problems of the present day. But try as he might, he couldn't get his unanswered questions out of his mind.

And so he'd left Tataru with a message for the Scions, telling them he would be travelling to the First for a few days, and to contact Merrill posthaste should anything urgent happen.

There was no wind to rustle Amaurot's lilac-flowered trees as Moro'a walked through the silent city. There was little, if any guarantee if he would find the one he sought; already, buildings had begun to fade from the ocean floor, as were the wandering ancients that populated the streets; some were losing their solidity, while others shimmered in and out of view like mirages. Moro'a wondered how long more it might be before the whole place vanished.

There was no sign of Hythlodaeus. The ancient's simulacrum had never appeared at his beckoning, after all; Moro'a stopped at the lane where they had last spoken, and waited.

And waited.

“Ahh...my new old friend. You return once more?”

Moro'a turned towards the strange, familiar voice, and there they were, regarding him with something close to curiosity.

“Hythlodaeus.” It surprised Moro'a how glad he was to see them, shade or not. “I was looking for you, actually. I had questions...if you would answer them.” He waited, unsure how they would respond. If they even could. But Hythlodaeus made a motion that could almost be interpreted as a chuckle, before giving their answer.

“I trust you already know the limits of my knowledge, and the possible conditions placed upon my will. But personally...I would see your uncertainties cleared. Ask away.”

Chapter Text

Haurchefant's heart is so light, and yet so full, he feels like he could soar above the heavens without wings. He settles for gliding along the stone steps, hand in hand with the dashing, flustered, impossibly wonderful man before him.

Truth be told, he'd pictured this going quite differently. Apologising for the disastrous turn their Western Highlands adventure had taken, wishing instead that he could pour his heart out to Moro'a with every onze of passion held within him. Or mayhaps gently coaxing him up to the balcony of his childhood room, under a clear night's sky, and hoping that Moro'a would not be overly stunned by his heartfelt confession. Ever did he strive to be upfront and sincere in his feelings, for weal or for woe; a small, ugly, hurt part of him had worried he'd misjudged the Warrior of Light's interest in him.

But Moro'a had beaten him to it! The way his eyes had lit up, oh so soft and bright as he'd spoken of Ishgard becoming a second home to him (and that in of itself is enough to warm Haurchefant to the core). How he'd turned to look at him with that same gentle gaze, and spoken the words Haurchefant had so longed to hear.

I care for you. In a way that friendship alone doesn't describe. It was that declaration that had finally spurred the knight into action, to express his own feelings to the fullest as he'd held Moro'a's face in his hand, his very soul alight as his dear friend welcomed his touch. And when Moro'a had readily returned his kiss – what joy, what transcendent tenderness! It'd nearly been enough to bring him to his knees, so ardently had he fallen in love.

As Haurchefant glides down the winding staircase that leads down to Saint Valeroyant's Forum, he wants nothing more than to kiss Moro'a again. They reach the plaza, stopping just short of the Forgotten Knight's entrance as Moro'a turns to him. His eyes are as pure as moonlight, softened by the shy crease in his brow, and he's looking away as he clears his throat. “Well...we're here,” he remarks shyly, as though seeking confirmation. Haurchefant is all too glad to give it.

He brings Moro'a's hand to his lips with a passionate caress, betraying the fact that his heart is ready to burst. Let it burst, he thinks, for I am not a lord nor a knight this evening, but a man hopelessly in love. “By your leave.”

Chapter Text

The moment could not have been more triumphant. Ishgard had bested the rest of the Eorzean Alliance in the Grand Melee, reigniting within her soldiers a much-needed fire. It had threatened to sputter out in the wake of the nation's many crises, but Aymeric's plan had paid off: the mood on the battlefield was ablaze with jubilation, even amongst those who had lost. Moro'a, however, felt little of it. It mattered, what they had accomplished; this he knew. But his heart was not in it.

“Moro'a!” Raubahn's voice was loud in the crisp winter air as he beckoned him over. “Thal's balls...not since leaving the bloodsands have I had the privilege; not since the Bull of Ala Mhigo hung up his swords.” The Flame General's eyes burned as they beheld him, and he was grinning from ear to ear. “I admit, with your reputation as a healer first and foremost, I had briefly considered holding back. But it's clear that would have been the poorer choice. You fought with as much ferocity as any warrior, and with it you bested me.”

Beside him, Pipin was beaming too. “I shan't forget that duel anytime soon, inspiring and humbling as it was,” he declared. “Although – I do feel honour-bound to point out that my father was fighting one-handed.”

Moro'a dipped his head. “The privilege was mine,” he murmured halfheartedly. His ferocity was far from noble. It had sprung up from anger, resentment, pain – such emotions were strong enough to fuel him for the battle, surely, but now it left behind its aftertaste, bitter and wanting.

Something the Flame General seemed to catch onto immediately. Brow furrowed, he regarded Moro'a with solemn eyes. “Had I both my arms, the outcome might have been different, yes. But I do not begrudge you your victory.” To Moro'a's surprise, Raubahn clasped his shoulder with one large hand; his grip was warm and steadying. “You have come far, and endured much for one so young – our fight only confirmed it.”

It occurred to Moro'a that Raubahn was likely old enough to be his father. Just what did the Flame General see of his pain, and just how much? It made him want to recoil; to fall back and shield himself from the man's scrutiny. And yet, there was a comfort in his acknowledgement, however strained.

“Mayhaps one day when the time allows, we shall have to do this again, under brighter circumstances. Until then - celebrate your victory with the Ishgardians, Moro'a. You have well earned it.” Raubahn let go of Moro'a's shoulder, and the miqo'te felt compelled to bow. “Thank you, Raubahn,” he said, and meant it.

The older man nodded, before turning to Pipin. As they made to join the sultana, Moro'a watched them go, and the Flame General's words stirred within him some smouldering embers of hope.

Chapter Text

The door to Dawn's Respite swung reluctantly open, and within, Moro'a's footsteps echoed across the space, seemingly cavernous in proportion to the dark. His eyes quickly adjusted, and he balanced the heavy tray he was carrying in both hands.

“Moro'a, is that you?” Krile turned to face him calmly. “Strange, for a moment I could've sworn your aether was – well, never mind that. Did Tataru send you in with supplies for me?”

Moro'a nodded, setting the tray down on a low table beside the lalafell. Clean clothes, freshly-baked Archon loaf with rich cheese and butter, and a large steaming pot of tea. “The last one's mine,” Moro'a explained when he saw Krile tilt her head. “It's chamomile and royal mistletoe – helps with aether regeneration.”

Krile smiled then. A weary one, but genuine nonetheless. “How very thoughtful. You have my thanks,” she replied.

They sat together, observing their comatose friends in silence. The Scions lay in their beds, unnervingly still. Even in the gloom, the pale, bloodless tone of their skin was evident. And yet for all their bodily suffering, their expressions were peaceful, unmarred by sensation. They may as well have been corpses, were it not for the fact that Moro'a had spoken with them on the First just the day before.

“Alisaie's been doing the best of them all,” Krile remarked, turning her head towards the young elezen. “No surprises there, considering her soul was the last to depart her body.”

Moro'a frowned. “Which means...Thancred?”

Krile shook her head. “Still holding on for now. I'm doing what I can, but...I worry.”

How much aether did it take to sustain the life forces of five people? The lalafellin scholar was well awake and alert, but Moro'a sensed her weariness, draped over her like a fog. “What about yourself?” he inquired.

“Me? I'll be alright, I think.” Krile heaved a sigh, before squaring her shoulders. “No matter how tired I may get, I will carry on for as long as needed,” she affirmed with a determined note in her voice. “This is too important to fail.”

“Let me help, then,” Moro'a offered. “You need all the energy you can spare.” But Krile shook her head.

“You're exhausted too. Don't think I cannot tell,” she remarked accusingly as she poked him on the shoulder, though her tone remained gentle. “You mean to hurry back to the First right after this, do you not? Help me by ensuring the Exarch's plan is a success.”

Though slightly exasperated by her pinpoint accuracy, Moro'a couldn't help a small smile. “Alright, alright,” he conceded. Looking at Krile, he felt an unexpected surge of affection that wasn't entirely his own.

“What's this?” Krile was looking at him too, curiosity evident on her face. “I thought I'd sensed something different about you. Your soul, I'm not quite sure how to describe but it seems...denser, and just well, more. What happened to you on the First?”

Moro'a's fiddled with a loosening seam on his glove. Krile had yet to learn what the Scions had about the sundering, of the ancients and their shards split across the fourteen realms. “Ah. The whole story is far too long to recount now, but in essence, I merged my soul with another.”

“Is that so? Hmm.” Krile tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Had I not known how your aether was before, I would not have been able to tell.” Smiling again, she looked up at him with eyes slightly brighter. “You've gone and piqued a scholar's curiosity now. You'll have to tell me more once all of this is over.”

Faint recognition stirred in Moro'a's heart at her expression, as well as warmth. “I will,” he promised.

Chapter Text

To Moro'a's eyes, something about Yanxia seemed different. He couldn't place just what. The thought had been bothering him all day, since he'd emerged from the cave through Isari, and had continued to dog him even as he'd crossed the valley with Erenville, eventually settling in a thicket not too far from the river.

It had been more than a year, no, nearly two now since the region had been liberated. Moro'a lay with his head resting on his pack, watching towering spires of bamboo sway endlessly with the winds against a backdrop of stars.

He looked around again, carefully. Now that he had settled, signs of time and change were all around him – magitek contraptions that degraded with each turn of the sun, overtaken by Far Eastern foliage and creatures; dirt paths that grew and sprawled across the valley as more and more people traversed the land. Yet there was a strange timelessness, a sense of unchange; as though to say it had endured long before he had ever set foot into it, and would remain long after.

Nay, it was becoming ever more obvious to Moro'a that he was the one who'd changed.

Had anyone told him he would be here now, surveying the Far East not as the Warrior of Light, but an adventurer? With a gleaner from Old Sharlayan at that? He would have been inclined to ridicule their expansive imagination. How strange then that he was here now, embarking on a journey he had never thought to experience, in a place that for him captured such a different time. To think that when he'd last been here, he'd been fighting a war; one he'd only just begun to grasp his role in.

And the state he'd been in – going through the days with barely any focus except for the immediate task at hand; rarely going through a night without the ghosts of his past haunting him unto his waking hours.

Lover knows how he'd made it through it all.

Would that he could comfort the Moro'a of then, he thought, and tell him what he knew now, what he understood now. That the lives lost in his life were not all that defined him. That time stretched further than the present mind could comprehend – and that with each step into the future that became the present, the hurts of the past would recede, and new, fragile but hopeful joys could be made, again and again.

"Still admiring the surroundings?" His travel companion poked his head out from his tent, ears swiveling to catch the wind's sighs. Illuminated by the firelight, Erenville looked more curious than disapproving.

Moro'a hummed. “Just thinking about the past.”

Chapter Text

Moro'a left from the Drydocks with a sour taste in his mouth, irritation and regret gnawing at him in equal measure as the merchant's fearful expression lingered in his memory. When they reached the Salt Strand, Moro'a heard Fray stop.

"You're upset. Might I suggest we speak of it?" He could feel the way Fray stared at him, arms folded. Judging from the terse note in his voice, he was as unhappy as Moro'a felt.

Moro'a scowled, turning an ilm towards his mentor. "There was no need to be belligerent with the man. He was panicking – afraid,” he argued.

"And so I should have allowed that sodding fool to plaster his burdens unto you and blame you alone for his lot, unabated? While ignoring what we came here for?" Fray's voice did not rise, but the cold timbre in his words thawed as he took a step towards the miqo'te and pointed a finger at his chest. "I fully meant what I said. And in case it wasn't clear, I stood up for you. Because you have yet to grasp the price you pay for shouldering every misfortune that happens within your vicinity!"

"I can speak for myself," Moro'a growled, even as his gut twisted over the dark knight's words.

Fray threw his head back and uttered a barking approximation of a laugh. "So you say. So you say."

Moro'a shook his head, turning away from Fray. Boots soaked in the saltine water, he listened to the wind howl as he gazed at the Strand's crystalline spines. A lonely song for a lonely hour.

"What would you have me do instead?" he implored, fighting to reign his temper, in favour of an attempt to communicate with his inexplicable guide. "Shirk those whom I have the power to save? Leave them all behind for...for what?" To his terrible realisation, the prospect had a unexpected appeal the more he considered it. He felt so, so heavy these days; the hopes of Ishgard, the Eorzean Alliance, the Scions, all bearing down upon him. But to what end?

But Fray only sighed. "You misunderstand,” he insisted. “It's not about caring less about those you protect; it's about whom you choose to protect. Don't you recall what I said before? That a dark knight knows they cannot save all?” There was a desperate edge to the man's voice that prickled at the back of Moro'a's shoulders, and it made him want to run.

Fray stopped abruptly, pressing a hand to his face. “I...apologise if I acted on my terms and not ours. The rage I felt on your behalf...would that you could feel as angry as you have every right to be. However...” He spoke softly, and as much as Moro'a wanted to ignore him, he leaned in further.

“If you would listen...the voice. It wishes to be heard. And I believe you're ready. So please...”

Moro'a felt an itch in his throat and a sting behind his eyes. Fray was right; something called to him from the dark center of the storm. A presence that he'd sensed long before he knew what to look for.

Please hear what I have to say.

Chapter Text

With a heavy intake of breath, Moro'a pushed open the door to the Waking Sands, stepping into the darkened stone corridor.

Soaked through with Thanalan's heat, the interior had taken on a musty smell; dust and sweat, ceruleum and blood. Faded just enough for Moro'a not to gag, but unmistakeably present.

Mayhaps he shouldn't have come. No one had certainly asked him to. It was a rash hope, thin as spider's silk that had compelled him to make the journey from Coerthas: a way in which he might gain more information as to the captured Scions' whereabouts. But now that he stood here within the empty stone chambers, Moro'a found himself at a loss. He'd never succeeded in triggering an Echo vision without another person's memories to tap from, let alone access his temperamental power at will.

Just how desperate was he?

Lily flitted close by, lighting the way. A soft pulse radiated from her as though to ask: what now?

I haven't a clue. But Moro'a found himself turning left and walking, till he was in the Sands's largest room. All the more emptier for the fact. Signs of old life were everywhere, in the untidy assortment of crates holding supplies half-sorted and the arrangement of chairs, sat in by those who'd not had the chance to push them back beneath the tables.

The Sands had never been bustling or crowded, but wherever the Scions had gathered, there'd been chatter, be it for strategising or mingling. Years of living around no more than two folks at a time had left Moro'a unused to this many people, and it'd taken him quite some time to get to know folks. Aulie, Arenvald and A'aba, serious but spirited adventurers; Una Tayuun, who like many others had found a new purpose within these walls. Yet others he'd barely interacted with, beyond a nod or a quick greeting.

How was anyone to know.

Moro'a settled on a dusty chair, willing himself to empty his mind and focus his thoughts. The Echo usually acted without warning or preamble, signals sent along some unknown current. There was no science or study to it, at least none that he knew of; he was quite literally groping in the dark for answers.

Stop thinking and just try it, he told himself. And so, closing his eyes and projecting his thoughts out across the empty, he tried.

But the Waking Sands only answered him with silence.

Chapter Text

For all the rain poured down from Lakeland's skies, in thunderous sheets that showed no signs of abating, the clouds could not obscure the monstrous glare of the Light.

God rays pierced holes through the sky's grey hide, shining down mercilessly, while the clouds themselves seemed to glow, so strong was the aether above. Soaked to the skin, a lone figure trudged off the main path, wandering aimlessly through the trees.

From the moment Moro'a had awoken – once he realised he hadn't died atop Mount Gulg – there'd been an immediate sense of wrong, going from queasy dread to full-blown nausea as the sight of Lakeland through his room's window greeted him. As garishly bright as the day he first set foot in Norvrandt.

Rather than stand tall through the guilt and accept that the Light had returned, he'd fled the Crystarium before Ardbert could finish speaking, blocking out the warrior's voice as he ran. The clouds had broken open soon after, but he'd not stopped, not even when he was through the city gates and halfway down the path to the shore.

As though he could find an ilm of Lakeland that hadn't been recaptured by the Light. All-encompassing, plain in sight was the proof that he'd failed, and while few knew who was responsible, it mattered naught to Moro'a. He'd failed. The people of the Crystarium had lost their beloved leader. And now he was running away.

Perhaps he really was as weak as Emet-Selch had accused him of being. Perhaps he deserved it, letting disaster befall him when his efforts to save the world one more time had at last not sufficed.

On cue, the sound of a thousand shattering panes of glass filled his ears, followed by the all too familiar pain, and Moro'a collapsed into the mud. His body was on fire, nearly as much as it had been when he was no longer able to contain the aether trapped within; on his hands and knees, Moro'a coughed till his throat was raw. Light-soaked sickness ran down the soil in rivulets.

The image of Tesleen flashed in his mind's eye, slack-jawed and forgiven, eyes void of humanity as she'd transformed. Dimly, as he rolled onto his side, Moro'a wondered if he would look like that when he at last succumbed. What he might turn into after.

If the Light was so hellsbent on taking him, let it.

Chapter Text

With little to do but wait for their audience with the satrap, Moro'a wandered around Radz-at-Han, eventually finding himself in what looked to be a tiny library, tucked between a closed restaurant and sundries shop.

The place was old, in a rustic sort of fashion, with its faded wallpaper and dusty, chipped edges. The shelves that lined about half of the shop were filled with tomes, the majority of which were worn and weathered, though a few looked almost new. A heavy, perfumed smell hung in the air, tugging at the edges of Moro'a's memory.

"How may I help you, good sir?" A deep voice called from within as a portly miqo'te emerged from behind the bookshelf. He wore his smile like an old coat, rugged but warm. “Fancy you wandering into a shop like this during these times.”

Moro'a blinked. He'd yet to see a fellow Keeper in Thavnair till now. "These are for sale?” he inquired, gesturing towards the rows of tomes. “I admit I've never seen a shop quite like this before.”

The man tilted his head. "Ah, you are not from around these parts, then?" he questioned. “T'would seem we already have much in common, my friend.” Indeed, the notes of his accent were not quite Hannish; in fact, his accent sounded oddly familiar, diluted as it was. "Aye, they are used tomes. Not that people have had much use for them of late,” he explained with a sigh. “I was a collector, you see, an age and a half ago. I purchased interesting works from those who no longer wished to hold onto them – some from traders by the coastline, or during the course of mine own travels. Yet others were obtained through ah, other means.”

There was a hint of mischief towards the end of that sentence that had Moro'a narrowing his eyes, and the man chuckled. “You need not concern yourself with that last part. Please, take a look and let me know if anyone of them catch your eye. It has been quite some time since someone new found their way into this humble little shop,” he beckoned.

Truly, Moro'a was a little curious. He scanned the nearest bookshelf, looking from tome to tome – there were works on history, science, novels – all marked with the telltale signs of prior ownership. A tea stain on the cover, a concentration of creases on the tome's spine at a particular chapter; Moro'a wondered what stories lay behind them. Eventually he settled on a medium-sized tome, bound in thick, glossy hide. Pulling it out, he turned it over to its front cover, and was surprised to see a title he recognised.

“Cahaya Bhulan Mhawar,” he read out slowly, staring at the flowing script. He turned to the shopkeeper. “You have tomes from Corvos?”

The man's eyes twinkled. “That I do,” he answered. “Why, I was born there.”

The myriad, familiar details coalesced together, suddenly plain for Moro'a to see. In all of his years in Eorzea, he had not met a single soul from his homeland – apart from G'raha, though he wasn't quite sure if that counted. Moro'a's throat felt dry as he was beset by both wistfulness and anxiety.

The man leaned towards him, too close for comfort. “In fact, I had been wondering,” he said, speaking slowly. “Those markings you wear on your face, young traveller...where do you hail from?”

Moro'a swallowed hard. “I apologise, but I think I should leave. My friends are expecting me,” he said with difficulty. He quickly returned the tome in his hands back to its place on the shelf, and turned to make for the entrance.

Disappointment was evident on the man's face, but he smiled. “A shame, but do not let me keep you here,” he said, placing both his hands over his heart with a small bow. “I bid you a good day, and a better night.”

Moro'a nodded, barely sparing another glance before making his way out of the shop. As he stepped out into the street, he tried to ignore the dull ache in his chest. “I'm sorry,” he murmured, unsure whom the words were for.

Chapter Text

Haurchefant pushed the doors of Fortemps manor open with a measured hand, both to avoid disturbing those who would have retired to their bedchambers at the late hour, and so as to prevent the full force of the evening’s weather from slipping through. Inevitably a draft from without wove its way through, and he winced ever so slightly at the unwelcome gust that swept through his armor and into his skin. The chill seeped into his hands in particular; full glad was he to finally be inside.

Nodding towards Silouane, one of the servants who yet remained in the foyer, Haurchefant asked her where their guest was, that he might pass him materials for his study of the Dragonsong War. If Silouane found Haurchefant’s mission and the hour of it at all peculiar, she respectfully made no indication of such, merely pointing him towards the study room adjacent to the library. It wasn’t a thinly veiled excuse, at least not yet; Moro'a had taken it upon himself to learn as much as he could of Ishgard’s history, perusing the city’s libraries and the Fortemps’ own extensive collection when he wasn’t out on the field or training with the astrologians. Ever diligent and hungry for knowledge, Haurchefant thought to himself with an unconcealed smile.

Haurchefant knocked on the study room door, his smile growing wider when he heard an answer from the other side. He entered and didn’t spot Moro'a immediately, but soon found the man behind a veritable mountain of tomes and scrolls, seated in an oversized chair that he seemed to sink into.

Moro'a looked up from the scroll he’d been engrossed in, and his eyes widened considerably when he realised who had entered. “Haurchefant! Whatever are you doing here so late?” His surprise delighted Haurchefant to no end.

“A brief visit. I shan’t keep you from your work,” he replied, speaking loud enough for any passersby even as Moro'a got up to make space for him. The elezen took a few steps closer, pulling out a sheath of documents from his satchel  and holding them out towards Moro'a. “Lord Francel discovered a collection of records from the Locks’ archives, detailing Dravanian flight patterns. He was quite insistent that I pass them to you myself, certain they would be to your benefit.”

“Ah. You needn’t have come all this way just to pass me these tonight, but thank you. Please send Lord Francel my thanks, too.” Behind his polite show of gratitude, Moro'a wore a knowing smile. Their hands brushed as Moro'a accepted the papers from him, and the touch was like sparks of fire alighting on Haurchefant’s skin. It was all the knight could do not to immediately pull his lover into his arms there and then.

Something had prompted Moro'a to frown, however, not out of annoyance but concern. “Your hand’s freezing. And you’re clearly discomforted,” he pointed out, more quietly this time. Setting down the documents, he took Haurchefant’s left hand into his own, turning it up as he inspected it. “I thought you were going to get your glove replaced this sennight.”

Indeed, a hole in the leather had grown to a rather disrespectable size, and the frigid winds had bitten his hand through it for the past several days. Moro'a felt at the patch of dry, lightly-cracked skin that had been exposed to the elements, and Haurchefant dipped his head. “I’m afraid time has thus far eluded my attempts to fit in the acquisition of said replacement,“ he explained. "The wyrms near the garrison grow bolder with each passing night, spurred on by the Horde’s preparations, no doubt.”

“Mmm.” Moro'a nodded. “I know you have much on your plate. Even so, I wouldn’t want anything worse to get through this.”

“I promise my hand will be fully protected ere this Darkday’s end. By a knight’s honour,” Haurchefant vowed. Moro’a’s fingers were warm against his, and he savoured their touch. “For now though, might I entrust the task of warming it up to you, esteemed healer that you are?” he asked, grinning.

His playful suggestion prompted a soft sound of amusement from Moro’a, even as the Keeper rolled his eyes in mock irritation. “You don’t need a healer for that,” he chided, but he was already pulling the glove off his hand.

Haurchefant felt himself sink into quiet bliss as Moro'a took hold of his hand more fully, gently rubbing heat back into the flesh. His other hand joined in as he sought to cover the entirety of Haurchefant’s much larger one, but it soon became clear how much of a challenge this was proving to be. Moro'a’s hands were so very small…! The thought filled Haurchefant with mirth, and he couldn’t help but stifle a snort, which prompted the same sound from Moro'a.

“I’m trying!” he insisted, indignation mellowed out by levity. 

“I know, heart,” Haurchefant chuckled. Giving in to the moment, he lowered his lips towards their joined hands and lightly kissed the back of Moro'a’s hand, lingering there. “I think you’re doing a rather marvelous job,” he added, looking up into the miqo’te’s clear blue eyes.

Moro'a’s palms shifted as he turned slightly away. There was a bashful look in his eyes that drew Haurchefant in, irresistibly. "You're…doing quite the fine job yourself,” Moro’a confessed quietly; his cheeks had turned a shade of soft rose.

Haurchefant could hold back no longer. With his free hand he reached for Moro'a, guiding the man towards him. Moro'a folded himself into the knight’s arms, and Haurchefant sank into the chair he had been studying in moments ago with him, his lover sinking into his lap as they leaned in for a long kiss. Many more followed, and the historical records were all but forgotten.