Chapter Text
The Warrior of Light had always found her title gaudy. At first, she had recoiled from it, asking people to call her by her name, call her “adventurer,” “mercenary,” anything but that all-too-reverent expression of hero-worship and admiration she did not feel she deserved. Over time, she had come to accept it, or at least tolerate it.
Now, beneath newly darkened skies in a world not her own, she felt she finally understood what the title implied she could be. A thrum of warm white aether swirled within her, mixed with adrenaline from the hard-won fight with the Lightwarden at Holminster Switch, and the image etched into her memory of rending the sky in two with nothing but her own hands. She had wielded the light like a towering blade, slicing through the burning canopy, the power coursing through her terrifying and intoxicating in equal measure.
She had agreed easily to the Crystal Exarch’s request of keeping her anonymity. A crowd gathered upon their return to the Crystarium, and she listened as he spun a fantastical tale of a mysterious figure who swooped in to deal a heroic killing blow to the Lightwarden, somehow contained its aether, then disappeared without so much as a word.
The Warrior could not help but notice how effortlessly he had lied. It did not sound rehearsed, and he answered questions about this anonymous hero with consistency and confidence until the crowd’s curiosity was satisfied and most of them had dispersed. To have hidden his identity from his people for so long, yet still keep their trust so they believed every word he said… He must be an accomplished liar indeed.
The Exarch bid her rest and retreated to the solitude of the Crystal Tower. She watched him disappear behind the Dossal Gate, feeling listless, not sure she’d ever become used to seeing those massive golden doors swing open so easily at his command. Not when they had stubbornly resisted her every magical and physical attempt to pry them open for years in the Source.
Had she been home, she knew what would come next. She would be dragged to the forefront of the celebration, all eyes on her. Paperwork would be drafted to have her visit this city or that, address some government body or adoring crowd, meet privately with world leaders. Strangers would vie for her attention for days to come, seeking comfort and inspiration and showering her with reverence, and she would receive no respite until the next threat inevitably rose from the ashes and she would be thrust into her next mission without a passing thought.
But this time, she faded into the crowd instead. Few people even paid her a second look, save those she had come to know during her short stay in the Crystarium so far, and even from them she received only a nod of the head in greeting, or a passing invitation to join the revelry. She heard the whispers on everyone’s lips of the Exarch’s mysterious hero, this “Warrior of Darkness”—she cringed at that, but couldn’t help but be somewhat amused that she might be adopting a title once used by long-dead enemies.
Emotions fought one another for a place at the forefront of her mind as exhaustion began to grip her body. A swell of pride was among them, for accomplishing what had just days ago seemed hopeless and impossible. But it was overshadowed by a creeping despair in knowing that the weight of returning this world to the barest sense of normal would undoubtedly feel like this a hundredfold, and it threatened to crush her. Beneath it all was also the quiet heart-clench of loneliness at the resounding quiet in her immediate space as the world moved forward around her.
It had only been a matter of days since she had last seen the night sky, not generations like it had for these people. And yet, that meant she was not accustomed to being able to sleep in that endless, infernal day, and a bone-deep weariness from lack of sleep and the physical exertion of battle was setting in.
She gathered the twins and together they returned to the Pendants, passing by the Wandering Stairs on the way. It was packed full, patrons spilling onto the market floor of the Musica Universalis, drinks in hand, singing and reveling in the newfound darkness outside. She bid the twins goodnight at their ground-floor room near the housing block’s entrance—she could not help but notice that despite it having two beds, it was smaller than hers by a large margin—and set out to climb the stairs to her own suite.
Upon her arrival, the Exarch had told her an apartment had recently come available in the building, but it had seemed suspiciously well-prepared for her, clean and spacious with a pantry stocked with all manner of luxurious wines and spirits and heaps of vegetables she was told were grown right here in the Crystarium.
It was a corner suite on the top floor of the building, somewhat secluded from the rows of other rooms that lined the walkways, with vaulted ceilings and imposing brick columns that framed a set of double doors to a balcony overlooking the mountains and sea west of Lakeland. A pair of thick, heavy curtains hung ready to obscure the windowed alcove from the harsh light that poured in at all hours. They had certainly been better than nothing, though they were far from perfectly effective at providing darkness. It seemed tonight, blissfully, they would not be needed at all.
She stripped down from her armor, wiped sweat from the crevices of her body, slipped into light sleeping clothes, and settled into the pile of blankets on the lush feather bed for what she hoped would be a well-deserved and rewarding rest.
But sleep did not come so easily, and soon after she lay down and closed her eyes, the Warrior found herself tossing despite the dark. Resigned to at least a bit more time awake, she roused herself and thumbed through the pantry until she found a box of assorted teas, handpicked, it seemed, to aid with relaxation and sleep.
She brewed herself a cup of chamomile and, mug in hand, shoved open the double doors and took a deep breath of the night air. It was already crisp and cool, finally absent of the sour, metallic taste of singed aether that had permeated the air at all hours of the unending day. As she stepped out onto the balcony, she could hear shouting and chatter from Crystarium residents who had taken to the grounds to continue their celebration.
The Warrior smiled softly, wondering what it would be like to be one of them. To welcome the first nightfall in a century without care for the war that raged in her future. Without the slowly descending weight over her heart that whispered, This is only the beginning. This is not victory.
For a moment, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine it—sharing ale around a bonfire with her companions. Perhaps they would be friends made through shared interests instead of shared responsibility, eyes fresh and full of stars. But the what-if was replaced by a memory swirling in the haze within her mind. Lying on her back near a campfire, an excitable young Miqo’te beside her, pointing up at the sky as he taught her the names of the constellations and rambled about the astronomical studies of ancient Allag.
She craved it. The sense of newness, the implicit hope that drove her those years ago.
The First was, after all, a new world to her. Perhaps she could reach out and grasp that newness here.
In the Source, she was the Warrior of Light, a hero renowned above nearly all others, and that came with a host of expectations. She had always thought herself ill-suited to diplomacy, and while it usually did serve her well to kill first and ask questions later, those expectations did, on more than a rare occasion, dictate her behavior.
More than that, they dictated how she was allowed to feel.
A hero must comport herself with dignity and grace in public, and ferocity in the face of her enemies. A hero must hide her fear for the sake of those she protects, to quell the people’s panic and soothe the terror of the masses. A hero must be humble, but not so humble that she cannot inspire crowds by telling tales of her own deeds.
Above all, a hero must never give in to despair. But loneliness always pulled at the corners of her soul, a dull but ever-present reminder of her position high atop Eorzea’s pedestal.
At home, she felt, more often than not, like a statue that passersby would admire for a time, make passing remarks, then take their leave again. Even the Scions, whom she loved dearly and who loved her in return, sometimes felt to her as though they were her sculptors, molding her into a shape palatable to the public and displaying her as art.
It was a strange sort of isolation borne from the weight of loss, of knowing that she must be the one to weather any storm, to survive no matter who it meant leaving behind.
Now, in the First, she was no one. She was not a hero, just a quiet newcomer with strange customs and a lack of local knowledge. Let them whisper about the Warrior of Darkness. She would never claim that title in their eyes.
But standing in this grand apartment, given to her by a powerful stranger, where there was simply too much empty space, she was beginning to feel the loneliness closing in anyway.
On an ordinary night in her quarters at the Rising Stones, she would drown it out by studying or visiting one of the other Scions for a midnight snack and conversation, though she would direct the topic of such conversation away from her and her own emotions. She considered returning to the twins’ room, to offer Alisaie a quiet shoulder, or an ear if she was ready to talk about Tesleen; to ask Alphinaud for tales of his time in the First and the myriad friends he seemed to be able to make wherever he went. But they needed rest even if she could not get her own, and it would be selfish to take that from them.
On worse nights, when the isolation tore at the edges of her psyche, threatened to rip her soul from her body if she did not silence it, and quickly , she would exit into the Seventh Heaven and have a strong drink or three. It was a favorite haunt of the Scions and their allies, simply given its location as the entrance to their headquarters, but it drew no small number of adventurers, merchants, and other such travelers passing through Mor Dhona. It was never difficult to find some hapless man or woman at the bar and spirit them quietly into her chambers for a night of purposeful forgetting.
With her newfound anonymity, she would not even have to sneak with anyone she brought back with her. She suspected no one in the Crystarium would pay a second thought to what she did or with whom—with the exception of perhaps the Crystal Exarch, who might disapprove of reckless behavior from his new friends.
To hells with what the Exarch thought of her. She would be far from the only one celebrating the night in such a manner.
And so she downed the last dregs of her chamomile, dressed in a casual tank top and leggings, and exited her rooms to join the crowd.
Even without well-known tales of heroic deeds bolstering her reputation, it did not take long to capture the attention of an attractive stranger at the Wandering Stairs. The tables were all predictably packed, and after a lengthy adventure in getting one of the jubilant but overworked barkeeps to notice her, the Warrior sat on the wide steps leading up toward the Pendants, sipping at a strong, dark ale and chatting with a lovely young Roegadyn woman who introduced herself as Sanya.
Naturally, the conversation was on one topic only.
“To think we should live to see it!” Sanya sighed for what the Warrior could swear was the fifth time in as many minutes. “The night is beautiful, just, so beautiful. Not unlike you.” The excitement radiated from her, enveloping the Warrior as she scooted closer and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She looked up and met the woman’s eyes. Sanya’s expression was tender, joyful, and pure.
The Warrior took a long drink of ale, savoring its bitterness, and leaned into Sanya. She was soft and warm, and it was easy to find a comfortable spot on Sanya’s broad shoulder for her head. She leaned in carefully so as not to gouge the woman with her horn, and shut her eyes, intending to picture how she would hope to be held in her bed in the Pendants shortly.
But instead the image that flashed in the dark behind her eyelids was an unbidden one: the Crystal Exarch, kneeling on the ground before her, regaling her with praise and gratitude and awe over just how long he had waited for her, for someone to save his world.
She had assumed, in the moment, that the rush of adrenaline had been the cause of the fire that lit up in her bones as she looked at him under the stars at Holminster Switch. But now, picturing him before her, she felt a similar tingle in her limbs, and this time it had nothing to do with the sky, the Lightwarden, or the surge of aether that had since dissipated. It was, instead, undoubtedly the image of him, a mysterious stranger with the power to tear open the rift between worlds, command the magicks of an entire civilization at his fingertips, kneeling to her . He intrigued and terrified her in equal measure, and that, she found deeply arousing.
She shivered, but not from the nighttime chill in the air. Sanya drew her closer.
“Is something the matter?” she asked.
“The ale may be a bit stronger than I was expecting, but I think I am alright,” the Warrior lied. “We’ve nothing quite like it back home.” She knew if she were to return to her chambers with Sanya now, she would have to contend with this image of the Exarch settled firmly between her and her desires. Was he blocking them, or driving them?
She was already adept at imagining the person in her bed was someone else. But that someone was usually far beyond her grasp, a safe fantasy that no one, let alone she, would ever have to confront. The Exarch was here . He was close. And it felt wrong .
“You’re new to the Crystarium, aren’t you?” Sanya asked her, a light caress skirting the bare skin along the edge of the scales wrapped around her upper arm. It raised goosebumps along her skin, and she found herself wondering, to her great shame, what the same touch would feel like in crystal. “You picked quite a momentous time to arrive. Would you tell me of your home?”
“I, uh,” the Warrior began. “I share a homeland with…” Him. “With the Exarch.”
And by saying his title aloud, a door closed firmly in her mind, and she knew with certainty she would not be able to enjoy Sanya’s company tonight after all.
“Fascinating,” Sanya said. “I’ve always wondered—”
“I’m sorry,” the Warrior interrupted. “I actually am not feeling well after all. I think I may need to retire early."
She stood suddenly, feeling Sanya’s arm drop to her side, and placed the empty mug of ale on the step beside her.
“Oh,” Sanya answered, clearly disappointed. “Is there anything I can do? Brew you tea, help you sleep, maybe?”
“Ah, no,” the Warrior said, rubbing her arms. She should have worn something with sleeves. Between her nerves and the night, the chill was becoming grating. “I’m sorry, I genuinely am. You are lovely and you deserve good company tonight. It just… I can’t.”
Sanya smiled sadly and nodded. “You are good company, my friend, but I understand. Go, enjoy the darkness and rest! Perhaps I will see you again on a better night.”
“Perhaps so,” the Warrior said, and she turned and left, guilt welling in her chest. That look in Sanya’s eyes—it was too innocent. To use her for a night while thinking of another, then never speak to her again, would be unfair. To lean into her for comfort, only to leave so suddenly, had been cruel.
Perhaps it was wrong of her to seek relief from her own pain in another’s untainted joy.
She briefly entertained the thought of returning to her suite alone to wallow away the rest of this first fleeting night in the company of ale, wine, and the ghosts of old enemies and long-dead desires.
Despite her better judgment, or maybe because of the surprising strength of the unfamiliar ale, she did not ascend the steps into the Pendants. Rather, she found herself picking her way through the crowd toward the Exedra, which was also packed with a lively bunch of revelers.
Again she felt that ache to join them, memories of easier years threatening to overwhelm her with grief over the life she’d lost.
She should have been stronger than this. She had power enough to shield her allies in battle, shield her friends from pain, shield her admirers from truths best left untold. But building a barrier within her mind to shield herself from grief was the most taxing mission she’d ever set upon.
Standing in the Exedra, looking up at the Crystal Tower which bisected the dark like lightning given permanent form, she felt that her defense was beginning to crumble. Where was he? What happened to him that he would leave the tower in the hands of another? Or worse, unguarded and ready to be taken by the first stranger who came along with the power to do so?
The irony did not escape her that she sought a distraction from her agony within the tower that was, in many ways, the root of her grief entirely.
No one in the crowd paid her any mind as she climbed the tall staircase, too busy gazing at the heavens, pointing at stars, cheering their exaltation into the night. The guard let her in without question. It seemed the Exarch’s orders to allow her entry had been rather unconditional.
She wended her way through the corridors and up twisting crystal stairs before coming to the door of the Ocular. She knew there were several rooms branching off the grand circular space, and she hoped one of those would be his private chambers—and, of course, that he would be in them.
She took a deep breath. Was she really about to do this? Before she could allow herself to question it further, she knocked on the door.
“…Lyna?” she heard the Exarch’s voice echo from inside.
“No,” she called in return. “One Warrior of Darkness , at your service, my lord.” Saying the title, to him, felt like an inside joke between friends. Surprisingly, it warmed her through the chill of nerves.
A pause. “One moment, please.”
She stood outside silently and let her eyes wander, allowing herself yet another indulgence of memory. She remembered dashing up those same stairs, a cohort of adventurers at her heels, ready to face the heroes of ancient Allag, optimistic and excited with adrenaline fueling her every action.
It had only been a handful of years, but the energetic young woman she had been then had died a hundred thousand tiny deaths since, and that day in the Syrcus Tower had been the start of it all. What she was now was a shell of the girl who longed to explore that ancient tower, grasp at the vast knowledge held within, scavenge its secrets, and bring them all back to St. Coinach’s Find just for the joy of watching mismatched eyes light up.
But after the tower, she had lost him, and all her joy went with him. Then Moenbryda. Then her world splintered and the Scions were scattered to the edges of the world, and one by one, the list of losses grew longer. She had stopped counting, but she would never stop grieving.
“Enter,” the Exarch finally said, snapping her back to reality (as strange as that reality may have felt). She pushed open the door to the Ocular.
He stood in the center of the room, regal as a king in his Allagan finery, staff clutched in his crystal hand. His stance radiated so much confidence, the Warrior nearly felt she should bow or kneel before him. She was sure he would not let her.
She moved close to him—closer than she usually stood while in this room, receiving briefings on their progress, discussing plans with the twins. In fact, she realized this was the first moment she had been alone with him since the day she arrived in the First and was sent off to track down her friends. That day, she had been suspicious, furious, racked with grief and worry, and stunned into silence by the presence of the tower and this strange figure who seemed so trustworthy and genuine in needing her help, yet who had ripped apart the comfort of her homeworld slowly, agonizingly, one Scion at a time.
How her opinion of him had changed.
She was so close she could hear him breathing, see the faint trace of dryness and worried biting at the edges of his lips.
Where most would expect a renowned hero to be self-assured at all times, she was sure they would laugh to see her now, nervous and shaken and lost for words. She had decided firmly before even entering the tower that this was what she wanted, that he was the distraction she needed, and all she could do now was stare at his mouth and say nothing.
After a long moment, the Exarch broke the silence.
“Is aught amiss, Warrior?” he asked. She had expected she would be interrupting his sleep, but he did not seem tired or, really, any worse for wear at all, despite the decisive beating he had taken at the hands of the sin eaters, on top of his self-proclaimed old age.
“No,” she said, shaking herself out of the stupor. “Well, yes and no. Forgive me this intrusion, Exarch, and for what I am about to say.”
She reminded herself silently to breathe, clenched and unclenched her fists a few times, digging her nails into her palms. This was her moment to grasp the new beginning offered to her by the First—to see what she wanted, take it, and run. If ever there was a time to be reckless, it was now. Yes. Recklessness and brazen disregard for consequences, accompanied by the warmth of ale swirling in her veins. That would do. She grasped onto the feeling.
A small, expectant smile played at the Exarch’s lips. “There is nothing to forgive, my friend,” he said. “I am at your disposal. If you should need anything to make your stay here—and the immense responsibility you’ve taken on—a bit more comfortable, I will gladly see to it.”
He sounded so formal, so practiced. She sighed. Here goes nothing .
“I fear you may regret saying that,” she laughed, “because I’ve come to find myself rather… restless, tonight. It seems the dark did not help me to sleep after all, and I thought perhaps you might instead.”
“I may have some alchemical mixtures, tonics, that can help induce sleep if you’ve a mind to—”
"That isn’t what I’m saying,” she interrupted. "I’m saying that I find myself in need of a distraction, and that for some reason, Exarch, I find you inexplicably attractive.”
He stepped back and raised his hands as if she’d drawn her weapon.
“From what I have gathered, I dare say you may be the only one in this city who has been around long enough to miss the night, and not only hear stories of it. And I came here to ask you if you would like to spend this first night in a century with me.”