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To be made little more than an errand-boy by respected scholars and researchers was one thing, but to be ordered about by some childish voice was another. It has Aine huffing as he makes his way through the Ixali encampment to reach the clearing by the creek. The task had been quick work—and no doubt would’ve been quicker had he not been forced to participate in this silly game.
Upon reaching the clearing, he scans the treeline once more. Nothing, yet. He turns his focus to the field. Sat by the log is a small burlap sack, similar to the one he retrieved from the Goldsmith’s guild. A quick glance inside proves the contents are much the same.
“Not what you were expecting?” The voice’s reappearance has Aine’s head snapping up to the elevated foliage. “I’ve taken it upon myself to refine the ore from Urth’s Gift. A paltry prize for your spectacular performance, I admit.”
Aine quickly spots a red tail flicking about, just barely peeking from behind one of the long oak trees. He does his best to disguise his gaze before offering one solitary comment. “Spectacular performance?”
The tail flares up, and soon the whole of a redheaded Miqo’te flashes into his vision through the holes in the leaves. His anonymous benefactor is beaming, and the adoration that next pours out of his voice threatens to make Aine sick.
“You move with the intensity of twelve men! Such a display removed all thoughts of keeping my hard-won prize to myself, and as such I decided to generously offer it up,” the Miqo’te’s face is far more animated than Aine could have expected; he seemed more boy than gamemaster. “I do hope this small gift can inspire you to perform to that same extent well into the future—I should love to read tales of your adventures.”
Gods, the thought of that. It’s enough to make him turn sharply from the trees, stuff the aethersand into his pack, and set about leaving. The sound of a bright laugh follows him through the clearing.
“We shall meet again, adventurer—and sooner than you may imagine!”
The voice rings about like a threat more than anything else. For all that is good, Aine hopes that adoring tone does not grace his ears again for moons.
—
Of course, fate has never been so kind as to listen to him even once. The second russet ears peek from over the balustrade, the shade matching perfectly with the tail he spotted in the woods, he knows he’s in for yet more pretentious prattling coupled with words inflated enough to explode his ego.
What he doesn’t expect is the flip. The Miqo’te—G’raha Tia—effortlessly twists himself through the air into a perfect (if not intense) landing before their small gathering. What an odd man, Aine can’t help but think, quirking his eyebrows slightly.
Curiosity pokes at his chest. Considering the man’s earlier words, had he done that because of his ‘spectacular performance’? Did watching Aine jump and dive from enemy to enemy inspire him to do something so ridiculously flamboyant as backflip into an introduction? A weariness overtakes him. He is all-too thankful when Cid announces it’s time to move forward, and takes great care to flank the opposite side of the group that G’raha Tia walks.
—
His chest burns, there’s a dampness that may very well be blood at the back of his head, and most annoyingly, he is being subjected to G’raha’s rambling.
“What manner of beasts were captured within?” the Archon asks for the nth time. “And these burn marks on your forearm, what caused them? Allagan powering mechanisms often didn’t just rely on magic—they used balloons such as we. Were they the culprit?”
Aine swats at the air in G’raha’s general direction, too bone-weary to move for a more effortful shoo-ing. It does nothing to deter the other man, to Aine’s dismay.
“You mentioned a tall being who controlled an incredible fire mage to Cid. Was he tattooed? Such a profile could only be Phlegethon, though it makes no sense for him to be in the Tower.” A brief pause as the Miqo’te presumably considers the implications. “Ah! Might they have kept him prisoner, doomed to forever guard that which he sought to end? What a cruel fate indeed…”
There is no end to his chattering, but there is an end to Aine’s capacity to listen. Soon it becomes nothing more than a steady flow of sound. He focuses instead on releasing the locks on his pauldrons so that he may snap off his cuirass. Once finally down to his undershirt, he carefully reaches behind to his neck, where a cursory touch reveals that the dampness he felt was indeed blood.
The presence of another’s touch at the wound startles him, and he snaps back into awareness of his company. Yanking himself away, he curls his lips in a way that slightly bares his teeth. “Do not touch me.”
Shock colors G’raha’s face as he quickly backs away from Aine. A bashful look soon overtakes his surprise, and he brings the offending hand to the back of his own neck in a sheepish gesture before offering an apology.
“I am told I have a tendency to instinctively act, for which I must apologize. I simply wanted to be of assistance,” his voice quiets with the sincerity of his words. “I feel the need to be of service, truly, as this feat was nothing short of amazing. To defeat Phlegethon , Allag’s greatest champion! Oh, Aine, should you need anything, please do not hesitate to ask—to assist one such as you would be a great honor.”
A headache begins to throb at the back of Aine’s skull. What G’raha was neglecting to mention was the fact that Aine had entered with a whole host of other adventurers, who were all equally—if not more—responsible for their triumph over the Labyrinth. What set him apart? Was it truly him, or was it his prior deeds that his hand had been forced to undertake?
Familiar sickness springs up to clench at his throat as Aine follows these thoughts down their twisted path. He will fail these people eventually. One day he will be too late, or too weak, as he once was. And they think him infallible.
He shakes as he continues removing his soiled armor, hoping to find security in the reliable motions. G’raha is speaking, again, though he can’t register anything the man is saying. They’ve not known each other any great length of time yet adoration drips off the man’s words like honey with his eyes holding twice the sap.
His throat feels tight as he wishes desperately to push this loathing onto G’raha, to blame him for this wretched sick feeling, but he can only find himself and the memory of flames.
G’raha’s touch grounds him once more. Before he can truly process what he’s doing, he’s pushing the man away with such force that G’raha lands on the dirt below them, hurt flaring in his eyes as he looks up at Aine with mouth agape.
Nothing is said as G’raha rights himself. There’s a hardness in his eyes that Aine hasn’t seen before.
“Right.” His voice is terse and cold, and Aine feels something wither further within him. “I’ll be taking my leave, then.”
Aine does not watch him walk away.
—
The bitter chill of the Mor Dhonan air only worsens as Aine ascends to the unfinished bridge that overhangs the entrance to the market. Nips of windburn at his fingertips is a small price to pay for the solitude this hidden spot brings—a worthy trade off, he thinks as he unseals the steaming bowl of stew.
He manages to get halfway through his bowl before his ears twitch with recognition of someone scaling the ladder.
Red hair is the first thing he sees as his anonymous caller pulls themselves up and onto the bridge. Aine stills. It has been quite some time since their last encounter. Beyond cursory reports and G’raha’s occasional attempt at small talk, the two have not interacted. He cannot find a reason why G’raha would pursue him here, unless…
A sigh forces its way through his lips as he moves to stand, preparing himself for whatever untold horror has torn its way through camp. As he does so, G’raha quickly motions for him to sit back down, careful not to touch.
“I would not be so untoward as to interrupt a man’s meal,” the man adds, and Aine finds great irony in the statement. “I simply came to offer my company. You have not looked so well these past few days.”
The reply leaves Aine blank-faced. A dangerous thought crosses his mind—had G’raha been keeping an eye on him? He clears his throat as he reminds himself that there were ample reasons to keep stock of one’s prized fighter. Regardless, he sits, and does not snarl when G’raha sits perhaps a little too close beside him.
They eat in silence. It isn’t comfortable by any means, and Aine is all-too aware of G’raha’s gaze on him as he finishes the last of his stew, but for all his various reasons to abscond the situation, he can’t bring himself to do so.
“I’m quite fond of heights,” G’raha breaks the silence quietly, as if fearful he would scare Aine off. “I would imagine you are as well?”
The look Aine fixes him with must be answer enough, because G’raha develops a bashful smile as he fiddles with his spoon. “Right, I suppose I don’t know why I asked.”
A few more quiet minutes pass.
“I was wondering,” G’raha starts, and Aine prepares himself for another onslaught of questions about some gods-forsaken primal or his voyage into the Tower. “Where are you from? And what brings you here?”
It catches Aine utterly off guard. How long has it been since someone has asked him such inane questions? Perhaps one of the Scions, upon first meeting.
“Surely for all your smarts you know where the Viera homeland is.”
G’raha snorts in response. “Surely I do. How could I know, though, that your homeland would be the same?”
“It is,” Aine lets a small smile play at his words. “And you?”
“Corvos. Though much of my life has been spent in Sharlayan. Would you tell me about the jungle?”
Talking about his home no longer comes naturally, but he regales G’raha with stories of it all the same. He tells of being young in the village and being doted upon by family and neighbors alike. He pointedly skips over the trials he faced during his training; instead he opts to remember each member of his community with the respect their memoriam deserves. Of course, to G’raha, they could be well enough alive.
Aine finds himself laughing by the end of his revisit into his past. It feels as if visiting those memories had imparted some mirth of childhood unto him once more.
When he sobers, he meets G’raha’s gaze and realizes several things at once. One: this is the most personable conversation he’s had in a forsaken amount of time. Two: G’raha had simply been watching him this whole time. Three: for all his bite, the scholar still took great interest in him. He knew not what to think of it all.
A shiver runs down his back. He looks away to the skyline and straightens himself out, if only to escape the other’s intense gaze.
“Shall we head back to camp?” G’raha’s voice is small, taking on a soothing lilt that barely breaks the peace.
In a way that Aine can’t quite pin, the offer feels as though it extends beyond one simple trip. Perhaps it’s the softness that lies within G’raha’s voice, or the heat of his thigh next to Aine’s, or him being present at all.
Wordlessly Aine rises, pulling G’raha up with him. The shorter man startles before relaxing into Aine’s sure grip, and hovers even after the contact is ended. They travel back to camp in peaceful silence, and each think of the way the other strides beside them.
—
Aine watches as G’raha combs through his tail for the tenth time. The fur has been brushed so fair that it threatens to break yet the motions don’t stop—in fact, they intensify as frustration distorts the scholar’s face.
He shuffles in his place across the cot. Lately G’raha seems to slip away more often, usually clutching his red eye and freezing for a few moments, as Aine often did when consumed by the echo. Each time Aine finds himself unable to assist in any meaningful way.
“G’raha?” he tries. The comb grinds to a halt as mismatched eyes find him.
A somber smile pulls at the redhead’s face, only serving to emphasize the weariness that stretches across his features. G’raha gently places the comb into its case before sliding down from the cot to sit knee-to-knee with Aine.
“Could I trouble you?” G’raha breathes, a simple ask accompanied by the heaviest of sighs.
Aine nods. It wasn’t often that the two had confessional conversations—if counting the one at the bridge, the number was a lowly twice out of their now months of companionship. To make matters worse, G’raha already looks doubly vulnerable; not only is his exhaustion visible, but his hair is down in a rare showing of its full length.
“I think,” the Miqo’te draws out. “I think that I am somehow remembering the storied past. There is a great deal of information that I’m drawing out that I am certain I have never studied.
“My knowledge of the Allagan resistance recently is one such example. Tomes upon tomes have I read on the subject, yet none have ever connected the resistance to the end of the empire. The two coincided, yes, but the resistance was thought to be too weak, you see. Ah, but I digress,” he takes a second to clear his throat. “My head will pulse as if someone is gripping it. And then—then I’ll just know such information as if I always had. Worse yet, there is a constant feeling of more on the horizon. As if someone is reaching out to me with a most ardent request. I cannot fathom what this feeling is.”
Silence stretches between them as Aine tries to process what’s been said. On some level he could understand, through his experiences with Hydaelyn and her whispery yet firm dictations. Yet this feels another matter entirely.
Before he gets a chance to respond, G’raha stretches and taps Aine’s knee with his tail. “I know it makes no sense—don’t worry. ‘Tis probably sleep deprivation.”
“Perhaps,” Aine starts slowly. “Or your intuition is right. Have you brought it up with Unei and Doga?”
G’raha’s expression turns sour. “No.”
Silence overtakes them once more. Every possible comment Aine could offer seems as if it would further upset his friend, and so he doesn’t take the chance. He simply watches as G’raha’s expression cycles through a new emotion every minute.
“Aine,” G’raha whispers after a moment. “Could I trouble you a bit further?”
“Of course,” Aine offers, just as quietly.
“Would you sleep here tonight? I do not wish to be alone with these thoughts any longer. There is ample space, I promise.”
Aine hopes his eyes don’t widen as much as he thinks they do. Through his surprise he manages to nod, and the smile that graces G’raha’s face is worth any embarrassment he may feel.
—
Weary as he is from their time in the Void, Aine can barely lift a finger as he lounges by the lakefront. G’raha is out in the distance, somewhere. Lazy eyes scan for him but quickly give up when the search threatens to make him move his head.
What surely must be hours pass as he waits for G’raha to exit the water. When he finally turns up, he laughs upon seeing Aine’s motionless form.
Bending down to kneel beside him, he shakes his hair out so water flicks over the dragoon, a mischievous smile on his face. It gets Aine to move in annoyance; he grumpily sits up and fixes G’raha with a glare so heavy it makes the other laugh once more.
“Aine,” G’raha’s face softens. The sight of two red eyes feels foreign yet fitting. Aine tilts his head in silent question. “I will miss this.”
“What?” His voice comes out rough from disuse.
Regret flashes across G’raha’s face though he quickly smooths his expression out. “The expedition is nearly over. I will miss this when I go back to Sharlayan.”
Aine hadn’t even considered that. His stomach turns as an unidentifiable pain flares at the idea of them going separate ways. Months of reprieve, of learning to enjoy someone’s company again—it all would go down the drain. His throat feels unimaginably dry.
G’raha shifts so that they’re sitting side by side, facing the murky water below. Over the past few months Aine has gotten better at navigating the weighty silence that often befell their time together, but that skill seems to have slipped out of his grasp as he begins to mourn something he has not yet lost.
He’s brought to reality by a soft hum. Glancing at his companion—who now has his eyes closed with his head tilted back as he hums—he feels a soft spark. He shifts just slightly closer, mumbling an unconvincing comment about the cold.
Soon G’raha is fully singing, words flowing easily off his tongue. His voice is beautiful and even with a pleasantly deep timbre. The words of the song itself elude Aine. The sight and sound of G’raha demands his full faculties, ears angling to better face him as he gazes intently at the performance. It’s a short song, all things considered, and ere long the two are simply looking at one another.
A hesitant hand reaches toward him, just shy of cupping his face. He leans into the touch. His heart has begun to race in his chest under the weight of G’raha’s gaze and the pressure of his hand.
He expects the embrace by the time it happens, but the actual feeling is something he could never have been prepared for. Another hand rests at his hip as their lips meet in a slow kiss, and the sensation of it all is near overwhelming. So much so that he doesn’t move even an ilm.
G’raha pulls away but doesn’t move his hands, instead using them to pull until Aine is positioned in a way that G’raha can fit himself between his legs, face to face.
“You mean so much to me,” G’raha whispers almost reverently. “I would give the whole of myself for you—heart, body, soul.”
What does one say to that? The answer doesn’t come clear to Aine. Instead he clumsily lurches forward to capture G’raha in another kiss, wrapping his arms around the length of his back.
The other man laughs against his lips, and soon they part with the both of them consumed with infectious laughter. Aine doesn’t stop laughing until he can feel his lungs burning with need for air, tears gathering at the corner of his eyes.
“You know I’m not good with words,” Aine stutters through the last of his fitful laughter.
“I know.” G’raha smiles.
He tugs Aine down until they’re both laying on their backs and staring at the night sky, hands entwined. G’raha’s tail lays over Aine’s lap, tapping every so often again his hip. The stillness of the water coupled with the natural ambience does much to soothe the both of them, and it dawns on Aine that the serenity which this situation affords is something he only feels with G’raha.
Aine focuses on the pitch black between the distant light of the stars above, willing any words to come forth and failing. Every sentence he scrapes together seems too trite for a moment such as this, yet he cannot come up with anything better than ‘please keep holding my hand’ .
As usual, G’raha is the one to offer up more words. “You should visit Sharlayan.”
“To see you?”
“No,” the rawness in the scholar’s voice startles him; when he looks to G’raha, he sees a stray tear rolling down his face. “It is such a beautiful place with much and more to offer. You may not like it at first, but I think given time, you will come to love it as I do.”
He carefully rolls so that he doesn’t break contact with G’raha’s hand, clutching it tight as he takes in the teary eyes and ruddy cheeks that have formed without his knowing. With his free hand, he gently wipes the underside of one eye clean, lingering perhaps a moment longer than necessary.
“G’raha…” He trails off, unsure where to go from here.
The ache in his own chest catches him by the lungs and a hitched breath is wrung from them—he’d forgotten how that ache felt, too busy being angry at anything and everything for where he ended up, but its grip is unavoidable as he watches his friend (lover?) be racked with the familiar force.
In lieu of words, Aine gathers G’raha in his arms, pulling him close until his sobs shake the both of them. Moments pass as the bitterness of the night air brushes against them, freezing G’raha’s wet hair into red icicles. They should head back, soon.
He presses a kiss to the top of G’raha’s head before pulling away and reaching for the other’s hands. The tears have mostly stopped, now, but that broken look on the scholar’s face still persists.
“I’ll stay tonight.” Aine says with finality. He is not of the mind to let G’raha be alone with his thoughts, not when his presence even now is not enough to stave them away.
Met with no complaint, he pulls G’raha to his feet, adamant that their hands stay linked. They head back that way, hand in hand, and Aine cannot imagine continuing in the lonely way he was before.
He wakes the next morning to an empty cot, a note, and panicked voices from outside the tent, and instantly he knows he was a fool for wanting.