New spoiler warnings will be given at the start of each chapter. For the start, this should only be... up through the end of 2.0 (the basic 1-50 quests, without the patched in stuff pre-Heavensward).
The Warrior of Light is a little hopeless, should you ask the opinion of the Scions' recently acquired receptionist.
Whatever her official capacity, F'lhaminn's most important job in this role, she thinks, is to notice things. First among these things, of late, have been the numerous and rather obvious organizational shortcomings in a certain young miqo'te. These include a distinct lack of concern over feeding herself often or well, no compulsion to sleep in an actual bed, a strange aversion to keeping her armor and clothing in a state above 'rags', and an abject inability to remember to organize or empty her satchels so that she is not perpetually bursting at the seams.
To name just a few.
This is not an assault upon the character or responsibility of the girl: merely a set of observations. Considering all that the quiet little thing is doing for the world, it is difficult to fault her these—relatively speaking—small details. And considering that no one else seems to notice, F'lhaminn thinks that the girl could use some help. Or, as F'lhaminn is often too busy to help outright and as she will not prioritize any one Scion to the detriment of others, she could, at least, make an effort to exhibit some small shows of extra kindness.
The next time the girl—the so-called Warrior of Light, which she feels is excessive at best—falls asleep at the counter after dinner, F'lhaminn lets her rest a while instead of waking her to vacate the seat. When the moment seems right, some twenty minutes later, F'lhaminn finally rouses her with a light brush of the hair from her face. The hero of more and more Eorzea by the day blinks her eyes open in gentle confusion—not the sudden burst of fear that F'lhaminn sometimes thinks she has seen her hastily smother upon being awoken too suddenly or too roughly.
"I wouldn't care to know what my neck would feel like after too long spent sleeping at a barstool. I wouldn't care to know what your neck might feel like either. Mayhap the walk to your bed might be braved for the promise of a more pleasant morning?"
The Warrior of Light smiles, and gives an appreciative nod, but both those actions suffer from a slight delay. In that gap, F'lhaminn sees a simpler, maybe untapped gratitude. Thank you. For being gentle. Perhaps…? Or more likely is the fact that F'lhaminn indulges far too much in her unbecoming habit of reading so deep into things as to risk entering the realm of fiction.
But even after the girl has meandered off to a proper night's rest, F'lhaminn is peppered with lingering thoughts of her. It only takes her a few minutes to realize the likely cause: that their brief exchange just then was the first private moment of interaction that the two of them have shared, barring F'lhaminn's recruitment, at least. That is at once a warming thought, but a disappointing one. She has been here some months already, and yet she really does hardly know the so-hailed savior of Eorzea. As she cleans off a final few plates before turning in herself, F'lhaminn resolves to remedy this.
The next few days pass quickly, as most days are wont to do lately. Warriors set out bright and bold, and other warriors return dim and drawn. The exhaustion of the latter always fades soon, quick to be expunged by good company, good food, and a good bed. In particular, however, the Warrior of Light seems entirely absent. F'lhaminn finds that it matches with her life's experience: the way in which the object of her resolution has proceeded to disappear for four days in a row starting at the precise moment F'lhaminn thought to get to know her a little better.
But, though it is a curious little detail—curiouser, even, that F'lhaminn has picked up on it—she is reasonably certain that the Warrior of Light is never absent from the Rising Stones for more than four days at a time. Try as she might, she cannot remember a longer disappearance than this. As it is now the evening of the fourth day in this present absence, she decides to wait. When all have retired from the main hall, F'lhaminn remains, maybe only to test her observations, to see if she is drawing meaningless patterns in the sand, or if the girl will really—
The doors crack open as quietly as the steps that follow, which is to say, very quietly indeed. But F'lhaminn knows that sound startlingly well—well enough to hear it every time, even over the roar of a score of hungry Scions bickering and laughing and regaling one another. How loud those doors reverberate to her now, in this moment of stillness within the Rising Stones.
"Welcome home."
The girl comes to a halt, her body paused in surprise for all of an instant before it relaxes into a relief that spreads swiftly through her exhausted form. Shoulders drop and posture wobbles, hands unclench and lips twitch. F'lhaminn takes pride in the sense of coziness and comfort that she helps craft for these returning champions, but even so she is taken briefly aback by the radiating warmth in the expression of her lone guest, upon seeing the counter staffed and the lights dim but still lit. A spring enters her steps, and she bounds to the counter to take her favorite—her only—seat.
F'lhaminn is no giddy child awaiting a crush after school, but she is quite smug and even a bit delighted that her prediction was correct, and that her efforts to stay up and greet this particular individual have paid off. To think, she's already managed to see such a lovely smile—why, her efforts feel satisfactorily rewarded already. Anything more is mere icing on the cake, or, as Tataru might put it, gil in the pocket.
"Pray tell, what slice of Ul'dahn cuisine strikes your beleaguered fancy on this eve?"
Miqo'te eyes similar to her own fix upon her, disappearing only between quick blinks, and the head bearing those eyes only tilts slightly. F'lhaminn knows by now how to interpret this answer, for it is the only one that is ever given. Chef's choice, please. Cute of her to always leave the choice to F'lhaminn, but a little unusual, as F'lhaminn knows that in other environments the Warrior of Light seems quite fond of choosing her dishes with deliberate care.
"Sit tight, then."
As she begins to cook, F'lhaminn starts to prod—very gently—with words, with questions, and with attentiveness. This quiet miqo'te seems to resemble a closed flower, F'lhaminn thinks. Prying at her petals might cause them to close tighter. If you leave her in the right environment, occasionally she can be seen to open briefly on her own. But if one is very patient and very gentle, maybe she can be coaxed. Sure enough, after a few careful minutes, F'lhaminn's efforts are met with a small success: the eliciting of a short and rather cute story about an interaction between the warrior and her chocobo. A bit more, and she hears an anecdote about a strange gentleman detective mistaken for an undead—whether this is an occurrence from reality or a recently read work of fiction, F'lhaminn neither knows nor cares. These stories are amusing, and it is the storyteller that makes them so. By now, F'lhaminn's continuing efforts are unnecessary. Suddenly sharing more words in one sitting than F'lhaminn has heard cumulatively spoken from the Warrior of Light over their entire acquaintance, a host of tales flow forth, describing the toxic wonders of the Aurum Vale, the ghostly inhabitants of Haukke Manor, dragons and fish lords and arrogant voidsent and onward…
Her voice is quiet but firm, and F'lhaminn has no difficulty hearing every word over the sounds of her own cutting and sautéing. The stories wind in such a way as to draw F'lhaminn in without her realizing how immersed she is until the climax approaches and her hands have all but halted in their meal-making.
This girl, taciturn though she may be, is clearly a lover of words. F'lhaminn feels a distinct sense of loss that it has taken her until now to hear this side of the Warrior of Light. When the meal is finished being prepared, F'lhaminn feels herself the receiver rather than the giver of time and energy for the evening.
"Here you are: a meal fit for wanderer, warrior, and master storyteller."
She receives, as she expects, just an honest smile as her reply. But it is not that the girl has closed back up—rather, F'lhaminn rejects her previous analogy altogether. The wildflower that is this young warrior is open now, and always: constantly exposed to soak up all the light in the world, and to shine back in return with the vibrant colors that she possesses.
A flower that brightens an entire room, and yet it is all too easy to pay her a mere second's heed and move on. A shame, that it has taken F'lhaminn until now to realize this. She intends to take advantage of any such future situations to further remedy this oversight.