Summary: Making game of Godslaying has its disadvantages. Dissipated aether from the continually stronger resummoned Primals congregates too deeply within the Slayer of Gods, causing collapse from intense aether sickness.

Now the former-Warrior of Light must start anew, with friends who seek the Slayer of Gods and a lost adventurer just searching for themselves. Post-3.1, pre-3.2, Amnesiafic, pre-amnesia relationship.

Notes: I realized that, for all the tropes I have played with, I haven't done amnesia yet. Every one-shot collection needs amnesia! That, paired with totally-not-Elidibus-or-his-servant aiding us in our primal quests, I figured I'd do something a bit cute with he's-really-not-an-Ascian-we-swear before we get our next update.

Someday I'll start writing one-shots with plot again, but for Valentine's Day, have something sweet.

Beloved

Sounds.

Flashing lights, bright and colorless, dance behind closed eyelids before being consumed by a crimson abyss.

A single voice, speaking without words, a stable rock within a churning, chaotic sea. There is no meaning to its communication beyond expressing its presence, calm and numbing, as if absorbing tension and fear, dispelling the darkness.

A word. The only melody in a still mind, echoing like the water's drip on the surface of an endless pond.

You repeat it aloud, the most precious word.

"I am here." A voice without sound, far from a creation of your imagination.

You open your eyes sluggishly, heavy in their drowsiness. There are no more sounds, but the bright lights that make up the living quarters in the Rising Stones are enough to send sharp waves of dizziness through you.

You've gone and done it again, unable to leave well enough alone. Already is your mind ringing with lectures condemning unnecessary risks and not a single word has left the Scions' mouths.

Absorbed in self-pity, you do not notice him until he speaks your name, placid with more serenity than one of his appearance has any right to have. Even behind the mask, Unukalhai's gaze is unwavering and focused, eyes refusing to leave yours.

He must have saved you, returning you to the Stones after you inevitably fell to the powerful beasts surrounding Revenant's Toll. Time and time again you flounder, flopping about like a foolish fish that continually strands itself on land each time it is placed in the safety of the water.

He always saves you; you're told that he was even the one who returned you when –

You brush the thought aside. No matter how insistently Urianger urges caution around the strange boy, he is the one who is always by your side, setting you at ease, acting as a poultice when you are broken.

Unukalhai does not scold or tell you off, but he does not need to. His hidden stare tells you nothing that you do not tell yourself – you're a fool, challenging those creatures, and unprepared for their strength, no matter the fluidity of your movement or the flexibility in your muscles.

True as it may be, you refuse to lounge in this room, drowning in the waters of madness; you are not crippled or helpless, no matter what the others may believe. Anything is better than remaining passive and stationary in futile attempt at regaining what is lost.

"Good morning." The boy speaks, breaking you from your thoughts.

"I apologize for the trouble." The shame from your ineffectual battle burns deeply, emphasizing the pain from your wounds. Your breaths are pained and you feel as if you've torn half of the muscles in your body; a quick glance reveals the beginnings of heavy bruising over your chest, abdomen, thighs, and forearms.

"You've not troubled me, 'twas coincidence that I happened upon you when you fell." You smile secretly at his reassuring lie. "Your companions need not be alerted to something so mundane as a few bruises."

The boy's knowledge of what you wish to hear is almost unnatural. You are sick of pity; the Scions do it unintentionally, your well-being of genuine importance in their hearts, but they see you only as an empty shell, searching for the fragmented remains for someone who no longer exists. They know who you used to be, not who are; you barely know them at all.

Y'shtola is blind; from what you've been told, Thancred lacks aether sense – challenged as they are, they act as if you are in a worse state. Walking on glass when around you, attempting to organize the broken shards, the Scions speak of fond memories, claiming them better times. Krile has even used her strange skill – the Gift, Unukalhai calls it, when he teaches you – in attempt to dispel your amnesia, but your mind houses an impenetrable wall, the past sheared away as if it never existed.

It is blasphemous for the Scions to speak aloud, but the situation is intensely dissatisfying; they need their Warrior of Light, their Slayer of Gods, not a doll whose only skill with weaponry and aether remains in muscle memory. You know more of the Gift than you do of fighting Gods.

'Tis hard to lament losing something that you don't remember in the first place.

All you have is now; you must learn and experience, to see and touch the unknown. You may have known Eorzea's secrets once, but no longer. The world is fresh and vibrant; you cannot simply sit about like a lame prize Chocobo, its legs broken from the races. You pursued the path of an adventurer, after all.

Unukalhai is different. Infinitely patient, your contradictory comrade lacks the subtle condescension of your former companions, seeking you out only for company. He is as distinct from the Scions as you are, this boy who is not a boy; his form is shrouded in a mist invisible to all but you and it is impossible to discern where he starts and were he ends, like the reflection of bright sunlight on a disturbed lake.

You brush a hand against him, reaffirming his nature. He is solid and no less present than you are, secure and comforting by his very existence.

"Knowledge and expectations clash, tinting your perception; do not ponder too deeply, all will be revealed in time." Was the only explanation he offered when you confronted him about it, as straight of an answer as any maze.

You've chosen to heed him; he is simply Unukalhai, he who accepts you as you are - so, too, will you accept him, no matter his odder attributes.

Your wallowing has gone on long enough. With a muffled, breathy groan, you arrange yourself into a sitting position, your muscles burning and wounds tearing themselves anew, sharp spikes of pain from the pressure on fresh bruises sending you reeling.

"Do not push yourself; layering yet more scars upon your flesh benefits no one." The boy's advice is sage, though difficult to swallow. "You mustn't concern yourself with what the Scions think; take as long as you need."

There is nothing else in Mor Dhona – all you can do is move, to struggle vainly against enemies that continually defeat you. You considered returning to the cities, beginning your life as an adventurer anew, like you originally intended, but from your wanderings through Revenant's Toll, you learned of your fame and exploits. The Warrior of Light's prominence is known well beyond Eorzea; it is a heavy burden, a name that is not yours to live up to, its weight upon your shoulders crushing your bones.

"Unukalhai." You murmur, uncertain. He is your path, the watchful star that leads you in the moonlight. If anyone can guide you around this hurdle, it is Unukalhai.

The boy responds immediately with a foreign word, the title you use only privately. To the others, you may seem distant, like a child and a parent, but the lone word indicates the closure of formalities and the beginning of an intimate, secretive conversation.

"That is your nickname." You point out, unsure at why he addresses you as such, but it is not displeasing.

"It is yours as well." His evasion is not uncommon, deftly shifting the topic of conversation; you've come to understand that he enjoys this, very much a subtle guidance, one you are not entirely averse to. It is far softer than the Scions, more of a gentle hand that leads through an open grassland than one that unwillingly tugs through thick bramble.

"The language is unfamiliar." You accept his offer, letting him direct the conversation, for his is better than your alternative. The language impossible to place; you only remember hearing it from him.

"Ours is the most ancient of tongues. Forgotten by time, the Gift grants you understanding, but not knowledge." Unukalhai's descriptions are elaborate and formal, but the meaning remains clear. "If you are not averse, I would teach you."

It is more than you expected and nod quickly, bubbling with enthusiasm you cannot remember feeling. You've much to learn, so that you may differentiate yourself from the shade of a fallen Warrior, the remnants of a broken tool.

His speaks slowly, repeating new words, a greeting, a phrase of farewell, and simple formalities in a tongue that is harsher than yours, not nearly so nasal, and seemingly slower, words slurred and indistinct. He teaches when to emphasize certain sounds; others are almost impossible to hear at all.

It is a pleasant distraction, a goal to work towards. A new journey.

"Thank you." You finally whisper when you finish your session, in both your language and awkwardly in his, withholding your Gift's translation - for everything, for supporting you, for aiding you, for seeing you as who you are, not who you used to be.

He makes no reply save to place his tiny hand over yours, the mist congregating over your flesh, making its way up your arm in a touch that is not touch, delicate and soft, protective, affectionate as no child is.

You never learned the meaning of your precious word, but you've something more. You may have struggled in the past, fighting for a cause, against an enemy that you mustn't lose to with passion and incomparable fervor, but no longer.

A small an insignificant as your dream may be, you've taken a step, the first of many, led by a star away from a directionless existence; you will do whatever it takes to keep that star within your grasp.