You're good at running.
More precisely, you're good at running away from certain things by flinging yourself headlong into others. You're not quite sure what do when you are simply running, and there is no other thing to toss yourself at.
But still, you run. Or, at the very least, move along with a certain purpose in your stride.
Sometimes, you let your chocobo lead the way; at other points, you rein it in, turn your face up to the dappled shadows or clouds and just breathe. It doesn't really matter, either way – you are simply thinking and existing, whether standing still or jogging along at an easy pace. Letting yourself be.
You send brief notes to Alphinaud, who happened to arrive in Ishgard for unknown reasons at the same time you were rushing out – no, no, it's nothing, just need some air and freedom is all – letting him know you are alive and keeping him appraised of where you are, assuring him you have not died for some stupid reason. You tromp through the Forelands, then head for the Hinterlands – being amongst the decaying ruins, still beautiful after all this time, does something good for your heart, especially on clear nights when a million stars glitter overhead. And in Idyllshire, there are so many people passing through that no one pays any particular attention to you.
It's a relief - a bloody relief. To just be anonymous again, mostly - almost like you were once, long ago. To have no one demanding your attention or time, unless you seek it out. To just be.
After two weeks, your soul feels more settled. So you suppose it is time to go back, though you cannot possibly imagine the sort of reception you'll receive – because, at the moment, you have nowhere else to go. Nowhere else to be, more precisely, for once, so to Ishagard it is; back to … well, issues. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, you say out loud, thinking of Aymeric, just as your chocobo shies at shifting shadows and its wild brethren in the Forest. It makes you laugh – you were told, by the experienced grooms in the Holy Stables, that they all grow out of their youthful exuberance, but yours shows no sign of mellowing with age.
It's pleasant – more than that, it's a pleasure to be out with your bird that shies from shadows and animals, to think of nothing in particular except the ways shadow shift, the way the light changes. Eorzea is beautiful – something that has been easy to forget in the running here and there, the constant grind that sets your teeth on edge. Sunsets are a wonderful treat; so is night, especially all the stars. But the dawns, too – really, all of it, just being able to soak it in. Part of you wishes you could just remain like this forever.
Alas – you cannot.
You're nervous entering the stables, though you know you have no need to be – the grooms will ask no awkward questions, nor inquire after your absence. They'll be eminently practical, and you will appreciate this more than they will ever know. You'll tell them about the scrape on your chocobo's hock, how you've managed it thus far, and what a good steed he is – the very best in all the world, and you believe that fully. They will tell you the scrape is nothing serious (it isn't), that he does seem to be the best in all the world (that, you know, he absolutely is), and they will ignore the nervous flutter of your hands.
It's not until you round the corner – ready to march off to House Fortemps – and see Lucia that your heart stills despite itself. Her gaze tells you that – while you were, of course, not her business here – she has been aware of your gaily chattering presence. You wonder what Aymeric has said: likely nothing (you struggle to imagine him unburdening himself to anyone, at least regarding this particular matter: after all, what would he say? 'I kissed the Warrior of Light, who kissed me, but who has now run away and I'm not entirely sure what to do, and neither does the champion of the land, apparently, because they've run off'? The entire idea is absurd), but enough has been not said that she knows something transpired.
You blush despite yourself, while raising your hand in greeting. But the second most important person in Ishgard – well, more or less - gives you a warm smile, and asks after you: how has everything been? After a few minutes of pleasantries, you finally query if you can accompany her on her walk back to the Congregation, where you assume she's going (she is, because of course she is: Lucia is practically as predictable as Aymeric, possibly even more so). She acquiesces with a nod of her head and the slightest of smiles, and so you set off together.
You want to ask after him, but don't – instead, you answer her questions, tell her of things seen and done. She finally says, half under her breath, so quietly you can barely here - "It all sounds so wonderful." The comment makes you stop midstride and smile suddenly. It was wonderful, you tell her. A bit like – a bit like things were long ago, before things got so complicated. Before you were the Warrior of Light, you hasten to clarify.
She smiles at you. And you smile back. She may not understand the totality of your life, but she understands the broad strokes – and that's more than you can say for most people.
You continue strolling leisurely, quite against her natural inclination to speed and efficiency. But it is not far from the stables to the Congregation, and takes precious little time, even at your ambling pace. Reaching the imposing arch that marks her destination, you draw yourself up to look as stately as possible in front of the assorted guards and people milling about – rather impossible under the circumstances, being overdue for a bath and a change of clothes. You pause a bit when, as she carries on with the expected farewells, she tags on a brief comment – The Lord Commander will be most interested in hearing of the outer lands. The look she gives you could best be termed knowing.
This catches you slightly off guard, and you mumble something about coming down after you've seen to your responsibilities within the city. She is gracious, as befits a person of her station, and does not press you; and so you part on friendly, if not intimate, terms.
As you step off smartly towards the Pillars – feeling anything but smart – you wonder briefly what the next few days hold, but decide not to dwell on it too much. You concentrate instead on the flurries and the way they catch the soft pastel light of late-afternoon-Isghard so well: blues, purples, the faintest tinge of emerald among the rose.