stars bear witness
Although he had seen Radz-at-Han from a distance during his alliance with Fandaniel, it is strange to find himself amidst the bustling marketplaces of world renown. Upon arrival, the Warrior of Light had immediately reached upwards, yanking the hood of Zenos' jacket over his head to hide his face from the crowd; peeking out from under the obscuring veil, the blond surveys the crowd, mouth pressed into a grim line as the rabble rush back and forth. "How long shall we be here?" he murmurs lowly.
"Just follow me, Zen," the Warrior of Light murmurs, tenor piercing through the rumble of the crowd.
A stifled snort erupts from hearing that name, but obediently, Zenos follows a half-step behind. In all honesty, this feels beneath him- he has no purpose here, after all- but as he watches the Miqo'te's chestnut tail glimmer in the sunlight a pace ahead of him, he allows himself to continue onwards. His eyes scour their surroundings; distantly, he understands just how strange he must appear, being led by the relatively smaller Miqo'te. Yet, despite their mismatch, no one pays them any heed. The tribes of Thavnair, the horned Au Ra and marid-like Arksadora alike, flood the streets, easily ignoring the duo which has just teleported through the aether currents into their aetheryte plaza. His nose wrinkles as spices and oils waft up to his nose, overwhelming his senses alongside the sudden stifling heat, the temperature seemingly manifesting into the bright, garish colours adorning the walls and floors of colourful pottery and tile and stucco.
Their visit is short, sweet, simple. They traverse nearly from one end of Thavnair's colourful capital to the other; thankfully, the weather permits this easily, the sun warming the stone beneath their feet as they move from one point to another. The Warrior of Light's footsteps are light and agile, but he never allows Zenos to stray too far behind; even amidst his myriad visits with vendors and old acquaintances alike, the blond finds the other man pausing, glancing over his shoulder and beckoning Zenos to keep up, a clumsy, slightly strained smile on his face.
That smile seems… haunted, almost. He knows not from whence it comes. Why look fearful? Has the Warrior of Light not already proven his mettle, his dominance? Why is there still discomfort with Zenos?
He dares not ask, however.
So, they march along from the High Crucible of Al-Kimiya at the northeastern end of the capital, speaking to strange blacksmiths and odd servants of some noble house or the other in various states of undress; the Miqo'te pops in to see scrips vendors and the like in the marketplace, trading in tomes which Zenos cannot even name for even stranger goods; they run into allies and strangers alike, all of whom seem more than capable of interacting with the Warrior of Light with an ease he cannot himself muster. Whether that is due to his facade, or due to his heart, he knows not.
The one thing he cannot stomach is just how easily the citizens of Radz-at-Han ask the Eorzean champion for help without a second thought. Zenos watches it all in silent, distant fascination, unsure of how to respond as the man performs each task with a confident grin and a puffed-up chest. However, he can only handle so much; when the Warrior of Light, the vanquisher of the End of Days and liberator of Garlemald and beyond, comes back puffing and panting after having helped a fabric vendor carry boxes for shipment, his limits are finally reached. "Do you always do this?" he asks, pushing away from the wall upon which he leans as the Miqo'te catches his breath. "What in the world is the point?"
Ears flick back and forth in irritation, his tail straightening defensively as the shorter man murmurs, "If I can help, why not?"
Deadpan, Zenos responds, "This is beneath you, is it not?"
The Miqo'te pauses, a shadow flitting over his expression. "Perhaps you have something mixed up," he sighs after collecting his thoughts. "I'm just an ordinary person-"
"Nonsense. You're the Warrior of-"
"Warrior of Light, yes," the Miqo'te groans, "but before that, I was just a fledgling adventurer in Gridania. It's all chance that this has turned out the way it has."
The blond grits his teeth, blood churning in his veins. I was not bested by some mere adventurer who chanced his way into destroying every plot put into place by the Ascians, he seethes internally. However, he cannot say this. "Preposterous," Zenos spits despite his best efforts to maintain his persona of detachment. "You cannot tell me that you earned your position by performing petty favours for strangers."
To his surprise, this comment actually stops the man he has admired for so long as the Eorzean champion to stop short, green eyes wide with a sense of stunned innocence that it halts Zenos in his tracks. Then, before his very eyes, the Miqo'te's lips tremble before pulling into a wide smile, slight fangs bared in an incredulous glee as he throws his head back and laughs from deep within his gut. "That, Zen," he practically cackles, "is exactly how I've accomplished everything I've done. You call them petty favours for strangers, but what are strangers if not future allies?"
Future allies. "What are we, then?" he asks, curling in disgust in his heart thanks to the tinge of desperation lacing his voice. "Are we strangers, or allies?"
Unfortunately, the Miqo'te's smile disappears in a heartbeat. "...who knows. We should meet with Vrtra," he murmurs, fatigue straining his words. Then, he stands tall, adjusts his packs, and turns on his heel, beckoning Zenos only once with a small, "Let's go, Zen," before striding off towards the northern end of Radz-at-Han.
Zenos follows. He has nothing else he can say- he is meant to be little more than a stranger, but to him, the Miqo'te is anything but.