A/N: After almost 9 months away from fic, here we are again. Enjoy.
stars bear witness
Up close, the maridian Arksadora are a vulgar race, Zenos thinks.
How in the world sapient creatures resembling the giant, lumbering gaja which roam Thavnair's southern coastal regions came to be, he knows not; all that matters, however, is he can do naught but dig his fingernails into his palms to hold back his venom. Had he his scythe, he would fell every one of these creatures wandering the Hippo Rider's hub in Svarna who had the gall to speak to the Warrior of Light.
Of course you are friends with the beast tribes across the world, Zenos bemoans silently. Of course you have such an extensive network that you have befriended beasts, of all things. Would that I could cut them down for wasting this energy.
There is no such option, unfortunately. He has no blade, nor does he trust himself to steal away that of the Miqo'te. Although much of how the shorter man carries himself is a mystery to Zenos, he can still understand that cutting down civilians is not exactly the Warrior's purview- and, as they had walked through the Thavnarian heat, he had come to realise just how little to which he can cling.
After all, the only thing he could think of the entire time was how the Warrior of Light has actually begun to look at Zenos. A smile had graced his lips when they had passed the natural cavernous fortress of the Great Work, the large alchemical research institution run by these very Arksadorian beasts; with every piece of flora or fauna passed, with every hippo cart and rider, the Warrior of Light had paused, pointing it out softly to the blond with light in his eyes and a spring in his step despite the intense, never-ending sunlight streaming from above. The air, thick with salty brine and cloying heat, is a familiar, choking haze which Zenos had never wished to experience again after his time working alongside Fandaniel, but alas, he was back.
None of these complaints are voiced. The Miqo'te has a mission to accomplish, and so, Zenos shall not impede it. Instead, once they situate themselves in the Hippo Rider's central plaza, the blond finds solace in a corner of stalls as far away from a hippo corral reeking of manure. Meanwhile, the Warrior of Light checks in with the members of this encampment at the heart of Saltwind's Welcome, each one greeting him with garish, tusked caricatures of smiles and open arms. Some strange tokens are exchanged for glowing, ethereal strength-enhancing materia- where the Eorzean continues to hide away these different tomes and coins, Zenos cannot tell, for his packs surely cannot be this deep- until finally, he returns to the blond watching from under his hood. "Zen," the Miqo'te murmurs, "let's go."
"Off to Eorzea?" he drawls in reply, twinging in despicable hope. As much as he holds a distaste for the Eorzeans and their primitive ways, he would much rather be staring at their faces rather than being trapped here amidst this sweltering Thavnarian heat.
Strangely enough, the Miqo'te does not immediately respond; instead, his ears flick back and forth before a strange flush spreads across his face.
Zenos blinks, deadpan and confused. "Is something amiss?"
A small smile begins to grow upon dark umber cheeks tinged with amusement. "Zen, are you… uncomfortable?"
He scoffs. "Perhaps. Why would that matter?"
It is almost like magic, this creeping smile which softens the corners of emerald eyes and lifts the corners of a dark, supple mouth. "To think I'd live and breathe to see this kind of day," the Miqo'te chuckles softly, a warmth in his eyes which Zenos has never seen. Mirth dances in his voice and eyes, the sight and sound sucking out Zenos' words until he is naught but dry-mouthed despite the humidity. As the blond attempts to swallow down his embarrassment, the Miqo'te's laughter peters out into comfortable silence. With a small gesture, he guides Zenos out of the Svarna and back along the roads through Saltwind's Welcome. The duo crests the hill that connects back to the main pathway, but before they can make headway to their destination of Yedlihmad, the Eorzean pauses yet again, his eyes traversing a horizon of blue skies and calm, sparkling seas. "It's a good day to set out," he murmurs. "We'll have a calm voyage, I think."
A magitek carrier would be far faster. "I suppose so."
A strangely dreamy light flits across the Miqo'te's face. "What, not a fan of sea vessels?" His tone is suspiciously close to a tease.
To anyone else, he would spit in response to this audacity. He bites his tongue instead. Neutrality must be his mask.
Why is it so difficult to maintain such a visage in front of the Warrior of Light?