stars bear witness
How had he not known?
How had he never thought to even ask?
It is an idle question which creeps into his mind, insidious and slow, as he follows the Warrior of Light north on the man's quick errand. Taloned chocobo feet pound across cobblestone and dirt and grass, the wide open fields and steep cliffs of La Noscea passing by in a blur as he takes it in atop Amity's reluctant back. The beast still refuses to obey him, but he finds that he cannot fault it for its drive. It chases after Gryff, after golden yellow feathers and the long auburn tail astride its back.
A strange kinship with the beast bubbles in his breast. He, too, chases. It feels as though he has done little but chase for so, so long.
Oh, the days of the Hunt…
The thought causes his heart to ache, so the man averts his gaze to the west, gazing wearily into the distance. The rolling hills of lush green grass and gentle knolls are home to packs of timid wildlife, their cries and chirps fusing with the wind of rushing past his ears. He finds that he can barely face the cliffside to the east, with the midday sunlight setting the sea alight from this angle. The climes of La Noscea are far more to his liking than Thavnair, at the very least; the briny scent is far less concentrated as they ride along the path up the coast and across the heart of Vylbrand towards the towering building which the Miqo'te insists is their destination, its sun bleached stone contrasting sharply against a clear cerulean sky.
Even though his eyes focus on the landscape, his chest still bears the weight of his question.
What do I call you?
No one ever seems to use the Warrior of Light's name. In all of the reports he has read as the viceroy of Doma and Ala Mhigo, the man before him has always ever been referred to as "the adventurer" or "the Warrior of Light". He recalls even Gaius Baelsar having referred to the "Eorzean champion", mysterious and nameless in the wake of Hydaelyn's blessing, in his reports.
It feels so stupid that it is almost staggering. Yet, how can he bring it up? Not a single person he has watched interact with the Miqo'te has called him anything but those titles, or merely, "my friend". He himself has never used anything but.
Who is the Warrior of Light?
These thoughts plague his mind as their chocobos finally come to a halt. A built Roegadyn steps out from under the stone arch allowing entry past the high wall surrounding the tower. This stranger calls out with yet another cry of, "My friend, it is good to see you! Summerford Farms welcomes you, as always," to the shorter man hopping off Gryff's back. He clasps the Miqo'te's arm in friendly salutation.
Zenos' lip curls in disgust, but he merely lowers his gaze and grinds his molars at the sight. How had he truly been reduced to this- to watching the shorter just speak to the whole of Eorzea's rabble rather than being able to engage with Zenos himself authentically?
As the Warrior of Light discusses the purpose of his visit, Zenos wanders through the courtyard of the orange grove, citrus cloying in his nose. Does he enjoy this place? In his heart, he knows the response. The Warrior of Light seems to enjoy everything- everything, save for Zenos himself. Was it due to our battles in Doma? In Ala Mhigo? In Garlemald? In the beyond? He racks his brain again and again, but every single time, all he can recall is the bliss of exchanging blows with the other.
Then, that bliss turns cold as his shame returns in full force, more potent than any attack rained upon him by the champion of Etheirys. The ache of it all pulls the very breath from his lungs, his knees bearing a weakness he has never before felt. Shuddering, he sighs, flinching as his boot hits a fallen orange from the grove.
He retrieves it almost as if under a spell. The fruit is plump, juicy, ripe. Heavy in his palm. Glistening with dew from the morning grass, it shines under the oceanic sun. A stray thought to squeeze it until it pops, to wring the juice from every segment, to cut down this entire orchard, whispers seductively in the back of his mind- he just needs something to target, something to stave off this uncertainty, this guilt-
"Zen, are you ready to head out?"
He turns. Through blond strands, he makes out the apprehensive expression upon his companion's warm face, the brilliant sun reflecting off of dark, yet rosy cheeks. Round, feline emerald eyes look up at him, so clear that he can almost see his own reflection through the concern in the other man's eyes.
His movements are unintentional, automatic. His hand reaches out, orange presented to the confused Miqo'te. He offers it with little thought.
It is not the first time he has given something to the other. His blade, his hunt, his devotion- his power and his life have all been at his dearest companion's mercy.
This, however, is different.
The Miqo'te stares at the orange, then takes it. He tucks it away. Zero hesitation. He does not reject it- he does not reject Zenos.
Has it always been this easy?
Zenos will not forget this moment. He knows this.
Perhaps this is what later gives him the courage to finally breathe life into the question plaguing him since the morn. After a long day of riding up to Aleport to conclude this inane errand, the two men had found themselves back on a local ferry to Limsa Lominsa, and then aboard a large commercial airship east to Ul'dah. To his surprise (and infinite relief) the chocobos had been led into the cargo hold with the other beasts of burden, leaving the duo to find space aboard the open-air upper deck of the craft. It is in this silence that Zenos allows himself to show this weakness, to voice the words mockingly repeating in his mind all day.
"What do they call you?"
The Miqo'te blinks, then frowns, then gasps, his voice echoing across the otherwise-empty deck. The night air is brisk, but it is clear that it is not the chill which causes every hair on the man's head and tail to stand on end. Taken aback, his eyes open impossibly wide, a million emotions rush across a stricken face which he immediately attempts to control, but the damage is done. The blond has already captured that visage of stunned horror, its efficacy but a knife plunged cold and deep into his gut.
Zenos dares not ask again.
The Warrior of Light, similarly, dares not divulge the shadows which seem to haunt his memories as he looks upon Zenos. Instead, he merely swallows down his poorly-concealed shock and replies as amicably as he may. "Silly of me, I suppose, to not introduce myself. Apologies, Zen. My friends from around the world call me by many titles, but my given name is K'zhula Tia."
Zenos searches desperately in his memories for even a flicker of recognition, but alas, there is nothing. K'zhula Tia…
A typical Miqo'te name, perfect for the standard male member of the daywalking Seeker of the Sun tribes of Eorzea. A member of the Coeurl tribe, a man freed from his duties in favour of one day abandoning his tia title to become a nunh with his own family. The textbook explanations of Miqo'te origins studied in his youth come to mind so easily, but how is it that such a simple name could belong to the champion of their star?
It is a mockery- of him, and of the man who stands before him. This K'zhula Tia has proven himself to be above the rest, free of the base, pathetic needs of the masses. He is a hunter, a true warrior. If he were Garlean, all the titles in the world would not be enough to honour his legacy.
His hands grip the protective guardrail around the deck of the airship, barely restraining himself from bending the metal with white-hot rage and bitterness. After all, in his mind's eye, he can see the Miqo'te's friends left behind back at Camp Broken Glass in southern Garlemald, their lips moving to form a name which he cannot hear. It is not "K'zhula Tia", though. "And what do your comrades call you?"
To add salt to Zenos' spiritual wounds, the other man simply… does not respond. He acts as if he had not heard this new query, instead leaning onto the railing of the airship's deck, tucking his hair behind his ear and watching the sunset, his handsome visage striking while silhouetted in the waning orange glow. He does not turn back to look Zenos in the eyes, leaving the Garlean to waste away in the silence.
What is it that the Warrior of Light sees, looking over the kingdom which he has saved again and again?
Zenos' thoughts hearken back to the look of pure horror which flooded K'zhula's face. What is it that you see in my eyes? What threat do I present to you? The Hunt is over. You have won. I have defended you to my death, and I have found my way back to you. What else must I do?
Had he still possessed the aether of a Resonant, perhaps the railing would have broken under his grip in his frustration. That evening, however, it does not break- nor does the silence between the pair shift. K'zhula is aloof, and Zenos stews, alone.