stars bear witness
"Here at last," the Warrior of Light breathes, his eyes lighting up in wonder and no small measure of relief.
Zenos faintly registers these words, more fixated on the joy upon the other man's face. Although he has seen it numerous times over their voyage, he finds it is never enough. Thankfully, as the sailors clap the Warrior of Light upon the shoulder with eyes locked onto the shape of Vylbrand's port city, Limsa Lominsa, in the distance, Zenos is able to relish in that joy without restraint.
Their days of travel upon the water had been a last-minute change to their initial plans, he had recently found out. The vessel in Yedlihmad had wanted the Eorzean's protection in making it through the waters between Thavnair and Limsa Lominsa, even though taking the aetheryte back to Sharlayan would have been far more efficient. His presence was wholly unnecessary anyways, as nothing of note had even taken place. Using aether manipulation, the voyage had scarcely been a few days rather than the traditional weeks-long journeys of previous eras.
When he had mentioned this efficacy, however, the Warrior of Light had been hesitant to explain. Zenos knew the truth simply by viewing the discomfort on the shorter man's face; now that Garlemald was no longer a threat, and menacity of the Final Days had ceased, there was little in the way of trade and transit between the hemispheres.
His friend hesitates to mention Garlemald whatsoever to Zenos. The anxiety, the trepidation, is almost endearing, in a way; how fervently the Miqo'te clings to this idea of "Zen" when a part of the champion himself clearly does not believe in Zenos' amnesia.
His dearest friend never questions Zenos. Although it is convenient, a part of the blond wonders whether or not he would prefer to be questioned. At least that way, he would face me more. Why does he turn away?
The boat cannot begin deboarding soon enough. Zenos can do little but grimace at the uneasy wobble in his legs which momentarily weakens him, stepping back onto the solid docks in Vylbrand. He brushes off the discomfort and turns around, catching sight of his guide immediately. A true bleeding heart, he muses, watching the Miqo'te smile and shake hands with the sailors as they debark with their goods.
Alas, that brilliant smile on darkened lips vanishes fairly quickly as a long chestnut tail swishes, the man turning to look at the blond. "Zen," the Warrior murmurs, "let's go."
"Indeed."
Zenos bites his tongue and swallows down the unease left in the wake of the Eorzean man's brief happiness, now gone as he rejoins Zenos upon the end of the damp dock. The Garlean is no stranger to his companion's discomfort, but the hollow in his chest aches every time he bears witness to it. No progress has been made on this front, it seems.
There is little time to mope. Just as he had in Thavnair, the shorter man beckons Zenos along and heads forward with purpose and little explanation. The blond nods, allows his hood to fall, and trails behind, examining his environs briefly before coming to a sour conclusion.
The ports of Limsa Lominsa are wretched, he thinks. Even upon this far pier, he can already see that too many people wander ahead through the aetheryte plaza upon the lower decks of the coastal city. The sound of waves lapping up against the whitewashed stone and wooden piles ceaselessly echo through the air under the cries of gulls overhead. This din is enough as it is, and yet, the surging crowds of performers, civilians, travellers, and merchants rushing about add another layer of incongruity. If that is not enough, salty air stings his nose, the briny scent of drying catches floating through the city.
Zenos has studied the populations of Limsa previously in his studies in the academy as a youth, but seeing the mismatched peoples of Eorzea still feels completely foreign. Their dress is repugnant and uselessly revealing compared to Garlemald, their faces without an ounce of the strength shining from his companion… Not even a lick of magitek is in sight to ease the discomfort.
An edge sets in his clenched jaw. A long voyage, matched only in futility by the clamour of savages. Wonderful. While he has never been a true nationalist, the empire of his youth feels far more sensible than this drivel.
Yet, the Warrior of Light is completely at ease here. He steps off creaking southern dock and immediately waves to the Roegadyn in yellow uniforms standing guard upon the pier; they nod in acknowledgement as he breezes past, words of teasing, gruff welcome shared in a way that grates the Garlean's nerves.
Zenos sighs. It is already abundantly clear that this small interaction will simply be one of many. I suppose I must grow accustomed to it. What purpose does speaking with chattel serve? However, he knows better than to protest this greeting. This is what his friend desires; so, it shall be done.
Even if he hates it to be so.
The blond is pulled out of his thoughts as the shorter man's feline tail begins to swish back and forth, brilliant green eyes darting about in search of something as they approach the source of the briny scent. Whatever it is they search for here, he will take it. "Is there something you need?" he opts to ask instead, hiding the exasperation in his voice the best he can.
"I was meant to meet the guildmaster of the Fishermen's Guild here…" The Miqo'te's voice trails off, his eyes searching the myriad walkways. "Do you see a Lalafell?"
"I see many." He bites down the disdain in his heart towards this fact. The childlike race of Eorzeans rather disgust him- too small to be worth looking so far down upon.
The Eorzean champion heaves a weary groan. "Ah. That's fair, it's fine," he murmurs. "He's probably out avoiding Sisipu again…" Lost in his thoughts for a moment, long chestnut lashes glance around until he reluctantly shrugs. "I'll send him a message later."
"What did you need a fisherman for?" Zenos asks incredulously.
Without missing a beat, the Miqo'te replies, "Because I'm a member of the guild. I found word of a catch in Thavnair he had wanted to fish together, but-"
"You… enjoy fishing?"
Those lashes lift up to look at Zenos' incredulous gaze. "Do you not?" Before the blond can reply, however, the Eorzean champion sighs, shaking his head. "No, no, you would probably not."
The blond grits his teeth.
The Miqo'te shades his eyes with a gauntlet-covered hand, peering across the wooden planks and sun-bleached stone for his guildmaster. "I do, however."
First metalwork, now this? "Do you belong to any other guilds?"
"Many."
"Is anything useful for combat?"
"Weaving is certainly useful. As is cooking." Catching sight of Zenos' raised brows, he adds, "I enjoy learning new things. Combat guilds indeed exist; I mean, haven't I fought-"
He freezes in place, the only thing moving in this scene the gulls in the background and the wind running through chestnut strands.
In a heartbeat, Zenos recalls their battles before. Once, he had been attacked with fists and bracers by the Miqo'te- the next time, with arcane magicks and a wild, plume-tipped rod- the next, a long katana much like the one Zenos had claimed for himself. He had been felled by the man's spear at last, standing at the edge of the world, on the brink of existence. He has seen the man wield it all, and with every piece of him, Zenos longs to speak of it, to allow the words to spill past his lips like the surging tide that dwells beneath their feet; the empty space in his soul where his strength once lives want to weep, to sing praises of the glorious battles they have waged, the sensation of the Warrior of Light's hand striking his flesh raising gooseflesh across his entire body.
This farce cannot be held up forever, right? Why not give in, speak up, beg for another chance to cross blades-
The thoughts are fanciful. Weak. Pathetic.
And Zenos will not allow these descriptors to be all he has left.
Stifling the longing in his gut, he remains on the surface the epitome of nonchalant. "To be called Warrior of Light, you must have some skill with more than just that lance, I suppose."
The Miqo'te's ears perk up, his body relaxing, his eyes looking upon Zenos at last. "I do my best," is the off-handed response. But to Zenos' surprise, there is a glimmer of something new in his companion. Something soft, peeking through the usual distance- faintly, Zenos spots a wry smile in emerald eyes as the shorter man breezes past, motioning for the blond to join him.
Although it is nothing new at this point- he has been by the Miqo'te's side for almost two weeks now, which in itself is a feat he had never previously dreamed of- something squeezes his stomach, his chest aching fiercely as he watches the Miqo'te's back. Muscled, strong, proud. The Eorzean champion stands on the right side of the cobbled, seasalt-worn path, walking ahead of him.
Zenos easily catches up. He comfortably stands upon the left of the other man, side-by-side.
It is gratification, Zenos realises after a moment, that squeezes his core like so. Suddenly, the salt and the citizens and the sundries of Limsa Lominsa, of Eorzea and its savages, feel less jarring.