If there was one thing that could be relied upon, it was that no matter the historical import of anything occurring around him, G’raha Tia’s gaze would never stray far from Eithne Cuinn. Indeed, even now, during the grand introduction of the Ilsabard Contingent, perhaps one of the most far-spanning alliances the star had ever seen, and a feat many would have struggled to believe even a year ago, his eyes could see nothing but the beloved champion’s back. What might she be seeing, feeling, thinking? Thankfully, unlike many of the other times he has unabashedly stared, most of the people in the room were doing just the same.

To G’raha, the meeting was the makings of a legend, and the fact that he could be a part of it was nigh inconceivable. Figures he had only read about, their storied lives depicted in words ranging from the encyclopedic, to the poetic, all standing shoulder to shoulder before his very eyes. Their stories—  their lives had all been touched by the Warrior of Light, and so he had read about them all in turn, but still, to live through this experience was something altogether different. His fascination with the contingent would only grow as he saw Eithne greet them all. Now this was something he would not find even in Sharlayan’s forbidden archives. It was an opportunity to truly learn about Eithne, and the people that so cherished her.

To see them recount, in however vague, yet loving terms, of their bonds with the Warrior of Light, he felt the distance between the two shrink in size, her light and warmth ever closer to him. The kindness of their smiles, their laughter, the interjections... Even though her expression was hidden to him, at this point he had become familiarized with the language of Eithne’s posture. The gentle slope of her shoulders as she relaxed, the way her ears would twitch, almost imperceptibly, in irritation, her elegant, slender fingers ever so slightly extending in surprise. Sometimes, he swore could even detect a hint of rouge on her neck, exposed as it was now with her short hair, when she felt particularly bashful.

“There is another awaiting introduction...”

Lucia quickly brought him back to reality. Lord Emmanellain de Fortemps steps forward, his gaze and gait displaying... shame? Chagrin? G’raha could not say, for in that moment, his gaze was drawn back to her. Eithne’s posture had shifted, her shoulders now rigid, arms tensed. Once again, he felt it, the distance he has grown to be so painfully familiar with expanding once again. G’raha’s surprise trails into confusion, and though he struggles to contain himself, he cannot help but feel his tail swishing against his legs. The confusion he feels only grows when he realizes the only reason he can recall Lord Emmanellain, was due to Lord Fortemps relation to him, rather than any particular interaction with the Warrior of Light. Calm down, he thinks, you knew that the books contained a mere fraction of her life experiences.

After the pleasantries and a spout of dancing from the young lord, Eithne looks to the side. He cannot see her expression, a complaint oft-repeat in his mind.

“I daresay your fancy footwork may be all that stands between us and certain doom.” Finally, she speaks. To G’raha’s ears, it sounds like an attempt at humor, yet her gentle, quiet tone sounds far too vulnerable for it to be so. Indeed, there is no laughter to follow from anyone, but Lord Emanellain seems to smile knowingly, pleased with whatever he had set out to do, and after some final words, he promptly returns to his post.

Things move swiftly after that, as they are wont to do. Before he can blink, Eithne returns to her usual self, ever firm, yet radiant— and with the arrival of new friends, G’raha is forced to tuck away his questions for future pondering. His promise throbs in his chest, and G’raha Tia knows he must answer these questions in order to keep it.

In the few moments of silence he is afforded in the coming days in Garlemald, which, contrary to what the biting cold may lead him to believe, are not many, he ponders. It’s not hard for him to begin piecing together the situation, considering most of his questions have surrounded the Dragonsong War, and involve many of the people recounted in Lord Fortemps memoir. There is a darkness lingering over the tale, and at times it seems as if one of its events has been completely engulfed by it, consigned to oblivion. G’raha thinks back on his time on the Ishgardian fleet, Alphinaud’s voice trailing, growing quieter, Eithne reflected in his eyes. After Lord Haucherfant’s passing...
 

By this point, Garlemald’s cold has seeped deep into his bones, but the thought nevertheless makes his ears perk up, the relief that comes from a revelation providing a distraction from the frost threatening to consume his limbs, if only for a moment.
 

Lord Haucherfant’s sacrifice, a seemingly small, but clearly impactful moment in the Warrior of Light’s legend. Yet, in practice, his name is seldom brought up. G’raha recounts his time with the Scions, where he has heard the name of all manner of lost comrades, said in joy, or grief, or solemn reverence... Even Minfillia, distraught as Eithne had been in the First at her mention, was still remembered fondly, and quite often. Yet, he could scarcely remember a time aside from Alphinaud’s explanation, when he had heard the knight mentioned. Yet, clearly, his presence lingered, the care and tenderness with which their Ishgardian friends tread around Eithne a testament to their deep bond in the face of their shared grief. Grief not borne, as he had originally thought, solely from their cumulative experiences during the Dragonsong war...

He breathes out, the frosty condensation swirling with his regrets. Had he known, perhaps I could have— But he stops himself. He had learned many lessons from his time as the Exarch, not least of all the level of courage needed to reach out one’s hand, when one’s burdens threaten to swallow them. What could Eithne have done back then to change his course? Nothing, he thinks, and even now I cannot deny I would not make the same choices again, given the circumstances. He recalls how he kept everyone else in the dark, toiling in solitude, at times walking as though he were already dead, a man with nothing to lose... G’raha clutches his chest, the ache within it threatening to overwhelm him. Would that their similarities had come from that which brought them joy, rather than their struggles.

He thinks of her golden eyes, piercing straight through him, seemingly possessed of the preternatural power to unmask him, with how she seemed to always know what he was feeling. It was even enough to make him panic, once upon a time, as he struggled to rid himself of the doubt that she had already seen him for what he was the moment he had spoken to her across the rift. Her gaze, heavy with unspeakable emotions, warning him, pleading with him, welcoming him... Though the ache in his heart remained, he cannot help the smile that comes to his lips, his gaze looking beyond the great frozen expanse surrounding Camp Broken Glass, to an Eithne in another world, framed in the light of dawn, her fateful greeting marking the moment where he could truly begin to live his life in earnest—

He would not continue to see her eyes darkened, as they so often are, under the weight of these solitary burdens. So many times had he thought to himself, This time, I shall be by her side, only to turn around and find her deep in the throes of battle, far beyond his reach. He thinks of Ul’dah, Ishgard, Ala Mhigo, Carteneau, even the First itself... How much death had she witnessed? How many of her friends, many known only to her, had fallen? He could not imagine her pain, back on the First, as she kneeled there, helpless in the face of his orchestrated self-sacrifice.

In his struggle to follow in the steps of someone so great— How foolish he felt, only now coming to realize the sheer magnitude of her loneliness. In spite of his promises, he had continued to think of her as Eorzea’s champion, he had continued to struggle to separate the woman from her legacy. To G’raha Tia, her struggles were akin to a divine endeavor, something he had almost worshiped during his time as the Exarch, as if her losses were acts of voluntary sacrifice. How obtuse of him, to think that the radiance of her nobility was worth the costs she had paid, that she continued to pay even now. Her piercing eyes, forever silent as they looked only towards the future... How terrifying it must have been, to not know if her loved ones could follow. It was not because of some noble creed that she fought, but because of the depths of her love for them, that she might spare them even an ounce of the despair she must face against every day.

Was it truly so surprising to see that she had consigned herself to walk this path alone, so treacherous and full of grief as it was?

He cannot help but think back on the light corrupting her soul, slowly consuming her, and yet she continued ever onwards, never looking back. It was not duty, nor heroism, in the end... All that time, she simply...

In the end, Eithne is but a woman, fighting in the hope of a brighter tomorrow, as all of her fellow men and women of the star do. What she needs is not someone to allay her fears, nor to simply share her burdens via mutual struggle. No one can carry her grief, her loss, for the scars that marr her heart can only be healed by her alone. It was a hand, just like the one she had extended to him.

That they should be so similar, it was almost comical.

“Eithne...” He whispers, her name a prayer, the frost his witness. The path before him seems clearer now, and this time, he makes a second promise. If it is impossible to share her burdens in full, if her heart has been hidden beyond view— he will stay by her side, so that she may not walk alone. That she may never feel need or want for anything, be it a warm meal, a comfortable bed, or a gentle touch to keep the loneliness at bay. If she is unable to ask for it, then G’raha would ask for her. No more would he remain reactive, bidding her heart to open to him. He cannot help but feel embarrassed at how much trouble he has caused those around him for these very same reasons, how much he resisted in voicing the same wants and desires he so wished to fulfill for her now.

Lyna, he thinks, his smile softening, is this what you’ve always been trying to tell me? I wonder if I now feel the same way you did, when you were but a child...