She held no preconceived notions when she stepped on Shaaloani ground, and the desert embraced her for it. It opened its beaten paths, carried her wishes across windswept grasslands, to the doors of new friends and old allies. She had not been battered and eroded by the Yawtanane sand, not had her edges forged by the blazing Xak Tural sun as Zekowa and his crew had been, and yet she found herself falling into lockstep with the land’s rhythm, her weft woven neatly into Sheshenewezi’s tapestry.
When she returned for the second time, it already grew to feel familiar. With treasured companions by her side, even the looming specter of purple levin death towering in the horizon could not dull the low thrum of excitement at the prospect of crossing the flat plains of Pyariyoanaan, the blunt peaks of Eshceyaani bearing witness to their journey. She imagined what it must feel like to stand atop the mesa and witness the vast expanse of terracotta earth, untold wonders dotting the landscape. She imagines if Ala Mhigo had looked similar, before the Garlean warmachina scarred the land.
She tells G’raha Tia as much, when they’re inevitably told to rest, Alisaie and Alphinaud quickly succumbing to their exhaustion amidst the conversation. She slips her shoulder from under Alisaie’s head, leaning her carefully against the wall, before following G’raha a few ways, finding a comfortable clearing hidden amidst the crates and machinery. She talks freely, the letters she had sent unable to encompass the full scope of her feelings. The thrill of bandit chasing, how Zekowa’s dashing smile and brash heart had reminded her of him when they first met, back when he had only one Allagan eye.
“May I take that to mean that you found my smile ‘dashing’?” He holds his chin in the crook between his thumb and forefinger, flashing a toothy grin as he teased.
She laughs, her chest feeling lighter than it had been in weeks, since they had stepped foot in the Skydeep Cenote. “Perhaps.”
“Oh?” She notes the way his ears fluttered in curiosity, how it reminded her of a gaelicat eager to chase some unlucky critter, or an expertly crafted imitation of one. “Had I known back then, I would have endeavored to do so more often.”
“I am not sure it would have made a...” She’s unable to finish, the memory of a certain knight forcing its way into her thoughts, the light from his unfaltering smile shining upon her even now. For once, it makes her chuckle, despite the dull ache. “Actually, nevermind, I am glad you didn’t. It saved me from much heartbreak.”
He laughs along, though it is a soft, gentle sound, its rolling peaks worn down by a long-lived sadness. “Well, heartbreak is a right of passage for the young, I suppose.”
It is unnatural, but she forces a wide grin, cheeks taught and strained by the effort as she tried to copy his earlier pose. “And you? Was I the champion you imagined, the gallant eikon-slayer of Eorzea?”
“Oh gods,” He buries his face in his hands, but there is a rumble in his voice, past mischiefs bubbling to the surface. “Please, my heart shrivels at the memory of the envy I felt. Not only were you tall and beautiful besides, you were also so—”
Her hand comes up involuntarily, her smile turning sheepish at his words. “Alright, it seems you’ve always had peculiar preferences.”
His ears perk up, hands slipping down just enough to reveal a raised eyebrow. “Peculiar?”
“You must have been familiar with the Veena at that point, seeing their numbers in Old Sharlayan.” A pause. “I am sure you can see the difference between the average Viera and I.”
“Modest, as always.”
“No, truly!” The protest comes unbidden, surprising even her, and she struggles to understand the resistance pulling at her chest. “I-I am, well, short, for a woman— A Viera woman, at least... A-And my hair, it’s thin and... My physique is... not so...”
Her words hang in the air as she loses her voice, suddenly feeling very much that awkward, small kit staring at her womenfolk’s regalia, the children around her chatting about how I had always thought Eithne would be a jack, the hearth doesn’t suit them—
G’raha’s laughter cuts through the memory, shattering the silence, and Eithne can’t help but pout at the sound. These concerns of her’s were childish, certainly, but still...!
“Forgive me, I don’t mean to belittle your feelings.” He takes a breath to settle himself, hands raised in apology. “I am surprised, is all, to learn that you think of yourself this way.”
“Surprised?”
“Thoroughly.” Eithne does not know what face she could be making, that would turn his expression into something so warm and loving.
She furrows her brow, resenting the fact that he is clearly enjoying himself, despite her embarrassment, her cheeks growing warmer as the creases in the corner of his eyes grow deeper. He does not elaborate, content to smile at her until she’s unable to contain it any longer, “As I said, your tastes are peculiar.”
Another laugh, another twitch of her ears in irritation. “My tastes aside,” he says, slowly, his smile unwavering, “I doubt anyone could look at you and find the mantle of Warrior of Light unfitting.”
He begins to stand, briefly dusting off his clothes before walking over to her “Or do you think young men would dream of just about any warrior for more than a century?”
The heat rises to the tips of her ears, as if the moonlight threatened to scorch them, and she struggles to respond in any meaningful way, “I had thought you were unable to sleep, once connected to the tower.”
“Alright, it seems I walked myself into that retort.” He offers a hand for her to stand, “Regardless, you were every bit the warrior I imagined, passionate and devout, both threatening and noble in equal measure. My heart would oft skip a beat, when—”
“Alright—!” she interrupts him, clasping his hand with a resounding slap. Pulling herself to her feet, she struggles to look him in the eye. “Forget I said anything, please.”