Fionn had written many letters, after the Echo had granted him the mercy of his memories.

The act of writing reminded him of his youth in the village, the conflicts of Eorzea nothing but distant rumblings, the thunder not yet close enough to snap the air with its fury. Fionn the Cunning, the incorrigible kit who could not stop pushing their nose into everything their little heart desired. The tomes within the Elder’s study seemed to draw their attention the most, their leather bindings understated, yet their contents seemingly encompassing not only the entirety of the Black Shroud, but the very star underneath their feet. He thinks fondly of Fiadh and Eimear’s furrowed brows, the Why written plainly on their faces at the kit’s desire to do something like “borrow” a tome they could do nothing but stare at.

The Elder had had no choice but to teach young Fionn how to read, lest her books suffer further mischief.

They would settle into her lap, their hands small and eager, following her own slender fingers across the ink-drawn symbols, their mouth curving to give sound to the image, shadowing their master.

After that, writing had come easily enough, the Elder not even needing to ask the youngling to practice. Once the symbols gained meaning, it was only a matter of time before they had begun to paint their own symbols, feelings and thoughts made physical, at first crude imitations but soon true words flowing from their inkwell to the page.

The first letter he would write home would begin as most letters would.

Dearest Fiadh, he’d begun to write, the shape of his beloved’s name upon parchment inspiring enough emotion to blur his vision, his free hand quick to wipe the tears away. How long had it been, since he had been able to put a lyric to the melody that had played within his heart? It had resounded endlessly, even as he awoke in a Shroud he couldn’t recognize, his weakened steps in tune to its rhythm, his voice humming it deep into the night, when he leaned against foreign trees in foreign lands and thought of the oaks and maples he saw each time he slept.

He wondered if she had thought him dead, or if Dalamud’s fall had erased his memory entirely, only the cowardly goodbye he sent Bran to deliver in his stead remaining, deep within the Elders’ archives.

The Veena remember well, he thinks, and wills his hands to pen his tale.

He begins with Eithne, lest the Elder toss the parchment into the village bonfire, thinking it some sort of mad soothsayer’s ramble.

He recounts her tales with as much flourish as he would in the taverns, but between each stanza there is an intimacy he would show to no one else. Her beauty and grace, the light with which she shone so brilliantly, how he saw her figure haloed in Hydaelyn’s blessing, the few times their paths had crossed. How much she had grown to look like Fiadh, a familiar strength in her gait, exuding quiet confidence— How she’d cut her hair, almost the same as Fiadh’s own. At least, the same as it has been when he last saw her, anyway.

He tells her he is sorry, sorry that he left them, even if he still felt it had been his only recourse, but that he played her song even as her name eluded him. That he sings of their love to anyone who would listen, that he hopes she could hear his music again, one day, and that he knows the face the Elder must be making as she speaks the words. He hopes the Elder will grant them both the mercy to read that part to her privately, lest Fiadh have his head should they ever cross paths again.

He tells his own story more plainly, the phrases shorter, each detail listed in staccato, unlike the poetry he would write of the two women he’d sacrificed his life for. He is far from the Shroud, he had fought to save this star, and he would continue to fight for it until the end of his days; would continue to shadow Eithne in his own way. His daughter would walk the paths that he could not, and he would make sure she didn’t stumble along the way. ‘Tis time for you to rest your heart, my love , he’d write, fear not the ‘morrow for our little kernel, her sire will keep watch over her.

He presses a singular white lily petal onto the wax as he seals the missive. Presses a kiss to it, leaving black greasepaint in the shape of his love.

He places it within a holster around Bran’s neck, minor trinkets and treasures he’d collected alongside it, an earnest wish to connect with the people he knew had barred his name from being spoken within the Shroud, even before Dalamud’s fall had erased the sound from existence entirely.

He delivers Bran to the sailors at Kugane’s port, exchanging enough coin and good will to keep his most loyal companion safe on the journey there and back. He stamps the paperwork along with the doubt, and waves at the ship until it sinks past the horizon.