When faced head on, the Warrior of Light’s legend was more Meteor than comet— an all-consuming force of destruction, and to be at her mercy would ignite the primeval fear within us all. Unforgiving, unrelenting, she was Death. That he had come to know well, and he had always prided himself on seeing past the blaze of glory, of looking beyond the blinding light of her righteousness, and understanding that the terror she caused, too, was noble in its own way.
Regardless of his love, the reverence with which he held her existence, he had never averted his eyes to the bones upon which she rose to ever distant heights, a hill upon which she alone stood. He had never feared her when he imagined the sight, despite the carnage, the blood splatters like lilies blooming across her armor, for he knew her justice was true. No, the thought only brought with it a deep sorrow, his heart breaking at the indescribable loneliness that encircled her.
Not all of his memories as the Exarch are clear, but there are many he remembers vividly, the ghosts of crystalized muscle and bone tugging at his unblemished body sporadically throughout his days. Unsurprisingly, his time with Eithne on the First was one somesuch. He recalls when he had attempted to execute the final step in his grand endeavor, the ultimate sacrifice. Laying there motionless on the ground, the lead still lodged within his chest, regret burning brighter with each ragged breath, memories of a lifetime before flitted through his mind.
Even when the threat of her corruption loomed, as he pushed her beyond reasonable limits, his fears had never lied at the claws of the endbringer that she could be. The words he could never say but kept close within his heart, even as the bullet passed through it, was that the greatest tragedy had been her boundless grief at his hands. Hand outstretched, eyes of liquid gold overflowing, a name forgotten to all but her on parted lips— what was she feeling then? Could the common man ever conceive the scope of her anguish?
He had recalled a lesson, back then, the sounds of a lecture from his time at the Studium reverberating as his vision faded. It had been a lesson over the effects of Aether on the senses, and how hearing is the last of them to fade, when one is at death’s door. At that moment, he had put theory to practice, as he heard the tin of Emet-Selch’s voice piercing through the dark. He heard the malice, the slow drip of contempt from his voice, as he made his incisions. The surgical precision with which he spoke, choosing those words which would hurt her the most, was enough to prevent G’raha Tia from losing consciousness. He wanted to scream, to plead and beg with the last shreds of his life, Enough! You have what you want, godsdamn you...!
All of this to say, that after all of his philosophizing and rationalization, all of the blood and sweat he had shed to remain firm in his convictions, he had still arrived wholly unprepared for this. In his arms was cradled a treasure most precious, the embodiment of hope everlasting reduced to tears, her anguished cries reaching depths within him he had never conceived of; parts untouched by even the Tower. It ripped through him, both her words, and the unspoken feelings within them. He had known all this time, that his— No, that the Warrior of Light’s plight was one of inconceivable burdens, yet when faced with this monstrous darkness he could do nothing but weep alongside her, his mouth unable to give voice to anything but banal words of comfort.
Fool. The word rang deep within his heart. Thinking back to his earnest offer at the threshold of this very room, he felt more naive than ever before. Had he, had anyone, truly understood what such an offer entailed? For so long he had dreamed of this moment, where he could be if not a light, but at least a warmth, atop that lonely hill, and now it all felt so self-serving. What was to be after that? He had never stopped to consider the cruelty that a brief respite might have been, if he could not shoulder the weight as he had promised.
The details surrounding that night would blur through the passage of time, but some aspects of it would continue to ring in his mind with lucid clarity for years to come. The scream, the pained cries, the glint of steel, and...
A bloodstained crystal of pitch-black.
In the days to follow, he would spend every moment alone consumed with thoughts of the mysterious soul crystal. The soul of a Dark Knight, as he would come to learn of it, was of Ishgardian origin. He thinks back across the myriad tales he had encountered of the Warrior of Light, diving into the deep recesses of his mind— what had he missed? There must have been a mention somewhere, anywhere, of Hydaelyn’s champion practicing some other artform, of wielding some sort of blade... The sight of Eithne without her cane was rare, even to him, but he knew from his time with her before he slumbered that she was practiced in other combat techniques, ones he had seldom seen mentioned after she...
It comes to him in a whisper, an airy voice in his ear, The temple knights slain... Heretical magick...
That was it, the words he had read with disdain so long ago. He had found a rare tome on the Warrior of Light, a crass compilation retelling urban legends, the rumours that had spread amongst the Ishgardian armed forces. That the Warrior of Light was a secret practitioner of the dark arts, a follower of “the path” of darkness. Through these, or perhaps because of these arts, she could consort with the dead, and in some stories she could even conjure their memory as simulacra for you, should she notice your plight. There were not many chronicles related to this side of the Warrior of Light, but the ones that had remained varied widely in tone and position. Hero, villain, warrior, murderer... Yet, they were all consistent in one aspect—
The Warrior of Light, eyes alight with rancor, would slay all those who stood in her way.
At the time he had come across the tales, he had been disgusted. To think of Eithne sacrificing so much for the people of Ishgard, only for such unsavory rumours to spread amongst the populace, made his stomach turn. He had dismissed them outright, banishing them to the deep recesses of his mind alongside any other uncharacteristic interpretation of her character he ran across.
However, his time in Norvrandt had, well, illuminated upon the complicated tangle of light and dark. In saving the First, he had learned far more intimately of the importance of their balance, more than could be contained within the tomes inside the Noumenon. He was older now, at least in heart and mind, and reflecting upon these stories brought about new feelings, ones wholly unalike the disdain he felt before. Reflections though the records may be, warped and imperfect, within them, he is sure, was the shape of the woman he loves.
Despite the substantial lead he now had, it was difficult to pursue any meaningful research on the subject. Eithne’s condition had not improved, though she had yet to suffer as much as that first night, and in her duress he could do nothing but bid her to stay by his side. It seemed as if they were of the same mind, and despite her silence on what weighed so heavily upon her, she would remain at the Annex, her ever-present company a reminder of what he stood to lose, should she be left to suffer. The nightmares did not cease, and so while his days were spent on his work with Krile, the nights were oft spent in Eithne’s company, a tray of tea and treats between them.
It was only during those quiet moments where she succumbed to sleep, on a chair or against a shelf of some sort, that he found the space to research what ailed her. He didn’t wish to broach the subject just yet, if she did not wish to initiate, and he would not suffer idle hands in the meantime. He had considered questioning her, especially once he had seen the massive blade now taking up residence in her quarters, but he knew he must tread carefully, more than ever before. What little he had uncovered thus far, was of the emotional nature of the Dark Knight’s power. Volatile, erratic, an agent of change— while on the surface it seemed quite attuned to dark aether, his newfound experiences with Dynamis and its mysteries left him uneasy.
Were he to— If he approached it carelessly, without her being ready to speak, he feared it would only cause more undue suffering.
Although his duties involved clearing out the Annex of its piles of unprocessed tomes and documents, he had sheepishly left a letter at Ojika Tsunjika’s desk requesting more materials once he had learned of the Soul Crystal’s origin. Perhaps the book he had read in that other world was yet to exist, or would never come to be, but there must be others. Ojika had been kind enough to leave them near his desk with nary a word, perhaps intuiting the need for secrecy from their contents. In that darkened office, Eithne’s soft breathing barely louder than the turning of a page, he sunk deep into the underbelly of Ishgardian justice.
There was little description of the dark arts themself, what their practice entailed or any specific details of their unique abilities, but what he did find spoke for itself. First and foremost, he learned of the first recorded Dark Knight within their modern history, an oathbreaker, the type of man he would have obsessed over in his youth, once upon a time. Although Ishgard did not remember him fondly, he could tell that the man had been someone of righteousness, in spite of his methods. Later, he learns of two followers called Fray and Sidurgu, and it is soon after where his eyes see a familiar title.
The Warrior of Light had strode into the Tribunal in a mighty rage, leaving the bodies of Temple Knights in her wake, their blood painting its walls—
The Warrior of Light, armor soiled with blood and gore, flew into a fit of rage against a merchant—
The Warrior of Light is to be pursued relentlessly outside of Ishgard’s walls, for she harbors a child marked for death—
G’raha brought a thumb to his lips, a familiar ache spreading across the side of his face as he clenched his jaw. Even now, he felt the frustration bubbling under his skin, just as it had during his first encounter. He recalls her cries, her shoulders shaking as they struggled to contain her grief, it should have been me... And he knew there had to be something more, something they failed to see, or perhaps had not wanted to see, nor understand...
The creaking of a chair off to the side cuts through his thoughts, bringing reality back into focus, and he realizes that at some point, her breathing had become nearly silent again. He looks back at Eithne, a greeting rising to his lips, before his voice catches in his throat—
Clutching her chest, her head was bowed towards the ground, and all he could see was the quiver in her shoulders, the shadows she cast flickering in turn. His mind goes blank as he runs to her side, kneeling beside her.
“My friend, speak to me, are you alright?!”
Her lips were parted, but no sound came. He could now see her eyes, dilating pupils attempting to focus on something beyond what was in front of her. A familiar fear began to well within his chest, weighing as heavy as it ever did whenever he saw his beloved hero in danger. There is a quiet wheeze before he hears her speak, her voice barely above a whisper, straining to escape,
“Another step... J-Just, one more...”
G’raha does not have time to think about what it all means, before she falls forward and onto the ground, her knee hitting the marble floor with a sound more thunder than thud, a chill trailing down his spine like levinstrike. His hands find her shoulders, but she is solid, unmovable, and— Struggling to breathe. In his mind, he sees light made tangible, the aether escaping her through every pore, every crevice. He had seen her like this before, back when she—
“Before it... takes... Before I...”
But this was not Norvdrant, and there was no all-consuming light to take her away. Her mind was elsewhere, he realized, her wild eyes of tarnished gold struggling to see that which did not exist. As he struggled to keep his composure, G’raha Tia heard a clap of thunder, numbness spreading, and then the collective scream of all the nerves in his body; the guilt like lead tearing through his chest. But this time, there was no Emet-Selch to play the villain. No, this pain was one all his own, for he had done this, he had done this! It was because of him that she now struggled with this burden, this was what he had bartered for the fate of their worlds! Your grand orchestra, o’great Exarch, the one composed around the melody of the beloved hero’s cries! Your selfish, cavalier—
“Serve... Save...” A voice rings out, guttural and animalistic, more growl than word. The sound carried throughout the room, reaching his ears as if born from the shadows themselves. “Slave... Slay...”
He flinches, the voice at once familiar and alien, and though he swears her mouth did not move, the voice could belong to none other. Under his hands, she remained the same, save for a shuddering, but now consistent rise and fall of her shoulders. Tentatively, furtively, G’raha Tia speaks again.
“Please, Eithne!” His hands gently squeeze her shoulders, “You must...”
“I have little time, and even less patience.” The voice speaks again, its pitch more human, even more like— “Heed my words.”
G’raha is silent, but it is enough.
“We are close. One last communion, she must listen to the voice.” Despite the voice’s incomprehensible nature, G’raha does not feel fear. “Finally, finally, I can... be heard...”
As the words trailed into silence, he felt her body slouching forward, eager to meet the ground head on had he not caught her. As if exhausted from battle, she laid in his arms, motionless, only the sound of her soft breathing letting him remain present in the moment. There were many things he needed to consider, but he could not ponder upon them now, the woman he held so carefully the sole focus of his attention.
That night, G’raha Tia dreamed.
Though its contents were more nightmarish than what the verb described.
He had never given her a choice in the matter, when it came to his sacrifice. It was to be a straightforward affair: he would strike when she reached the zenith, when there were no more Lightwardens for her to contain. In her weakness he would overpower her easily, and cast himself to the abyss in a blaze of glory, as the stories would describe it. He had known that she would have never agreed to it, even as he took advantage of her heroism, even as he manipulated her heart for the sake of the greater good, and so he kept his secrets.
He had grappled with the Machiavellian nature of his plan, the underhandedness of it, of how it could never measure to the feats of true heroes. He had chased after that beacon so desperately, their light like falling stars, trailing virtuous paths before fading from his reach. He had wished to be like them, to follow in their footsteps, yet after multiple lifetimes, this was the best he could do.
She deserved better than him.
In the dream he is once again only half a man, his body’s crystallization progressing with each second, the concept of time unravelling to make its progress seem both infinitesimal and instant. He feels the lead in his chest, crystal coalescing around it, the Tower’s tendrils finding purchase in his weakness. However, unlike before, this time he had fallen onto his back, eyes facing skyward to witness a silent, pulsating, ivory expanse.
It was not the sky, but a Sin Eater.
One large enough to cover the never-ending daylight, its countless wings furling and unfurling, each feather trembling with her breath, pale flesh now hardened into solid stone, golden rivulets carving rivers of gold across the lustrous marble of her skin. It was breathtaking, had he any breath left to be taken, the sight of her so monstrously beautiful it could only be described in psalm. His guardian angel come to lift him to heaven’s gates, the Light emanating from her a sign of Her boundless mercy.
Forgive me, forgive me...
There is a roaring wind, one he hears rather than feels, the Tower now having robbed him of that sense. As manifold wings spread across the sky, he can see her face clearly. Eithne’s gentle features now a mask of tragedy, gilded, radiant tears eternally falling from stone eyes. He saw the face shift upwards, and beneath its sublime features were rows of teeth, jutting from her now exposed jaw like shattered bones. In her maw rested a darkness without end, a deep abyss within her where no light could ever hope to reach ever again. Once her mouth opened, the mask of stone crying heavensward, there was a roar that shook the firmament of the star. Within the alien sound he heard a familiar timbre, and he is certain that she continued to fight, even now, as her soul was shred to slivers. In it, he heard her answer, one he knew she would have given him, regardless of his failures, regardless of what he had done to her.
I forgive you, I forgive you...
The world goes silent as her figure twirls gracefully in an arc, and although he cannot feel the muscles he needed to move, he struggled to raise his hand up, to reach towards her, his crystal arm refracting her radiance into a fragmented rainbow— but it was too late. He should have asked for her help, he should have grasped her outstretched hand back then, he shouldn’t have braved the abyss alone...! But never again will she grace him with her smile, and their final memory will forever remain one of soul shattering pain, of a fate far worse than death.
He is blinded in a flash of light, before he feels the crystal of his body cracking. The Sin Eater pinions him to the ground, great ivory claws shattering the ground beneath them, the thunderous explosion drowning out the sound of shattering crystal.
It all goes black.
His eyes flutter open, the ceiling of his room in the Annex greeting him with quiet familiarity. His heart pounds against his ribcage, and he finds his breaths shallow and lacking, but there is a strange stillness in his mind, as if his body and his thoughts were disconnected from each other. Sitting up, G’raha Tia inspects his hands, his chest, prods his cheeks with clammy fingers, and finds nothing but soft skin, his flesh yet whole, yet human. The nightmare already beginning to feel distant, G’raha wonders if they were the thoughts of another him, the one who kept silent guard in a land far, far away.
G’raha attempts to build a bridge between his selves, sifting through his memories, confused and hazy through the curtain of sleep. He thinks he can see vestiges of these regrets, burdens of his past and present selves overlaid atop each other in different hues, coloring his understanding. G’raha Tia, the failed hero, the Exarch, the duplicitous ally, and now, himself, that which remained of them both. Perhaps he was due his reckoning, having been forbidden to dream for a century as he had been.
The mysterious words imparted onto him earlier in the day float up to the surface,
“Finally, finally, I can... be heard...”
Time and time again, he found himself surprised at how similar the two of them could be.