Thump, thump, thump…

Footsteps paced back and forth in front of one of the heavy wooden doors of the Forgotten Knight, marching to the beat of an anxious heart. The room was occupied; a fact which the owner of said footsteps was well aware. Once in a while the footsteps paused and a fist hovered apprehensively before the surface of it, poised to knock… before falling away with frustrated sigh. Then the footsteps would resume.

Thump, thump, thump…

No matter how much she agonized over it, Miso’no could not seem to muster the courage to rap upon Y’shtola’s door.

Come the morning they would set off for Azys Lla; an endeavor she feared far more dangerous than the party that almost ended her dear friend and the rest of the Scions. With all the loss the Warrior of Light had suffered as of late… she was uncertain she could bear another anytime soon. But this was not the reason for her visit or her agitation – something else entirely had been bothering her. That self-same nagging feeling since they had retrieved her from the lifestream.

How has no one else noticed? Miso’no ruminated silently, brows pulled together in thought. She raked a hand through her white hair, which grown longer since last they saw one another in Ul’dah. We were all so relieved she was alive… no one stopped to think… no one stopped to ask…

It did not escape the Warrior of Light’s notice; Y’shtola’s once cerulean gaze had gone milky white – not unlike her own. But very much unlike her own… pupils of similar paleness accompanied them and Miso could not help but fear the worst. Although her concern was not likely to be unwelcome, the whirlwind of activity since their happy reunion had been all business in their pursuit of the Archbisop. 

On top of all of this… something had stirred within her breast every time she caught Y’shtola’s eye…  eyes she was not so certain saw her the same as they once did. 

Caught, grasped and twisted.

Whatever the feeling, it now hammered against her chest from within so loudly that she did not notice the door had opened; nor until the subject of her thoughts startled her out of them: “You know, Miso’no, most knock upon the door and not the floorboards,” came the dry, even wit of Y’shtola from the doorway. 

Miso’no, Champion of the Eorzea, jumped like a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar.

Embarrassed that her anxious pacing had been loud enough to rouse the Scion from her research and Miso’no – despite her intentions being good ones – stammered clumsily through a response that sounded weak even to her own ears, “A... apologies. I wished to see how you were feeling but I… ah… thought better of disturbing you.”

“Well,” she purred with the faintest of amusement, “seeing that I am already disturbed, would you like to come in?”

The Scion stepped gracefully to one side to permit her entry. Miso hesitated, wiped her sweaty palms upon her robes and then ducked ungracefully inside. The room smelled of old paper, unlit candles, and… bergamot? A heady citrus scent she often noticed in Y’shtola’s presence. It put her achingly in mind of G’raha Tia… a thought she quickly pushed from her mind. 

Glancing around the room Miso’no noticed it was exceedingly dark in the fading light of evening. How is she reading at this time of night? She wondered… then cursed as her thigh hit the edge of a table she hadn’t seen in the gloom. 

“... sorry,” she muttered, righting a vase she’d jostled in the process. 

Y’shtola had no such issues navigating the darkness, reaching smoothly for some matches, “I must have been far too engrossed in my readings, the apology should be mine. I hadn’t realized it had gotten so dark.” Without striking the match, it caught aflame – an affinity she hadn’t remembered her fellow conjurer having. She lit a few candles, then turned her head toward her in that strange manner Miso’no had been noticing; the one where she moved her head to follow the subject of her attention, but not her eyes…

A solid pit had formed painfully at the base of her stomach and laid there like a lead ball, eating away at her insides. Now that she was here, Miso had no idea how to proceed. Y’shtola had ever been as distant and majestic as a mountain range, seemingly impossible to navigate without a map or a guide. She feared voicing her concern outright would be met with deflection; but hiding her intentions from Y’shtola never went well either. 

Rock… meet hard place. 

For a blessing, the mountain moved first, and the Scion said, “it is kind of you to worry after me, Warrior of Light. I’ll admit my forray into the Lifestream was ill-advised.” Crossing her arms she leaned against the dresser, her demeanor as enigmatic as ever, “Master Matoya has already chastised me for my recklessness, but I fear we lacked better options. I can only hope Thancred did not suffer a worse fate for my decisions…”

“We will find him, I am certain of it.” Miso said with a confidence she lacked at present. A brilliant approach occurred to her suddenly: “Are you worried he might experience… negative side effects from the spell you cast?”

As shutters might close against the rain, so did Y’shtola’s expression, but she was not one to lie when confronted directly. Miso’no only hoped that asking after Thancred would offer an opportunity to pry into the sudden shift in the nature of her eyes. The delay in her response gave a hint that she had touched close to the truth, “Yes. It is entirely possible. The nature of the spell I used, well…” she sighed, “let us just say using it is… frowned upon.”

Miso’no decided to press onward, wondering if it was obvious she was not really talking about Thancred, but she did not hide the concern from seeping into her voice, “I see… could the effects then–I mean, would they be permanent?” 

“Unfortunately, yes,” the Miqo’te said, matter-of-factly. She had moved to a teapot by the fire and began pouring two cups. Miso watched her move across the room carrying both on tiny plates, moving around obstacles with ease and not spilling a drop. She offered one to Miso, and sat down at a small round table near the windows. With a graceful hand she bid her to sit. She sat.

Miso opened her mouth to ask another roundabout question about the side effects of this unpredictable magick when the Scion beat her to it: 

“Miso’no, if you wish to ask about my eyes, just say so.” 

She felt her face flush with shame. “I…sorry, I didn’t…” she bit her bottom lip, the colour of purple grapes. “I didn’t know how.”

Setting the teacup down with a gentle clink, the other woman sighed, “‘Tis not an easy subject to broach. If anyone else has been suspicious thus far, they’ve not said.” A wry hint of a smile touched her lips then, “Save for Master Matoya. I should have known it would not escape her notice, nor her criticism.”

“So… that means,” Miso’no couldn’t bring herself to say it.

“Yes, dear friend, I am blind.”

With trembling hands Miso carefully sat her tea cup down on the table and stared at it, words eluding her more than usual. Perhaps there were no words for such things. She swallowed around warring feelings within her throat, eventually whispering words that felt beyond inadequate: “Y’shtola… I’m so sorry.”

Neither spoke a long moment, Y’shtola merely inclined her head in acknowledgement. 

The tea sat before them, growing cold.

“It’s not all bad, you know,” Y’shtola began eventually, running a careful finger along the rim of her teacup, “I can still see in my own way.”

Miso’s eyes snapped up, “You can?”

“I learned much of the way of aether as I was adrift on the lifestream,” sightless white eyes gazed around the room slowly, “As there is aether in all things, with some effort I can see these energies. These aetheric signatures are quite distinct from one another, so while it differs greatly from sight as you know it, it is… quite manageable.”

Miso’no’s brows shot up in surprise, curiousity winning over concern for the moment. “That… is amazing. What…” her voice dropped to a careful whisper, “what does it look like?”

Favouring her with a smile, Y’shtola’s eyes of white turned in her direction, “Well… it is hard to describe, as it is not ‘seeing’ in the strictest sense of the word. At least not how you might understand it. It’s almost like a mixture of colours or sensations. Very abstract,” she rested a loose fist against her chin she she searched thoughtfully for the words, “take your aether for example. It puts me in mind of the way light catches in the purest of crystals. A bit like your eye colour, if I recall correctly.”

“It does?” Miso’no was grateful that Y’shtola couldn’t see the flushed state of her cheeks. At least… she hoped not.

“Oh yes,” said the Scion as she rose from the table to walk around her appraisingly, dragging pointed nails lightly across the table as she approached. “Bright and pure, almost prismatic… it might be the most beautiful aether I’ve ever seen. I confess I am not as poetic as Urianger… but if others could see the world as I do, I imagine your aether alone might inspire your fair share of poetry. If not for your heroic deeds.” 

Beneath the weight of such praise, Miso’no willed herself not to squirm in her chair under that strange, aetheric gaze. Though she was growing used to the attention from others that came with being the Warrior of Light, this felt strangely and acutely different.

“In addition to one’s aether being entirely unique from person to person, I can also see shifts in emotion,” Yshtola said lightly, still pacing lightly out of view, voice silky in Miso’s ears. “If someone was feeling strong emotion for example,” she leaned a little closer, plucking a loose thread from Miso’no’s robes, “Or lying... I believe I could discern it.”

Oh, thall’s balls, she thought, closing her eyes against a tornado of emotions, I was afraid of that. It seemed unfair that Y’shtola might tell how she feels before she herself has had time to decipher it. Suddenly it made her feel felt very, very exposed. She might as well have been naked as Y’shtola had been… freshly plucked from the lifestream.

Before she could decide what to do or say, she felt the gentle touch of both Y’shtola’s hands upon her shoulders from behind. “Oh Miso’no,” she laughed softly, “What am I to do with you? I fear you are far too susceptible to teasing.”

Relaxing a measure under her touch, the Warrior of Light released an exasperated sigh, “you are not the first to say so.” Though Y’shtola and G’raha were as different as one could imagine, they did both seem to take great pleasure in vexing her. 

Without thinking she grabbed one of Y’shtola’s hands and squeezed it, “are you certain you are… all right with this? Shouldn’t we… do you want me to look for a cure?” 

Her heart sank as the hand in her grasp pulled away, albeit gently, and patted her on the cheek, “You are sweet to offer, but no… there’s no coming back from this I’m afraid.” She moved back into view, putting the table between them once more but did not sit. She grabbed her tea cup in nimble fingers by the rim and plucked it from the table; it’s no wonder few had noticed her blindness given the grace with which she moved. Cupping the cooled tea in her hands she swayed around the room on thoughtful, soft footsteps, “our energies are better served elsewhere for the moment.”

“But…”

“Miso’no,” her voice took on slightly stern edge, but there was gentleness in it too. “I know you are accustomed to healing the world’s ills and you are exceptional at it, but you need not concern yourself with fixing me.”

“But–”

“No buts!” Y’shtola put her teacup down – a little too heavily – on the nightstand, as if that settled matters. Miso flinched and bit her tongue. She could do naught but stay silent, staring sullenly into the amber liquid before her. It stung to feel so powerless to fix that which caused her friends’ suffering. There had been too much of that as of late. 

“Now, now,” the Scion swept across the room to loom before the Warrior of Light, “No need to pout. It isn’t that I am ungrateful for the offer, nor do I think you incapable.” She drew her brows together in a mild scowl, “nor am I so self-absorbed that I think myself above needing aid, nor so self-loathing that I think myself unworthy of it.”

“Then… what?” Miso was never the best at interpreting such things.

With deft fingertips, Y’shtola grabbed Miso’no by the chin and lifted (somehow equally gentle and firm) her face up to look at her with eyes that did not see her… but saw through her. Her insides squirmed like a mouse in a trap but she did not look away, “everyone asks too much of you. No matter how freely you give it, I will not add to your burdens, do you understand?” 

Miso’no said the only thing one could say in such a situation and breathed the response: “...yes.”

“Good girl,” smiled Y’shtola in that knowing way of hers, releasing her chin to gently pat her on the cheek a second time. Miso was not entirely sure how she was maintaining a solid form, for she felt very much like she might have melted out of her chair. By the Twelve, how her defenses seemed non-existant in this woman’s presence! And yet said woman seemed an impenetrable fortress; Miso could not get close.

Did she want to get close? The thought hadn’t occurred to her until she’d been seemingly rebuked. She heard G’raha’s words echoing in her mind: “I cannot tell if you are that naive or you simply are oblivious to the effect you have on people.”

Well, if she did have some kind of effect on others, it would seem Y’shtola was immune. 

Doubting her reasons for coming now, Miso rose to get up out of her chair, “Well… it’s late.” Stammering and staggering over the chair in question, she realized the simple act of standing put her all too close to Y’shtola, who had not moved. This close she was far too aware of how much taller the Miqo’te was compared to her. “I am sorry if… well, what I mean to say is that I didn’t mean for you to feel as if I was foisting help upon you.”

“You didn’t,” Y’shtola said simply, sounding vaguely amused, “so there is no need to apologize.” She still, Miso’no noted, did not move.

“Oh… then I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“You didn’t.”

“Well then I’m sorry I–”

“Miso’no…” Y’shtola’s voice dropped very low, and held a warning tone.
“What?”

A few things happened nearly all at once; Y’shtola let out a great sigh, rolled her eyes and she grabbed Miso’no’s face in both her hands – once again both firm and gentle – and pressed wine coloured lips to her own. Suddenly, the dark room melted away and Miso felt as though she were drowning; wobbly legs failed to find purchase on seemingly unstable ground. She stumbled back into something solid – the chair – and fell into it. The Scion followed suit, straddling her hips without a hint of reservation. The fortress had become a volcano, unleashed upon the unsuspecting Au’Ra with such fiery passion that she felt a similar, unfamiliar urge rising to meet it. And ocean wave against a lava flow.

The candles had burned low and the world was reduced to soft sighs, loose clothing, and wandering limbs. In the breaths between, “Miso…” Y’shtola whispered against the blueness of her skin, “stay.”

She opened her mouth to say something like are you sure? Or maybe, I’m not sure. Or even, why? But something in the other woman’s voice, something small and urgent, something… vulnerable… made her hesitate. Miso realized she couldn’t say anything like that. So instead she said: “... okay.”

Without letting go of one another, or ceasing their entanglement, the two moved clumsily in the dark towards the feather bed. Something had shifted in the Scion as they settled in beneath the piles of blankets typical for the frigid climes of Ishgard; she clung to Miso like a drowning person might cling to a floating raft. Though her words said stay everything in her kiss, her touch, her caress said don’t leave. 

Nothing in Y’shtola’s words or actions up until this point had alluded to needing comfort, nor company. Miso’no was thoroughly confused, her head spinning from it all. Once abed, they only held one another, breathless and all.

“Y’shtola,” Miso began, tracing a finger along the gentle curve of her collarbone, “are you all right?”

“No,” she admitted plainly, “... are you?”
“No…” Miso sighed, feeling a measure of relief having said it.

“Well, ‘twould seem we have that in common.” 

“But not because of the…” biting her lip she struggled for the words, “not because of… whatever this was?”

“I should think not,” Y’shtola said. Miso could hear her wry smile even in the dark, “No, my dear heart, not because of this. But such concerns can be left for another day.” In the dimness of night, she could see the other woman lean in close, faintly rimmed in moonlight. For a moment, Miso’no wondered what her aether looked like. 

The thoughts were quickly silenced as she felt a gentle kiss against her brow.  “Rest,” Y’shtola sighed into the curve of Miso’no’s neck, signaling her intentions to do the same.

In a tangle of arms, legs, and tails –  both, for the first time in a long time, slept peacefully.