Time.

It was, as always, never enough time.

Only moments had passed since the Warrior of Light departed the First for her home in the Source… but it already felt like eons. Crystalline hand still tingling from the attempt to follow her, the Crystal Exarch remained where he stood, thoroughly lost to his own brooding. He could not help but feel lost with both his ultimate purpose and his guiding light gone. He was not still supposed to be here, so beyond this point was an expanse of possibility he simply had not considered.

All he knew was following the hero of the Source, which he desperately wanted to do, was out of his grasp. 

“Ah well,” he sighed aloud to no one, reddish lashes fluttering closed over redder eyes, “it is what it is.”

Bathed in the blue light of the Occular, wallowing in his newfound sense of purposelessness, how much time passed he knew not. The Exarch had much to consider and many thoughts rattled around inside his head, but none he could grasp with any certainty. He felt himself pulled in a direction that was barred from him and he could not help but feel a lingering feeling that he was simply… not worthy.

But such thoughts were not productive; surely some matter of the Crystarium required his attention as there was much and more to do in the wake of the averted Calamity, not least of all needing to find a solution that would return the Scions’ souls back to their bodies in the Source. And so he turned away from the glow of the portal towards the exit. With his mind elsewhere, it came as quite the surprise for him to be thrown to the floor, a sudden weight hitting him from behind! His staff clattered across the gilded flooring and the Exarch found himself flailing to flip over and defend himself against his would-be attacker…

“G’raha!” gasped the familiar voice of the Hero of the Source whom occupied his thoughts, “it’s me!”

Drawing in a great breath of relief, the Exarch formerly known as G’raha Tia let his head loll to the floor with an audible thud. “Miso’no,” he breathed, “I did not expect you back… so soon.”

“I only just got you back,” she grinned down at him – her small but powerful frame towered above him for once, braced on two lithe, scaled arms, “after nearly losing you a second time. I’ll not risk a third.”

“Fair enough,” he said, laughter and a flustered tone both dancing on the edge of his words. The way she called him G’raha always stirred something deep within him. He’d told her plenty of times he no longer felt much connection to that younger self… but not so much time had passed for her. Though for both of them it still felt like eons.

He cleared his throat, “Ah… a little help?”

Despite everything she’d been through – everything he’d subjected her to – Miso’no’s smile broke like the sun through the darkest of realms. The Exarch felt his heart skip a little in his chest as she grasped his hands firmly in her own and drew him to his feet. With one smooth motion (one that young G’raha would have been proud of) she drew him close and – much to his utter surprise – pressed her lips to his, poised on tip-toe.

A stolen kiss, now returned.

The Crystal Exarch, G’raha Tia – who hardly knew where one ended and the other began when it came to her – leaned into the kiss whole-heartedly. Despite the protestations of the darker recesses of his mind, he quelled them in favour of the simple sweetness of her embrace. Two-hundred years of self-denied longing was punishment enough he reckoned. Somehow being undeserving of her felt insignificant in comparison. So, in spite of all those dissenting voices, he pulled her closer – mismatched arms wrapping around the small of her back. She shivered slightly, but not unpleasantly, at the cold touch of the crystal hand.

In that moment, time ceased to be in a way neither had experienced but both relished. For how long they caressed in the azure light of the Crystal Tower, neither could say. But eventually, slowly… reluctantly, they parted but only just barely; foreheads of frosty white hair pressed together. 

This was the moment they should have had from the instant Miso’no had set foot in the First; yet another choice he’d robbed from her, he thought shamefully. The Exarch reached a tentative hand to the white strands of her hair co-mingling with his own. “It’s grown so much since the last time we were together like this,” he murmured, sounding breathless, and then added, prodding a crystallized finger at the tiny black horns protruding above the white horns typical of the Raen, “and these are new.” 

As if a little embarrassed, the Warrior of Light took a half step back, though still within the circle of his arms. Her bangs fell over her eyes as she tucked an errant hair behind said horn and said, “Ah… they are new, even to me,” she admitted, “they sprouted shortly before I arrived actually.” 

Taking his hand in hers, Miso led him on a walk around the Crystarium, telling him all the details; talking about everything and nothing at all.

“I believe I owe you an adventure, Mr. Exarch,” the Warrior of Light said to him with a smile.

Where he once might have dominated the conversation, the Exarch found himself more than happy to listen. Though there was much he knew from the annals of history; tales told of the Warrior of Light who inspired one and all (and not least of all himself). But it was another thing entirely to hear it from the woman herself; the details of a hero’s own personal struggles were so often lost to legend.

The Warrior of Light was no less plagued by doubts and fears and failures than he himself; in truth he learned the doubts ran far deeper for the stakes and pressure were that much higher.

He found he was no less awestruck by her for those vulnerable moments… Indeed, quite the contrary; his heart swelled more than ever. She’d endured more than one person rightly should in their lifetime in just a few short years compared to his hundreds. And yet… despite all that… she never once gave up or gave into her doubts. 

An inspiration indeed, he mused in silence.

“G’raha…” Miso’no had stopped walking, ducking forward to look up at what he imagined was a distant and dreamy expression with a gentle grin, “are you even listening?”

Blinking into the golden light of the evening hours, the Exarch realized they had been wandering the lavender foliage of Lakeland for some time as they reminisced hand in hand. “Ah…” it still stunned him to hear his name spoken so casually, so he gladly allowed himself to be chastised, “I fear my mind may have wandered. I apologize.”

“Hmm, such a sincere apology…” hummed the Warrior of Light, apprising him with a shrewed gaze, “Shall I forgive you?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” chuckled the Exarch sheepishly under the scrutiny of her gaze. Has she been taking Y’shtola lessons? “You’ve been remarkably magnanimous given the circumstances.”

“To be fair, I forgave you for plotting your own demise only,” she tugged his arm here to solidify her point, “because you did not succeed.”

“Not for lack of trying…” he sighed with a humour a tad dark even for his own liking. It had seemed like the best option at the time.

“Odd to think we have Emet-Selch to thank for that, isn’t it?” Miso’no said with the ghost of a smile; her gaze slipped away, a sudden sombreness settling over her. 

It was a topic he imagined they’d both been dreading, though their reasons could not be more different. The Exarch’s heart warbled for a painfully different reason, hand tightening around his staff as he walked. And perhaps he was hitting the ground a little too hard with the butt end every other step. While he had his suspicions about certain feelings the Ascian may have had for Miso’no despite his abhorrent actions, he was not at all certain how she felt in return. And he was not sure he wanted to know the answer.

“Thank is the not the word I would use,” he muttered, his tone petulant even to his own ears – ears which happened to be busy betraying his true feelings, flattened to his head as they were. He feared he was not hiding his hatred well and so averted his gaze that she might not read it so plainly on his features. He longed to cover his head with his hood once more…

Beside him he heard Miso’no draw in a little breath and release it, as if bracing for the conversation cliff they were teetering upon precariously. 

“G’raha,” she squeezed his flesh-and-blood hand gently, drawing him down into the pale purple foliage known to this area. The Exarch glanced around at the long grasses and soft purple flowers surrounding them, shielded from the gently fading sun by the leaves of a great tree. The wind seemed to whisper through the landscape; a language he always felt spoke to him in his most private moments. In this moment, it urged him to stay. 

He dared peek at the Warrior of Light as she knelt next to him, her pale eyes reflecting a great many things; sadness, hope, uncertainty, compassion and a few he couldn’t quite place. He realised then she was kneeling on a thick picnic blanket, surrounded by various foodstuffs… and vaguely familiar sandwiches. Her lips offered the faintest of smiles and she tugged his hand and said, “sit.”

The Exarch sat. 

For a long moment neither spoke whilst they picked at the food. The silence was not unwelcome, nor uncomfortable. The Exarch felt himself calmed by two simple things he enjoyed immensely: the feeling of the wind on his face and the weight of Miso’no’s hand in his own. Little hands that had felled Primals, Ascians, dragons, false-gods, would-be gods, and perhaps even an actual god or two. His inspiration. His courage. 

The Exarch decided to use that courage to voice his thoughts as plainly and frankly as he once did a long, long time ago – when there were no secrets between them:

“Miso… I mislike him deeply.” 

“Emet?” To his surprise she snorted a quick laugh, “you’d not be alone in that sentiment I assure you.”

“But… you do not,” he stated. It was not a question.

“No,” the ghost of a smile returning, “I suppose I don’t.” 

The Exarch could feel her eyes on him, ever fearless. She would face whatever she read on his features, full knowing there would be unpleasantness there. Anger. Jealousy. Resentment. Ugly feelings that simmered within him. He had given a lot to undo what that Ascian had done. He would have given more. He would have given everything. “You don’t know what he’s done,” he blurted out, turning his face away once more. 

“I know.”

“You do not even know a fraction…” he was on his feet.

“I know...”

“He would have destroyed this world and rejoiced!” he paced like a caged animal, one hand balled into a fist, the other clutching his staff until it creaked.

“Yes, he would have,” she agreed with infuriating calmness.

“He…” he found his voice faltering, retreating into a horrified whisper. He hissed the words through clenched teeth, “he would have destroyed you!”

The Warrior of Light fell silent at that. Stopping in his tracks, the Exarch a sinking in his heart as he glanced in her direction, fearing he’d been too harsh. There she knelt, hands folded neatly in her lap, meeting his gaze unwaveringly. Ruby eyes studied the set of her features, trying to decipher her expression. Eyes with irises as clear as crystal; he’d always found them mirror-like, reflecting back at him. They put him in mind of the glassy surface of a lake, undisturbed by wind or waves; one with a great, unseen depth beneath it. 

He felt a wave of guilt from his outburst wash over him. But all the same… he wasn’t wrong. 

“You’re wrong,” she said.

“What?” he rounded on her, dropping his staff a second time, “Miso’no you cannot be serious…” His mouth fell open as he watched her resolve and her jaw set in such a way where her lower lip jutted out, almost pouting. Her mirror-like eyes hardened like diamonds. He could not believe it, but there it was, clear as day. She was serious. 

“I… do not know how to explain it but… in the end…” she began, her hands (were they trembling?) tightened in her lap. Her gaze flicked downward, unable to meet his any longer. “... I think he… he hesitated.”

The Exarch grew still, the wind sucked from his sails; limbs fell slack at his sides, his gaze drifted away from her as he considered this new information. He scoured his mind for reasons why the Ascian might have done so and he did not like any of the answers. “You’re… you’re certain?”

“No,” she sighed, staring into her lap as if her eyes were heavy as lead, “I’m not…”

“Then what…”

“You’ve seen an unsundered Ascian… what they can do. The power he possessed with the snap of a finger…” her brow creased, barely visible below a white curtain of hair. A look of pure concentration appeared on her face, as if reliving the moment. “Hydaelyn’s blessing or no, even with Ardbert’s strength coupled with mine… truly, G’raha, think about it. Compared to him we are fragmented, broken souls. I do not think pitting my raw strength against his could have worked… should have worked… do you?”

Had he still been holding his staff G’raha might have thrown it. He’d believed her capable of felling such an Ascian; clearly she did not share that sentiment. But what would make such a being merely give up when victory was in his grasp? Bitterness seeped into his voice because he heard truth ringing in her words and did not like it. 

“Yes I remember how he spoke of us… Miso’no, he does not see us as people, he does not even consider us to be truly alive! So what… what would stay his hand? You can’t possibly think…” he swallowed audibly, almost choking on the words as he hissed them in a hushed tone, “it’s because he loved you?”

Miso looked up at him as if she’d been struck but held his gaze in stunned silence.

That silence between them stretched on impossibly long. Twelve help him, but he was holding back tears! It was not that he could not imagine the Ascian loving someone like her… in truth he couldn’t imagine the alternative. How could anyone not love her? And yet, the feeling turned his stomach. And what made it all worse was that Miso’no did not reject the idea outright (nor, as he’d hoped, sounded reasonably disgusted by it). 

“No, G’raha…” Miso said, breaking the silence with a gentle sort of wryness, “I think if that had been the reason he’d have let you die as planned.”

Jumping as if he’d been splashed with cold water in the middle of a tantrum, G’raha – feeling very much like a younger version of himself – spun back to look at Miso’no, who was smiling ruefully up in his direction, arms wrapped around both knees as she drew them up to her chest. “What!?”

She rose her brows in mock surprise, “He would have benefitted without lifting a finger or betraying his true intentions,” she rose her hand in a closed fist and lifted two fingers in succession as she counted the two goals, “He’d have saved me and rid himself of a romantic rival. Fortunately, you knew too much…” 

The Miqo’te rasped a sigh, raising his crystalline hand to run it through his hair, “I swear by the twelve I do not remember you being quite this puckish.”

“Where do you think I learned it from?” she ventured, lips slowly forming a small grin.

The tension sufficiently diffused, the Crystal Exarch sheepishly plucked his staff from the swaying grasses and flopped down next to the Warrior of Light with a peaceable sigh. “Very well,” he said, his mind turning instead to unraveling the mystery of it, “If not for love,” he swallowed audibly around the word before continuing: “... then why?”

“Do you know how…” she began and then bit her lip before continuing, “I don’t remember anything before the 7th Umbral Calamity?”

“Of course, how could I forget?”

“Oftentimes… I would come across people who almost seemed like… they knew me. But the flash of familiarity would soon fade, as a dream after waking.” She paused, linking her fingers together thoughtfully, “I sometimes get… similar feelings of things around me. But like the pins and needles before a limb wakes… they, too, slip away. If I try to recall or keep the feeling from slipping away, it’s as if a thick, dizzy fog stops me...”

The Exarch waited silently for her to continue. Some of this he knew already, from before his great slumber within the Tower. The idea of it was always… troubling to him. Whereas he remembered things he shouldn’t, Miso seemed doomed to know the pasts of others, but never her own. 

He watched and waited as she began to idly pick at pieces of grass with pale fingers, a nervous habit of hers. 

“In the Amaurot that Emet built,” she continued, “he built it from memory, you know. All those people there… they were fabrications from his mind. I’m told based on the way their creation magicks work, they are very much influenced, even if subconsciously, by the maker themselves. Those shades were all real people once, as he remembered them…” She paused to swallow, “As I spoke to them, some of them… some of them seemed to…” She began tripping over the last of her words, unable to continue.

“Miso…” he said, sitting forward to look more closely at her face, searching for her mirror-like eyes to meet his own. He reached out a crystalline hand and put it over the one fiddling with the grass; a cold comfort. “Please, you can tell me.”

Though she took his hand and squeezed, she buried her face in her other arm. When Miso’no spoke it was muffled, her voice carrying the edge of an emotion too great to name, fit to burst. “... they knew me G’raha.”

Like an exclamation point, every hair on the Exarch’s tail stood straight on end, liberated from his robes with an agitated flick. A hush seemed to settle around them in the clearing, both flora and fauna growing still in solidarity. The weight of it all dropped like a stone in that cool, mirror-like lake of her existence. Though he longed to plunge the depths, he did not relish the waves he was seeing breach the surface now, feeling his own throat choked with emotion. 

And so, lacking the words – for no words felt adequate – he merely squeezed her hand a little more firmly as her shoulders shook with the force of her weeping.

“I saw the light of recognition in his eyes,” muffled words spoken into the crook of her arm, “He rejected it, denied it, grew angry with it… I wondered if he maybe even have wanted to kill me for it, but…”

When her sobs slowed to sniffles, G’raha Tia ran one cool blue thumb over her knuckles very, very gently. Tentatively he asked, “So, you think he hesitated because…”

“I don’t know, maybe it wasn’t me at all. Maybe… he was tired. He was just so tired,” she sniffed, “I’ve only been seeing fragments of things I think I recognize for a few years, he had… thousands and thousands…” her voice shook but she pressed on, “... and the way he looked at me sometimes… the way he looked at me when Ardbert and I…” Miso’no shook her head, trailing off.

“What?”

“Ardbert and I are fragments of the same soul, I think that’s why… before the finale battle with Emet, he finally saw…” Miso said, drawing the back of her arm across her face to scrub away the tears glimmering on her blueish cheeks. She turned to look at him then with devastation dazzling her eyes, the mirrors cracking, “...who I really was.”

For the second time that day, under totally different circumstances and for completely different reasons, Miso’no – the Warrior of Light and Darkness, Slayer of Eikons, Champion of the Realm – threw her arms around G’raha Tia’s waist with such force that he had to brace himself on both arms to keep from tumbling over again. She wept with abandon, tears soaking into the front of his robes. And now he’s gone… he thought. 

To go so many years not knowing one’s self, one’s past, only seeing fragments of familiarity but never truly recognizing anything, to never see the light of recognition in another’s face (until now)… it’s a wonder she did not break sooner. 

G’raha Tia pulled her close and let his hero cry as long as she needed.