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The messenger is afraid. Magnai is somewhat surprised by this fact. This messenger, by the colour of their robes and ornate headdress, comes from Kugane, and all previous Kugane messengers were more eager than afraid. Warriors of the Steppe are terrifying to strangers, perhaps, but Hingashi folk are hungry things, like flies on manure, always seeking the next opportunity, and they seem to think that the Steppe is an ‘untapped source of opportunity’, as they once described it to him. They come bearing gifts and tidings and sweet sweet words.
But this one...this one brings only a message and trembles in fear. Whether it’s at him or at the contents of the message, he has no idea.
He leans back on his throne and gestures with a hand. “What brings you here, quivering before the Sun?” He asks, voice haughty and proud. “Speak now.”
The messenger bows low, deeper than anyone has ever bowed to Magnai before. “Most Radiant Brother,” the man says, “I come bearing a message from the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. It is urgent and regards the Warrior of Light.”
It feels as though all the air in the room disappears with those words. Magnai’s shoulders tighten and he sits up immediately, holding out a hand. His face demands it where his mouth does not - his throat is too tight for words anyway - and in fear, the messenger presses the rolled up message into his hand. His hand does not shake as he unrolls it, trying to maintain the facade of neutrality, and his sharp eyes scan the paper.
Most Radiant Brother Magnai,
I have news, both good and bad, and it was most pressing that you were told.
As we prepared for a fight against the Empire, the Scions were struck by a strange malady. On separate occasions, they each heard a voice calling out to them, and one by one, they fell where they stood. They have not awoken and, by our reasoning, the person they heard pulled their souls themselves out of their bodies. Nor do we know how to bring them back. Ma’Ren remained standing and fought hard in the battle of Ghimlyt Dark, and emerged victorious against the being that wears Zeno yae Galvus’s skin.
Once this was done, she decided to seek out the caller herself, to find out what they wanted and get the Scions back. And so, she was called - her soul and body summoned far, far away. I watched her disappear before my very eyes - she is gone. I do not know where she has gone, nor how she will return, nor when. But she is not in Eorzea, nor anywhere on this world. We cannot follow her either. All we can do is wait.
She has sent a message since, from that other world, so we know she is alive and well. She has been tasked with saving that star from its own end, with the hopes of saving our world from ours. She will return when her work is done, and she promises to return in one piece with the rest of her friends.
I will keep you apprised of any news about her. I know she cares for you deeply. If you have any message to pass along, let us know, and we will do so as soon as we can.
Tataru Taru, Secretary to the Scions of the Seventh Dawn
“Leave.” Magnai is barely able to speak, his voice tight and low, his fingers clenching the paper. “All of you. Now.”
He does not look up from the paper. Not to see the nervous messenger run out, nor the unnerved Oronir or unsurprised Buduga, nor when the door swings shut with a long clang. He just stares at the words over, and over, and over again. She is gone. We cannot follow her. I do not know how she will return or when. She is gone. She is gone.
He crumples the paper into his fist, opens his mouth, and roars in frustration, his voice echoing through the empty room. He does not kick the throne like a child, nor does he knock over any furniture, but he does sink his face into his hands and scream in rage. No. No. Not when he has spent so long alone, not when he has waited so patiently for his Nhamma to come. He cannot lose her. He can’t.
(Outside, the news spreads like wildfire through the Oronir through the frightened messenger, who had read the note on the way. ‘The Most Radiant Brother has lost his Nhamma,’ they whisper. ‘She may return, but she is farther away than ever before.’ They tremble themselves, for just a moment, at the thought of their leader’s fury.)
How is he supposed to react? Anger, that someone spirited his lover away, even when she went to them first in an attempt to save her kin? Fear, that she may die, even though she would die a warrior’s death, or that she might fail, even though she never has? Longing, that she has already been gone for some time and now she will be gone even longer, even though she has always come back? Sadness, that he might lose her? There are so many emotions churning in his chest, ones he has never let himself think about or process, and so, he lets himself fall back into the comforting embrace of rage and indignation. He snarls with fury, slamming his fist onto the arm of the throne.
Someone took that which belongs to the Sun. She will take their head on his behalf.
“My, my, such a fierce temper, Magnai Oronir!”
The voice is unfamiliar, and Magnai grabs his axe instinctively. “Who dares enter?” He snarls. And how? He didn’t hear the door open, nor does he see anyone around him. A shinobi, perhaps?
“You are just as loud as she says you are!” The voice chirps away again, coming from above him. “‘He’s as fierce as thunder and a roaring waterfall, Feo Ul, so no tricks, not when my Azim is in pain.’”
He freezes at the words and lets go of the axe. “Who are you?” He asks again, and he cannot help how his voice sounds a bit weak at that. “And why do you know Ma’Ren?”
This time, there is a tinkle of bells, and a figure pops into view before him. A spritely little thing, like an elemental spirit, but a person, with orange hair and big eyes and pointed fingers and wings. They smile, grinning away, and say, “Didn’t you hear me introduce myself?”
“Feo Ul,” he repeats carefully. “Which answers my first question, but not my second, and I demand an answer of you.”
They laugh. “So you are as grumpy as promised!” They fly around his head like a fly, and it is only out of what little patience he has that he does not swat the creature out of the air. “I am a messenger, and I come bearing a message from my sapling, your Ma’Ren.”
Sapling? He raises an eyebrow, even as his heart thunders in his chest. “I have just received one. Yet do you bring another?”
They nod again. “This one from her herself! A lovely lady, your Ma’Ren. I have claimed her in the First, so that none will play with her.”
“The First?” He repeats.
“Have you no words of your own, thunderer?” They titter. “Only repeating those which I say?”
“I have many words, little Feo Ul,” he growls, “and you shall hear many unpleasant ones if you do not tell me why you are here?”
“So rude.” They scoff. “But she said to tell you, no matter how rude you are. So…”
They cough and recite, “‘Magnai, my Azim, I am alive and well. There is no night in this place, and as such, no moon, and I refuse to die anywhere where I cannot see the moon. I will return to you, in one piece, if perhaps a little more scarred than before. Pray have patience and keep the bed warm for me. I have the fates of two worlds on my shoulders, and upon my return, I will need a place to rest. Fight well, my Azim, and I shall see you again soon. With love, Ma’Ren.’”
It sounds just like her, and Magnai sinks back into his throne, trying to let all of the information sink in. He finally asks, “What does she mean, a world with no night?”
Feo Ul explains, “Where I come from, the First, there was a battle between Light and Dark, and Darkness was wiped out. The Light consumed the land, destroying all that it touched, save for where the Warriors of Light died to stop its flow. She is trying to bring the night back.”
How fitting, for a daughter of the moon to bring the night back to a land lost to Light. For all of his sadness, he cannot help a smile. “That’s my Nhamma,” he says affirmingly. “I will do as she bids me. Bring this message back to her..”
Feo Ul leans forward to scan him. They are so small, barely bigger than his face, and they nod after a few moments. “Alright! Then what do you want me to say back?”
He closes his eyes and taps his chin, thinking for a moment, putting the words together. “Ma’Ren. You shall always have a home with me, and I shall be waiting for you. Fight well against the Light. You still owe me a duel, and I refuse to let you die before I win. Return when you can, and let that world know how lucky they are to have you, and that I am patient. Fight well, my Nhamma. I shall see you soon. With love, Magnai.”
Feo Ul makes a cooing sound and claps their hands together. “That is so sweet! Oh, you mortals are all so lovely. I am sure she will love it.”
He nods. “Keep her safe, Feo Ul, where I cannot.”
The pixie blinks out of existence and, for all of Magnai’s worry, he feels a little more at ease. Eventually, when he can school himself back to a more neutral expression, he opens the door and brings the messenger back in. “You may stay the night here,” he replies, offering hospitality as any courteous host would, especially for someone who brought news of his love, “and you will return with a message for this...secretary.”
“Yes, sir,” the messenger gulps.
Magnai puts a message together himself in careful writing, telling the secretary that he has received a message from the pixie to bring good wishes from his Nhamma, but still to tell him if anything changes. ‘ The sun should know all beneath it, even that which is under a different sun.’
Now comes the hard part. Now, comes the waiting.
(Slowly, the word makes its way to the other tribes, if only out of cause for diplomacy. The statement is thus: ‘ Something has happened to the khagan. She has been taken far away and cannot return for some time. Magnai may be furious in the next while until she returns.’ In the north, the Oronir and Buduga settle in for a long wait. In the east, the Mol send their best wishes and prayers for her safety. In the south, Sadu Dotharl cracks her knuckles and readies herself for some wonderful sparring matches against an angry Magnai.)
It takes great effort for Magnai not to mourn her. Not that he doesn’t have faith in his Nhamma - he does, Azim above, the faith he has in Ma’Ren Avadne, khagan of the Steppes, Warrior of Light, would put the stars themselves to shame - but...she is in so much danger and he would not know until it is too late. Feo Ul comes sometimes with messages for him, and each night after the pixie leaves, Magnai finds himself dreaming of what the pixie tells him. They change from day to day, but there is one commonality. Each time he awakes, he finds one hand pressed to his hard, and the other resting over the empty space on his bed. Then he falls back with a sigh and prays to Azim that she will be okay.
She killed her first Lightwarden, the pixie tells him, sipping on warmed sheep’s milk. An enormous white beast. Destroyed a whole town, but she did it.
That night, he dreams of an enormous white creature with no eyes, a gaping maw, and a long purple tongue that pounds its fists into the ground. The town around him burns as he jumps out of the way, flanked by other warriors, and he readies his(?) sword and shield with a roar of triumph. Now, now, this beast will die.
(He wakes with the taste of blood in his mouth and he stares down at his hands. Win, my love, he thinks. Please win. )
She has an inn room in the Crystarium where she sleeps when she can rest, Feo Ul tells him - who now twirls in a new gown and calls themself Titania - as they sit on top of his battleaxe, touching the glowing golden edge. It’s got a view of the entire city. I believe the Exarch makes sure to put all news until morning just so she can get a good night’s sleep.
That night, he dreams of a well-lit room with a plush feather bed and a wide window overlooking a city made of shining blue crystal. Even as a strange bird stares at him on the window ledge, he looks at the people below and feels...safe, somehow. Then the scene flashes away and he stands in a room completely made of that blue crystal, bronze framing the room. A man stands before him - slight, hooded, wrapped in robes, holding a large staff, and speaking in a low voice. “I am glad to see all that you have wrought, Warrior of Darkness. Summoning you was a good decision.”
(He wakes up peacefully at first, which curdles quickly to rage at the thought of that... Exarch being the person who had summoned his Nhamma away. He has to spar extra hard that day to work out his rage.)
Feo Ul brings news of a forest that his Nhamma has marched into. The Greatwood, Feo Ul describes from a sign post as Magnai brushes down Temujin, cleaning out the yol’s feathers, one of the few places with shadows, as its trees reach every higher, blocking out the sun. She goes to speak to a people who have been there for hundreds of years to seek their wisdom.
That night, he walks on a path lit by bright blue blooms, surrounded by trees that seem as big as mountains. The woods nearly sing around him, a cacophony of life, sunlight dappled on his skin through the great boughs. He has not known forests such as this before, only knowing them through his flights in Doma, and the grand nature of it all takes his breath away. The scene changes mid-step as he walks onto a wooden floor, high above the ground, speaking to a people he has never seen before. As tall as him, with long ears, like rabbits, all women, with clear voices and wisdom in their eyes. Then, in the distance, there is an earth-shattering roar, so much like the one from the burning village.
(Magnai wakes with the need to see green. It is the early hours of the morning, but he climbs out of bed and makes his way to the rookery. He wears no armour or weapons, only a coat as he takes Temujin to the greenest patch of grass he can find in the Steppes. He sits in the shadow of the mountains and runs his fingers through the grass, taking it in. It is not as peaceful as it was in that strange place, but he hopes that she can take whatever moments of peace she can.)
When Feo Ul comes again, there is rage on their face. My sapling has to go to Eulmore, they spit in rage. The City of Gluttony, where the rich wait for the apocalypse to come. She will hate it there.
He dreams of the city on a pillar like the Dawn Throne, but gaudier, wrapped in silks and bright lights, and the line of poor onlookers begging to be let in. He dreams of the food and meal a plenty, and how they would do nothing but await their end. Then, he gets to see the leader...and he feels his love’s rage, even though so far away.
(That day, he receives word that Sadu Dotharl wishes to spar, and he lets Ma’Ren’s residual anger spill into him as he readies himself for combat. Sadu’s words, as always, come laced with knives, and he has never been clever enough to return them in kind. But he does return them with his axe, with his own indignant fury and the memory of an anger for those who would just watch the world burn.)
One night, it is not Feo Ul who brings the message. His pleasant dreams shift to screaming agony, and in a snap, he is looking at his soulmate. She is in pain, burning white hot pain in every pore of her body, and her body glows with a bright white Light that threatens to consume her. Magnai has never seen any light like this before - it’s like magic, but there is something wild about it, like an element gone awry. Ma’Ren’s face contorts with agony, and the horror of the moment slowly dawns on him.
The Light consumed the land, destroying all it touched, save for where the Warriors of Light died to stop its flow.
She’s dying. Ma’Ren is full of Light and it is consuming her.
“Fight, damn you,” he growls. “Fight, Nhamma. You must!”
At first, it seems as though she does not hear him. No small wonder - it is a dream, and he may not really be there. But then, ever so slowly, she looks up from the ground. She stares at the man beside him - the Exarch, who is speaking, but Magnai cannot make out the words - and Magnai watches her push against the ground, dragging her nails across the stone until they bleed, and push herself up to her knees. Her mouth opens in a snarl, she screams out a name that he cannot make out -
And then he wakes up, heart racing, halfway out of his bed to grab his axe. It takes a moment for the reality of it all to sink in, and he falls back onto the bed. Of all of the emotions whirling in his mind, the one that rises to the top is a keen, sharp hopelessness. There is no way for him to know what happened to her. He has no idea if that happened, and if it did...if she’s alive.
No. She has to be alive. She has to be.
There is nothing now to stop his mourning, and Magnai is in a funk for days. He barely eats, barely sleeps, and certainly isn’t involved in anything that would lead to a successful hunt. No matter how the Oronir cajole him, there is nothing that they can do. He is still as stone, as emotional as such, and he does little but look out over the horizon, watching the sun and moon rise.
Finally, one of the Oronir women is so annoyed at the Most Radiant Brother that she borrows a yol and herself flies to the camp of the Dotharl. After her own measure of pleading, she returns with Sadu herself, who barges her way straight into the throne room and laughs at him.
“It has finally happened, hasn’t it?” Sadu laughs as she steps in, ignoring the guards who raise their swords at you. “The sun has finally made you go blind.”
Magnai looks up with a scowl, a shade of his pride creeping in. “You dare come here, Dotharl witch?”
Sadu grins. “Of course I must. It seems the moon must provide light when the sun is away, and so I shall, out of the good grace of my heart, just this once.”
He rises. “You will speak and then you will leave , Sadu.”
Sadu crosses her arms over her chest. “Little sun,” she teases, just to make Magnai scowl more, but her expression goes softer. “Did your love win the Naadaam for the Mol?”
Magnai pauses, eyebrow raised.
“Did she not win Doma for her prince, and Ala Mhigo for her friends? Did she not fight the Garlean Empire at every turn, fight false gods brought to life, beat death over and over again?” Sadu asks, stepping forward.
Magnai spits, “What do you want from me, Sadu?”
Sadu strides up to him and shoves him into the throne with the butt of her staff. “You blind fool, you think something far away could kill her?”
Magnai bares his teeth, but says nothing.
Sadu presses the staff into his chest more. “Your love is one of the most powerful women in the world. She is the best thing ever given to the Oronir, and not because you took it, but because she offered herself,” she leans forward to look Magnai in the eye, blue eyes staring into gold. “I do not know how this foolish thought got into your head, but if you need salve to soothe this ache too, I shall tell you. She will return.”
Magnai wonders how truly desperate he must be for him to need comforting words from not just a Dotharl , but from Sadu Dotharl. Even so, the words soothe him. He is a fool for thinking that she would not fight tooth and nail for her own life and the lives of others. And too, she promises that she would not die somewhere that did not have a moon. He breathes in slowly, gathering the fear and sorrow and shoving it back down into his chest. Sadu is right. She will return.
He grabs her staff and pushes it away from him, throwing Sadu back. She grins as she stumbles backward, spinning her staff into attack position. “Are you done sulking?” She taunts.
“The clouds have cleared and the sun will shine,” he replies, standing up. “Now, shall we make use of your visit? I seem to recall that I have a lesson to teach you about impertinence.”
“Or shall I teach you again how to take a fall?” Sadu scoffs, but there is something in her posture that eases. She strides out of the hall, proud as a yol, and Magnai grabs his axe to follow in her wake. It does not heal the wound in his heart, but he can feel himself bolstered. He will keep his hearth warm and ready until told otherwise.
(And of course, that night, he dreams of a land under the sea. The wet sand feels strange under his feet, and there is a strange light in the distance that he must walk towards, but he knows that he must. The sea ripples far above where he would normally see clouds, and with each step, he feels a dull ache in his chest. He touches his collarbone, where a blistering wound aches, and he hears a thought that is not his own, in a voice that he has wanted to hear for months.
I will not die here.
He wakes up relieved. She is alive, and she will return to him.)
The master of the rookery remembers each yol that comes to perch at the Dawn Throne. He knows which yol will coo when he comes close and which will snap at any hand not of their rider. He remembers which yol prefer sheep for their meals, which prefer mammoth, and which yol will refuse to be fed by anyone not their rider (spoiled things, but at least they fly well). He knows how they fly, how to tell if one is hurt, how to tell if they carry an injured ride, if their flight is triumphant or in despair. He even knows the shape of some of the yols - he knows Magnai’s yol Temujin well, as well as those of the main hunters - and knows their silhouettes and features even from a distance. It even lets him pass on news of who is flying into the Dawn Throne.
Which is to say, when, almost a year after the Most Radiant Brother first received word of the loss of his love, he sees a strange yol fly close, he studies it closely. A triumphant flight, not an injured rider, streaks of white in the feathering…
He knows this yol. He stares at it for a few moments longer, trying to make sure he has it right. This is not one that he wants to mistake.
“What is it?” His apprentice, a young Buduga, asks, eyes wide. “Whose yol is it?”
The yol turns in the air in a swoop, and the rookery master sees a shining sword and shield. A smile creases his face in relief. “It’s Shadowfax,” the master says with wonder, “with a rider. You’re going to carry a message to our Most Radiant Brother, little one, as fast as you can.”
“What is it?” The boy bounces on his feet in excitement.
The master smiles. “Tell him that Shadowfax has come home with his rider. Let no one stop you on the way.”
The boy does not understand exactly what that means, but he does understand when it is important. He nods to the rookery master and runs down the steps as fast as his little legs will carry him towards the main hall. Yes, there are a lot of guards, and yes, the Most Radiant Brother is in an important meeting to talk about the future of the Tribes, but this is important business!
The boy winds through the guards and bangs incessantly on the door to the throne room, until finally, a large Buduga opens the door. “Child, have you no manners?” He snarls, ready to cuff the child for his impertinence.
“I have a message for the Most Radiant Brother!” The boy yells in triumph. “From the rookery master! He said to let no one stop me!”
Magnai calls from a distance, “Let the boy approach.” The guard steps to the side, and the boy rushes up to the respectable distance, bowing as soon as he stands close. The Most Radiant Brother sits on his throne, dominating the room with his presence, as the sun does in the sky. The boy stays bowed until Magnai gestures for him to rise again. “Now, what is so important that the rookery master has you interrupt my negotiations?”
The boy grins and shouts, “Shadowfax is flying in with a rider!”
Just like that, any anger in the room immediately vanishes. The Buduga and Oronir in the room stare at each other in amazement (and relief, in all honesty) and Magnai is still for one long moment. When he seems to remember to breathe, he nearly leaps out of his throne, a smile twitching at his lips. “This meeting is adjourned.”
“As you say, Brother,” the leader of the Buduga replies, although Magnai does not seem to hear.
No one asks why, not when Magnai is nearly running to the door, walking with the same giddiness as a wife when her husband has returned from a long hunt. Not that anyone would say that to Magnai’s face, of course, but the thought is there. The child’s shout was loud enough to be heard all the way across the camp, and as Magnai strides outside, a small crowd of Oronir and Buduga form near the yol launch to see who is coming in for a landing.
He stands in wait, flanked by a few warriors, and watches the yol approach. Now that the light casts right, Magnai can see the familiar white markings in the feathers. Then, for additional measure, he watches the rider press their knees a bit and lead the yol into an acrobatic maneuver. He remembers that move. He watched Ma’Ren do that move the last time she was in the Steppe-
Please. Please be her.
It is agony to wait as the yol makes its way to the launch and lands ever so carefully, but somehow, Magnai manages to hold still. He watches the rider get off of the yol at the launch pad, pat its side, and send it off in the direction of the rookery. They’re wearing different armour - a more casual kind for riding, with jewelry made of white crystal - but when they take the helmet off to reveal black hair and a familiar pair of mismatched eyes, his heart soars with relief.
It’s her.
She looks different than the last time she was here - of course she has, it’s been a year, and she has been through a greater ordeal than anyone should. Her hair is longer, down to her jaw, and is streaked with bright strands of white, and she has a scar on her collarbone that twinkles in the light. She wears a cloak in Oronir yellow, thick white strands of hair pinned back in clips. She looks tired and worn, but when her eyes settle on him, her entire body lightens with joy. There was a visible weight on her shoulders, but it falls off as she turns to look at him. Her smile is crooked and familiar, and oh it’s her.
His feet move before his brain gives the order, but even when it catches up, he does not stop. She throws herself forward to meet him halfway and Magnai wraps Ma’Ren tightly in his arms, embracing her close.
“Oh, my Nhamma,” he sighs into her hair, pulling her tight.
“My Azim,” she murmurs with equal longing and holding him with equal strength.
(The air almost trembles with the force of the sighs of relief from every Buduga and Oronir in the Dawn Throne. Across the Steppe, there is a faint sense of peace, as though tension has finally been released. Sadu Dotharl feels this and, against her will (and not knowing why), smiles, just a little.)
They linger together for just a moment, holding each other close. It is not a carnal need that he feels deep inside him. No, it is simply a deep, desperate need for contact. To etch and ingrain her into his memory so that he can hold her there always, to remind himself exactly how she feels in his arms, and to remind himself, again and again, that she is alive and here with him. Magnai tilts his head and presses his mouth gently to her forehead, just at the edge of her hair. Her skin tastes of sweat and grime, but no matter how unpleasant the taste, the reality of the moment is there. It is her. She is here. Ma’Ren is here and alive and with him.
Slowly, they pull apart, although Ma’Ren immediately laces her fingers through his. “Have I got a story to tell you, my love,” she tells him, voice exhausted but fond.
“I must hear it,” he tells her firmly. “But...are you staying long?”
She nods. “Definitely more than a night.”
“Then it is time.” He turns to face the Oronir and the Buduga, who are no longer pretending that they were observing all of this take place. “Ma’Ren Avadne has returned and will be staying with us. She is to receive the same respect as you give me, not just as your Khagan, but as my Nhamma. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Brother Magnai,” the warriors bow, and the rest of the tribe chatter away in excitement.
“We shall hold a celebratory feast tomorrow night,” Magnai replies, looking at the hunters. “You will need to prepare.”
(One of the children asks their mother ‘why not tonight’ and are frantically shushed. Every woman’s eyes are twinkling, and when the meaning sinks in, Ma’Ren’s eyes twinkle too.)
“Do not disturb us,” he says firmly. Then he turns to Ma’Ren and gives her a long, slow look. It means many things - ‘tell me everything that happened’, ‘I need to feel you in my arms’, ‘I need to fuck you until we both forget the pain’ - and he thinks she understands them all.
They stop at the rookery to retrieve her bags and bring them down to Magnai’s quarters. She gently requests a bath in Azim Khaat when they are done, and Magnai is loathe to turn her down for anything, so he agrees. However, once they are inside his room, he tugs her immediately to the bed.
“Story first, or…?” She asks, taking off her travelling cloak and boots. As her shoulders are bared, he can see more scars, some dark, some with that same white glitter that he has seen before.
“I want to hear what happened to you,” he replies, doing the same. “But I must have you in my arms, Nhamma.”
Ma’Ren smiles at him, a cocky thing that he cannot wait to wipe off her face later. “And could I refuse my beloved Azim?”
Something about those words makes him flush, settling a wound that had been lurking in his chest for some time. But he does not address it, only sitting at his headboard and beckoning her into his arms. She makes her way up the bed as soon as she has dressed down enough for comfort and tucks herself into his arms. It is a perfect fit. She rests her head gently against his shoulder, and she murmurs, “The events of all this began at the meeting table in Ala Mhigo, when I heard a strange voice calling out for me, but it really began months ago, at a tower made of crystal…”
In another life, he thinks Ma’Ren would have made a wonderful storyteller. The words flow out of her with ease, painting a clear picture without too many flowery details. She tells him about a tower of crystal, left behind by the ancients as a hope for the future, and a scholar who sealed himself inside to help guide that future in. She tells him about the strange being who wore the Imperial Viceroy’s skin as a costume, who fought against her in a vicious battle, and she tells him about the strange voice that called for her comrades. She tells him of the robed figure - the Exarch - who had summoned her for help and led her around this distant world trying to bring the darkness back. She tells him that this Exarch was that Scholar, a future version who had come this far to try and save the world and was willing to die trying. She nearly died trying, but she tells him of a dead hero who bound himself to her to keep her alive. She tells him of an even more ancient people who lost that home and were trying to return to it by any means necessary, and she tells him how she stood before one of them, the founder of the Garlean Empire, and he asked her to remember all those who had come before.
The sun has gone down by the time she finishes her story, and she ends it with the quiet words of, “And now, things are peaceful, for just a moment. I saved two worlds, my own future, and brought a friend back from the edge of death. And all I could think...was coming here. To you.”
Magnai knew, by the stories that he has heard and how everyone has skirted around the truth, that Ma’Ren faced death every day. He knew that she was in danger when she fought and he knew that the things she had faced in battle were such that no one else could do so and live. But...he had never heard it all laid out so plainly before. He had not realized exactly how horrifying her reality could be, how much danger that she was in, and the weight that was pressing down on her shoulders every time she walked out into battle. She had to win. There was no battle that the Warrior of Light could afford to lose.
She nearly lost. She nearly died there, in a place where he could not follow, trying to save millions of lives.
“You do not know how much I longed for your presence,” she says quietly. “When I awoke, when I was in pain, when I found something funny, when I saw something extraordinary. I wanted you there with me - for anything and everything.”
“I saw you there,” Magnai whispers into her hair, his voice unusually soft. “Your pixie would tell me things, and I dreamt of you. And...I saw you with him. When you nearly…”
The words do not come, but Ma’Ren understands. She turns around to straddle his lap and cups his face in her hands, just under his horns. “I am here, Magnai,” she tells him firmly. “I did not die.”
“I thought you had, ” he admits, voice pained as he holds onto her sides. Now that the thought has crossed his mind, he runs his hands up and down her sides through her thin robes, trying to press that knowledge into his mind with her warmth, “and I feared all that I would never do with you.”
“Like what?” She asks, smoothing her thumbs over his cheeks where skin turns to scales. “Tell me now.”
There are so many things clamouring at his thoughts, words and actions in present and future, and he cannot decide which one should come first. They are all important, all things that he wants to do with her. But he still feels as though he is dreaming. The dreams were shorter than this, of course, but there is that fear. His hands clench at her side, his breath trembling for a moment, and finally, he says, “I must know that you are here with me.”
Ma’Ren cocks her head to the side, looking over him, and her eyes light up when she understands. She nods, sliding her fingers over his cheeks, before she leans in for a kiss. It is a light thing at first, a sweet savoured touch, but before long, the need for more consumes both of them. His hands grip her waist tight, hauling her closer to him, and her hands slide back to dig into his hair. They kiss like a wildfire, feverish in its intensity, desperately trying to consume each other with it. The two of them can barely breathe for how they linger together, and when they break apart to gasp for air, they surge back together with such force that their teeth clack together. Each touch is a sung chorus of one word, over and over. More. More, more, more, more, more.
Magnai moves his hands up to her neckline, forms two fists in the fabric of her shirt, and rips it in half. Ma’Ren laughs against his mouth at the action, even as her hips unconsciously roll against him, and rolls her shoulders back to let the fabric fall against the bed. He has enough courtesy in him not to rip her breastband in two, pulling it off with care, but he does pull his mouth away from hers to kiss at her neck, hands kneading her breasts. She makes a pleased sound, leaning back to give him more room to explore. Each sweep of his hands across her warm skin draws a sound out of her - a heavier breath, a caught moan, a laugh, a whimper. It is a beautiful song. She is here. With him.
It takes great will, but he pries himself off of her. “Get the rest off, now,” he growls.
“You too,” she replies as she begins shimmying her pants off.
He takes his robes off, throwing them to the ground without care, but pauses in his efforts to simply...admire. He sees Ma’Ren cast aside the last of her clothing, and in the firelight, her naked body is a sight to behold. There are more scars all over her, some shimmering in the faint light, and her muscles are somehow more defined than ever before. Her breasts are a little smaller, as her body has lost some of its fat, but she is as beautiful as before. She kneels on the bed, legs open, and in the faint glow, he catches a sparkle of wetness at her core.
She catches him looking and smiles. “Is this an adequate offering?”
He huffs playfully, grinning at her. “Perhaps. I shall have to taste to be sure.”
He makes short work of the rest of his clothes, and when he lies naked on the furs, she crawls up the bed above him to kiss him again. His hands settle immediately at the curve of her ass, nearly covering it, and he pulls her down on top to grind against him. It has been too long for both of them to manage anything long, but they try to take their time in reminding themselves of each other’s bodies. He bites marks into her neck, openly marking her as his own, and she drags her nails down his skin to mark her in her own way.
Eventually, he cannot take any more and he sits up, picking her up with him. She laughs a bit breathlessly, grinning at him, and moves as he directs. He settles her on the edge of the bed, on her back, and he takes position on the floor. “Let us see the quality of your offering,” he teases, hauling her forward so her legs wrap around his head. It takes care not to stab her with his horns, but he manages.
She trembles under his touch, but she moves as directed. “I pledge myself to the Sun,” she replies, impertinence dripping from her words.
With that, he dives in. He aches to be surrounded by her, to absorb her with every sense he has. As he drags his tongue across her slit and her thighs clench around him, a sucked in breath from above, he can feel himself already drunk with it. The feel of her warm skin around him, the sight of her dripping and shaking, the smell of her sex, the sound of her moans, the taste of her on his tongue...he will never have enough. Never.
It takes him a moment to find the pearl he seeks - she finally drags him into place to do so - but when he does, she keens with delight. He flicks his tongue in quick movements, teasing her for a long few moments before wrapping his lips around it to suck. She was very thorough in the lesson she gave him before, and he applies every direction she gave him with gusto. It is clearly working - the room echos with Ma’Ren’s pleasure. She gasps out Magnai’s name breathy sounds, meaningless words of pleading in harmony with it, and her thighs clamp around him even more.
He pulls away to bite another mark into her thigh, even as she whines in protest, and smiles at her. “An acceptable offering,” he teases.
“Mag naiii, ” she whines, reaching down to dig her fingers into his hair.
He leans back up to look at her. “Did you miss me, my Nhamma?” He teases, pressing his mouth to the mark on her thigh.
“You know I did,” she pants out. “Only you.”
That slams into his ego hard, and he feels himself throb at the thought. Lest he say something he cannot put to words yet, he dives back into feast on her. Her voice fills the room again, her fingers digging into his hair, and he takes care to slide his fingers into her, working her open in time with his mouth. It has been a long time - he does not wish to hurt her. She is as warm andw wet as he remembers, clenching tightly around him, and before long, her voice reaches that telltale pitch. He withdraws his fingers to focus on sucking hard on her pearl, and she comes with a sob, gushing into his mouth. She tastes like heaven, and Magnai drinks it in like a dying man.
Her body falls back onto the furs, pleasure loosening her muscles, and she beckons him up for a kiss. Laying her legs down carefully, he climbs up to do so, running his hands down her body. They make their way up the bed again, nearly banging their heads together as they make room, but she smiles at him with such softness to make all clumsiness worth it.
After a few minutes of lazy kissing passes, Ma’Ren breaks away from the kiss and reaches down to stroke his hardness. “How do you want me?” She asks.
He growls and bites another mark into her skin, leaving a pattern like scales in her grey skin. “Below me,” he decides. “I want to see you.”
I need to see you, he doesn’t say, but perhaps she hears him anyway. Her expression goes soft and she nods, rolling over onto the furs. She looks breathtaking there, as though she is always meant to be there, and when Magnai climbs on top of her, he tries to ingrain the sight of it into his memory. Getting to fuck her is certainly one of the benefits of being with her, but it is not the only thing that brings him joy, and he loves every part of it. Loves every part of her. She lifts her legs up around his rib cage, angle just so. When he slowly slides into her, he doesn’t know which of them is louder. Only that both of them are overjoyed and relieved by it. When he is fully seated inside of her, his hips resting against her ass, he knows that he is home.
His eyes flutter closed for just a moment to drink the moment in, but when he opens them, he is blessed with the sight of Ma’Ren wrapped up in pleasure below him. She is beautiful, wondrous, a sight to behold, and if Magnai could spend the rest of his life looking at her like this - no, in any way that he could - he would die happy.
“I love you,” the words escape him before he can hold them back.
Ma’Ren’s eyes widen at the words, but before she can say anything, he withdraws and slams his hips back into her. She gasps out a breath, unable to pull together words, and he falls forward, covering her with his body as he thrusts into her. She instinctively wraps her arms around his neck, holding him close, rocking her hips into his thrusts.
Well, there is no un-saying it. He thrusts into her again, deep and slow, dragging his cock across the sensitive spot inside her to make her moan. She clenches around him and a growled moan rips out of him. “I love you,” he gasps out again. The phrase pushes itself out of his throat with each thrust, each time he drives himself home inside her. “I love you, I love you, I love you-”
Suddenly, Ma’Ren’s thighs squeeze almost painfully tight, holding him in place. The shock of it stops him, cold dread dripping into his insides, but when he looks at her, she is gathering herself, slowing her breathing. Finally, when she can breathe, she lets go of him with one hand to hold his chin. “Magnai. I love you too.”
The words undo him. If Magnai was a lesser man, he would weep. Even now, he can feel how his face softens as he looks at her. The love he has felt for months is writ plain on his face, and when he looks, he can see it on her too.
Her legs slowly loosen their hold on him, letting his hips move in short little thrusts. “Together?” She asks softly.
In everything. “Together.”
It does not take them long to reach their peak together. Magnai thrusts into her at the pace he knows she likes and she slides a hand between their bodies to stroke her pearl. It is everything he has ached for for months, and as she comes, clenching around him, he follows shortly after. It feels like freefalling together, heading into a safe landing. Which is, after all, the only way to fall.
Eventually, they settle into the furs together. It is a different position this time - Magnai settles with his head on her chest, listening to her heartbeat, and Ma’Ren combs her fingers through his hair. Their sweaty bodies cool in the evening air, even with the fireplace, but neither can bring themselves to move.
“When do you leave?” He asks finally. “You did not say when.”
Her fingers still for a moment, and she says quietly, “Not until I am needed.”
Magnai sits up immediately to look at her, eyes wide. “What?”
Ma’Ren smiles. “I made arrangements. Wrote letters, made contacts, that sort of thing. They will call on me when they need me, when they really need me, but the Scions will have to come get me to do so.”
Magnai is trying so, so hard not to weep with relief, wrapping it in pride. “So you will stay. With me.”
“Yes.” Perhaps she sees his emotion, but says nothing, only smiling at him.
“You shall not grow bored here," he promises, although it feels like a question at the same time.
“I’m sure you can keep me busy, my love.”
He will never grow tired of hearing that, he decides. He leans into her hand and murmurs, "Then welcome home, my love."
The kiss that they share would make Azim and Nhamma themselves proud for the happiness of their son, and Menphina, watching from afar, is pleased for her daughter. It is a long and hard fought road, but finally, finally, they may share the sunlight and moonlight together.