Chapter Text
“Are you certain?” G’raha asks.
Certain was the furthest thing from her mind.
Nalika was certain when she raised her crystal aloft and brought ruin to the Ultima Weapon. She was certain as she laid Nidhogg low. She was certain as she tore Shinryu from the skies. She had vanquished unsundered Ascians and the amalgamation of literal despair with utmost certainty. And now, standing here at the imposing gates of the Weary Wanderers on the banks of the Cinderfoot River –
Nalika had never felt more uncertain.
Nearly four and a half years had passed since she left this place – since she packed her bags on the day of her mother’s burial without a word to share or a tear to shed, and skulked off into the unknown with nary a goodbye to the people she called family. To the people who clothed her, fed her, and loved her as their own.
A knot of shame nestles itself in the pit of her stomach as a familiar pair of teal eyes flashes across the back of her eyelids. And yet –
“If I do not face it now, Raha… I do not think I ever will.”
He squeezes her hand, his lips splitting into a smile that takes her apprehension away. “No matter what, you need not face this alone. I am here with you, love.”
His eyes grow fond as he presses his lips to the back of her hand, and Nalika wonders what she could have possibly done in a previous life to deserve his affections. Nevertheless, she takes his boundless love as the reassuring comfort she needs –
And steels herself for the daunting task ahead.
Nalika raises her hand to the door and knocks three times. Somehow, facing the Endsinger took far less courage than this simple gesture.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
There is clamour behind the door – clanking and banging and the tapping of bootheels on hardwood.
And eventually, voices.
Voices she recognized with utmost clarity. Voices she knew from a time that seemed so long ago.
“Who in the hells could that be?” she hears sweetest Agnys ask.
“If it’s that whoreson from across the way, tell him he shan’t get any more coke unless I start seein’ me some gil!” jovial Syvinborn yells.
And a final call –
“Get the door, would you, Amianne?”
– that shakes her to the core.
The footsteps grow louder, each one in tandem with the beat of the ringing in her ears. Nalika is unsure whether the thundering was her heart slamming against her ribcage or the adrenaline coursing through her veins, but the moment the knob clicks, and the doors open with a deafening creak –
Nalika is certain it had stopped entirely.
Silence falls between them. The squeeze of G’raha’s hand on her fingers and the beads of sweat rolling down her spine become nothing more than a memory beneath the piercing gaze of the woman towering over her. She lost count of how many breaths she had taken. She lost count of how many beats had passed.
She lost count of how many words bubbled to the surface of her mind only to be forgotten at the precipice of her lips beneath the imposing presence of the woman from a time Nalika had been too weak to face until now.
There are far more wrinkles upon her forehead now, and the exhaustion of the last four years is plain to see in the sunken bags beneath her eyes. It brings Nalika nothing but shame knowing she was the likely cause of it.
And the only words she could say for it are –
“I’m sorry.”
Amianne does not speak – does not move. And it doesn’t stop the words from pouring from Nalika’s lips through strangled sobs, her eyes stinging with tears.
“I’m so sorry – for everything. For leaving without telling you. For never writing to you. I’ve caused you so much pain and I am so, so –”
Her words die in her throat as Amianne leans forward, throwing her arms around her neck and burying her face in its crook. She shivers as her body racks with sobs, her embrace nearly taking the wind out of her, but Nalika cannot bring herself to care. It feels warm and safe and like being thirteen again.
“You have nothing to apologize for. There is nothing to forgive. My precious, Nalika, there is nothing you could ever do but make us proud.”
Another sob escapes Amianne’s lips. Nalika could count on one hand the number of times she had seen her cry in her life – yet she loops her arms around her waist and lets out a sob of her own, and she cannot help but recall being a child with her mother’s comforting embrace keeping her from harm.
“I missed you. I missed you so much,” she says, yet somehow the words alone simply cannot hold the weight of it.
“And I you,” Amianne responds as she pulls away, her hands around Nalika’s shoulders. “What an adventure you’ve had, my love. What an incredible adventure you’ve had.”
Nalika blinks. “H – How do you know?”
Amianne’s smile grows impossibly gentle as she wipes a stray tear from her cheek. “When the whispers began to speak of the Warrior of Light as a woman woven of sunlight with the ocean in her eyes, I knew. I knew it had to be you.”
She steps aside, gesturing to the corkboard by the entrance. Pinned upon it were various clippings from every publication in Eorzea, some monochrome, some in rich colour, some freshly printed and others fading with age. And each and every one detailed Nalika’s exploits in vivid detail, from humble beginnings to her most recent heroic feats.
For years they had collected every trace of her and displayed it on their walls like proud parents, even after she had caused them such undue pain…
Nalika quivers, and it takes all in her power not to weep anew.
“Felled primals, ended bloody wars… Gone so far as to save the star itself. And gods above, we were not surprised. If there is anyone who could attain such heights… it is you, Nalika. It is you.”
Amianne’s smile is proud and infinitely fond – something Nalika would never feel deserving of.
“You were always with me… always watching over me,” she says, desperately trying and failing to keep her sobs in check. Somewhere in the deepest depths of her soul, it felt like she knew all along, as much as she wished to deny it.
Amianne cups Nalika’s cheeks in her hands anew and thumbs away a freshly fallen tear. It vividly reminds Nalika of being twelve once more, so young and immature and wholly foolish beyond measure, and yet –
“My love. You can travel to the ends of the very universe… and I will always be with you.”
It is safe. It is love. It is family.
Always where she left it – always where it will be, no matter how far she goes.
Always ready to welcome her back in warm, loving embrace.
A quiet moment passes before Amianne’s gaze meanders to the soul on her right, her tender smile tightening to a most suspicious scowl.
“And who is this?” she deadpans, her eyes as cold as the bite in her voice.
A frigid shiver courses down G’raha’s spine, bristling the fur on his ears and tail. Despite the distance between them, Nalika feels him shaking at her side.
“G’raha Tia, Sc– Scion of the Seventh Dawn,” he manages to say through the heavy cracks in his voice.
Amianne’s gaze does not falter, piercing his own like a sword through flesh. He tenses, his skin burning beneath the frigid beads of sweat dripping down his neck. Somehow, the thought of Emet-Selch's bullet at his back fills him with far less dread.
And ever reliable Nalika, his guiding star, his saviour, is once again there to rescue him from death’s throes –
“I love him, and I am going to marry him!”
– with a protective hand thrust between them and words of courage and inspiration–
…
… what?!
Amianne’s lips part, her gaze flickering between the two. If G’raha imagined the possibility she would end his existence was far from likely, now he feared it was all but certain.
The only thought that courses through his mind is a fervent wish to actually marry his betrothed, at least before the woman towering above him sends him to his grave. Though he could never fault his beloved for dooming him to oblivion… even when he is certain she is the cause of it.
“Are you now…” Amianne murmurs after a pause, each word oozing with deadly venom.
Her hand suddenly clenches around his cheeks and jerks him forward, her grip on his jaw threatening to make him swallow his tongue.
“Let me take a look at you, boy.”
G’raha knows better than to show any resistance.
Her eyes drive into his own, cold as sleet and steel. Beneath her intimidating gaze, G’raha feels helplessly small.
And yet –
Within her shrewd eyes, unraveling the depths of his soul from seam to seam, he finds he sees just as clearly into her own.
A woman of indomitable strength, stalwart as the walls of his fair Crystarium, fearless as a raging behemoth. A woman who would gladly give her life to protect those she loved. A woman who had once known boundless joy and deepest love – and known the endless sorrow of losing it all.
Something akin to understanding kindles within him. Understanding and acute familiarity. Perhaps she and him were not so different, he thinks.
And he wonders if she feels the same, with the way her grip on him loosens.
“You think yourself worthy of our Nalika?” she asks, her words heavy against her hushed voice.
‘Tis a strain to reply amidst the grasp on his jaw, yet his response comes as surely as winter melts into spring.
“With all due respect, madam, I do not think I could ever measure up to her. But she is my greatest inspiration, and I will never cease trying.”
Amianne asks another question then – vulnerable and almost helpless, from the depths of a frigid heart that had once known warmth.
“You would die for her?”
And it’s as simple as breathing to answer.
“Yes. Without question.”
She stares him down. A silent beat passes them by. Then another. And another.
Until a gentle smirk splits across her lips.
“… well, don’t go doing it, now. You would break her heart.”
G’raha sinks when she releases him, feeling as if he narrowly avoided certain death. Amianne crosses her arms, turning her attention to his betrothed at his side.
“If you have come here seeking my blessing, rest assured you never needed it,” she says, “You are your own woman, Nalika – and you certainly do not need me to make your decisions for you. However…”
Her voice grows soft and impossibly fond, reaching to sweep a loose lock of hair from Nalika’s face.
“He is a good man with a kind heart, and it beats only for you. Take care of him, as he does you.”
Nalika nods, eyes brimming with mirth and joy. ‘Twas a most simple ask, after all – for her heart had always been his. In this lifetime, and each one thereafter.
Amianne breaks the silence with a clap of her hands and her grasp upon G’raha’s arm, gripping him as if she had caught him stealing from the candy jar.
“Since you are here, G’raha Tia, you may as well meet the family,” she says with a smile on her lips that does not match the devilry in her eyes.
“That will not be necessary,” Nalika interjects as Amianne pulls G’raha to the door, hands on his shoulders with a grip to rival her adoptive mother’s, “I will introduce him to everyone.”
“He is not a child, dear,” Amianne hisses, her doting smile as wry as her eyes, “He does not need you to play nursemaid, I’m sure.”
She jerks G’raha forward again before Nalika pulls him back. And again. And again.
By the fourth time, G’raha’s heart sinks to the pit of his stomach – and he suddenly feels terribly, terribly afraid.
“But mama, you know they are a little… eccentric,” Nalika simpers.
The way she whispers the word does little more than fill him with utmost terror.
Amianne’s face sours as if she had personally insulted her. “Eccentric?” she repeats.
“Insane!”
Oh, gods above, who are these people?
Amianne’s gaze grows sweet. Endlessly fond and impossibly kind. G’raha suddenly feels he is going to die a slow, painful death.
“Well, if he loves you, he must learn to love them as well.”
With a final tug, Amianne jerks him out of Nalika’s cautious grasp and pushes him across the threshold, into the den of vipers and wolves.
“Oi! Look who’s here!” she calls with a sardonic grin.
Several pairs of eyes – belonging to individuals of varying shapes and sizes doing a piss poor job of hiding their eavesdropping – snap to the doorway, watching the scene in awe and wonder.
“Is that…” a small, Lalafellin man squeaks from the bar.
“Our Nalika?” an imposing Roegadyn man cries. “Our little Nalika returned home. Though not so little anymore, eh?”
“Nalika?” a kind Midlander woman fawns, “Our dear girl is returned? Praise the gods!”
“From the edges of the universe back to your humble home,” a plucky Viera woman coos, “Welcome back, precious star.”
“And look at what she’s brought us!” Amianne announces with a grin that seemed far too amused, “Fresh meat!”
Amianne’s hands are on his back before G’raha could even blink. She pushes him hard and he gracelessly stumbles into the room, his lungs failing him as each pair of prying eyes in the room scorches holes through his back.
One would think a hundred years of government authority would prepare him for such a moment – yet his only, somber thought is how ardently he misses the protection of his cowl.
“She plans to marry this one,” Amianne sneers.
Gods, what he would give to sink into the earth and disappear.
A tense pause follows. He swears he could hear every drop of sweat running down his back, every beat of his erratic heart. Does he introduce himself? Does he grovel at their feet? What does he do? What does he say?
“Heavens forfend,” the Viera – Mjara, he recalled Nalika say was her name – eventually murmurs as she fans herself with her hand, staring far too shamelessly at his groin, “He is a handsome one.”
Oh, dear gods.
“G-G-G’raha T-Tia, at your s-service,” he squeaks with the eloquence of a sewer rat.
“Oi, I know you,” the Roegadyn – Syvinborn – says, “You’re that crimson-eyed Scion fellow. The one they say has royal Allagan blood. Is that right?”
“A prince,” Mjara chokes, digging her nails into the wooden bar. Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods.
“Oh, how lovely,” the Midlander – Agnys – smiles, “Do you have any siblings, Gooraha Teea? My niece is in search of a spouse, you see –”
Mjara damn near implodes. “Forget your niece, does he any siblings for me?!”
“So, where’re you from, son?” Syvinborn asks, his booming voice rattling G’raha’s eardrums.
“C-Corvos, initially. I grew up in Sharlayan, however, under the Students of Baldesion –”
Suddenly, Syvinborn smacks his backside with a heavy hand, nearly winding him.
“Baldesion!? You’re one of Galuf’s boys!?”
As much as he wishes to respond, G’raha finds all his strength spent in keeping a shred of breath in his lungs amidst Syvinborn’s stream of blows to his back.
“Are you hungry, dear?” Agnys asks sweetly, seemingly blind to the literal onslaught unfolding before her eyes.
G’raha chokes after the Roegadyn ends his assault, somehow finding the strength to respond. “N-No, I assure you I am –”
“Alright, let me get you something to eat.”
She steps into the kitchen before G’raha’s jaw has a chance to drop.
“You’re a mage?” Syvinborn poses, grasping G’raha’s shoulder, “Strange. You have the arms of an archer.”
“Let us see those arms,” Mjara breathes just loud enough to make him uncomfortable.
“W-Well, ser, I did study archery – Ow!”
Pain shoots from his ankle through his leg, white-hot and piercing. He looks down to see the familiar Lalafellin man from earlier – Gollto Halto – had just delivered a strong, swift kick to his ankle, seeming far too amused by the result.
“Good pair o’ shins on this one,” Gollto calls to Amianne and Nalika, “And strong ankles to boot.”
Amianne spits, utterly failing to keep her laughter in check. Nalika stands jaw agape, watching the scene unfold with utmost horror – the apprehension in G’raha’s eyes making her heart sink to the furthest pits of her stomach.
Shins. He kicked him in the shins.
Gods above, what has she done?
‘Twas a terrible idea to bring him here. A poor, thoughtless, dreadful idea. What in the hells was she thinking? How did she think this would ever be a good idea? She knew her family was far from average yet –
A pack of wolves they are. Utter hyenas. They would tear him to shreds and gobble up his bones and she – foolishly, stupidly – still beckoned him here like a veritable lamb to slaughter, knowing exactly how they were.
And heavens forfend, what of Raha himself?
Oh gods, he must hate her now. He must think she is insane beyond measure. He must be realizing she is not worth this madness, and desperately plotting his escape and his eventual utter removal from her life. He would ask for his ring back, quit the Scions, hop on the first boat to gods know where –
“Three cheers for G’raha Ta!”
Nalika blinks, breath catching in her throat.
There, in the centre of their common room, her beloved family crowds around her betrothed, mugs of drink in hand and irrevocable love in their eyes for the newest member of their family. And Raha – her kind, sweet, precious Raha, delighting in their company with one of Agnys’ biscuits in hand – turns his gaze to her, wearing a smile far more brilliant than any star.
Truly… How could she not be undone?
They are eccentric and boisterous, nosey and far too shameless but they are family – filled with life and comfort and love beyond imagining.
How could she ever think they would love her any less? How could she think her Raha would not love them as much as she did?
‘Tis an image that threatens to melt her very heart – yet a voice like softness and gentle nostalgia carries upon the wind, beckoning to her from a time long past.
“Do you plan to stand there gawking?”
Amianne smiles at her from the doorway, offering her hand. As she had when she was but a child scraping her knees upon the pavement. As she had when she was a foolish girl of nineteen, too heartbroken to accept Riva’s time was nearing its end.
As she always will – her mother always welcoming her back from a grand adventure.
“Come inside, Nalika,” she says, voice gentle as the midday breeze, “You’re home, now.”
And there is nowhere else she would rather be.
“Yes… I’m home.”