Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The day Moro'a met Koh'sae, he'd been unhappy and tired, still green and learning the ins and outs of Mealvann's Gate. A good day at the port was a difficult one, long hours with the full Lominsan sun bearing down on him as he ran back and forth to unload cargo, or pass inspection forms to the assessors, constantly shifting between the hundreds of tasks that were necessary to keep the port in working order. That morning, a pair of Executioner deckhands had gone to blows over a missing crate, pushing back that pier's schedule by a quarter bell. And then he'd had to deal with Zezemu.

There was a piece of advice Moro'a had heard the assessors bandy about often: if you must handle the cantankerous old trader, schedule in twice the amount of time you normally would, and bring a flask of water. Moro'a wore the same uniform as any junior arcanist, but Zezemu often confused them with the assessors, and the man he'd been assigned was on a suspiciously long break at the privy, leaving Moro'a to be pulled into an increasingly tense exchange as Zezemu insisted that he be allowed to walk straight through the gates on account of "your noses being too buried in the ledgers to treat an old man with a single scrap of dignity'.

"It's a standard process for every ship that comes in, ser. Could you fill out the inspection form?" Moro'a asked with all the politeness and grace he could muster. He knew that it didn't matter, that the trader did this song and dance every time, but he lacked the authority to do more than hand him a form and a quill, and would face worse for leaving the man unattended while he sought help. Frustrations had frayed, and the trader's patience threatened to snap.

It was then that he'd appeared.

Moro'a turned as footfalls approached, hoping to gods it was Helbstyrn returning to do his job, only it wasn't. “Zezemu, there you are!” the unfamiliar miqo'te called out, waving a jovial greeting as he wheeled a trolley behind him. Brown hair and skin, well-burnished by the sun, and two pale stripes on his right cheek. A grey and yellow uniform, like storm clouds over a field of ripe wheat. Eyes with rounded pupils whose gaze now slid over to him.

Another Keeper? It was rare to see them in La Noscea, even in this bustling trade city. Moro'a quashed down the curious impulse before it could distract him. "Who are you?" he interjected, the better to establish what little authority he had. Busy as the port was, too many felt comfortable trying to muscle or charm their way into cutting corners, and this man seemed no different.

“Koh’sae, from the Armourer's Guild,” the man replied. His uniform had made that clear enough. "And what about yourself?" He smiled as he held out his hand to Moro'a, which only made him narrow his eyes. The moment passed, and Koh'sae dropped his hand, seemingly unoffended as he leaned against a crate. “New here, aye? I fear ol’ Zezemu's never cared much for the fine print. He’s been shipping ore from Thanalan to our guild for more than a decade, or so I’ve heard. I have it on the Forgemaster's good authority that he’s as clean as they get." The trader folded his arms and lifted his chin, punctuating his point.

A charmer, then. He was a good deal taller, and about his age, maybe younger. Moro'a cut him off before he could say more. “All cargo necessitates a full inspection. The assessors can't make exceptions,” he insisted. Hoping it would expedite settling the matter, he added, “Under the Chief Admiral's orders.” He heard Zezemu mutter under his breath about godsdamned Lominsan neck-breathers; he'd risk being called worse if it got the old man to fill in his damned form.

He thought that Koh'sae might challenge him, but the man shrugged, leaving Moro'a to wonder what he was up to next as he turned his smile towards the lalafell. “Zezemu, ser," he said. "This man only wishes to do right by the Chief Admiral, and I see no reason to stop him. What say we let him do his job, then stop by the Drowning Wench for a pint before I relieve you of your hardwon ore, aye? I'll even let you add it to my tab.”

Zezemu's golden eyes squinted, two miniature suns focusing into a burning stare as he seemed to wrestle between indulgence and pride. Moro'a waited silently; he'd be a fool to stop Koh'sae for nudging the old man along.

Eventually, the lalafell acquiesced with a surprisingly modest show of grumbling. "Seen shorter sticks up an Ishgardian’s arse." He thrust his hand out towards Moro'a. "The form, boy."

“Thank you, sers," Moro'a said. Fair credit where it was due.

But as Zezemu scratched out his details, Moro'a's suspicions returned when he realised that Koh'sae's eyes had not left him. He shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny. Don't talk to me, he thought, pleading against the inevitable.

“Not bad holding up against the old man." Koh'sae had lowered his voice, though his tone remained light and airy. His ears were relaxed, as was his tail as it moved in lazy swishes. "I'm afraid I still don't have your name, friend."

"…Moro'a." Friend was an exceedingly generous assumption. He turned away, hoping it was enough to signal disinterest without risking offence. Lover help him—he just wanted to get back to work.

But Koh'sae pressed on, undeterred. "Well met then, Moro'a. Pardon the curiosity, but I cannot say I've ever seen you around town. Are you new here?"

"Not really." Moro'a took out his log book and flipped to the latest page.

"That so? Came from the Shroud myself, about five years ago now. What about you?" Indeed, Koh'sae's accent was smoother than Moro'a would expect from a tradesman like him, the words more rounded about the edges, like how that Gridanian student at the Arcanist's Guild spoke.

"Further," he vagued, prompting a light chuckle from Koh'sae, which only made Moro'a more tense. Was he playing at something, or just oblivious? He couldn't tell.

"I don't bite, friend. It's just, well, a colleague of mine saw you with Rubh Epocan a few days prior, and I thought you might be a family member? Though you don't sound Sharlayan…" Moro'a scowled. There it was—the sprung trap.

"And what does that matter to you?" he accused, finally looking Koh'sae in the eye.

The Keeper blinked, looking surprised. "I was just curious…"

"And then you will go and tell your friends." Moro'a snapped his log book shut. The next ship was due any minute. "You can tell them I'm not interested in feeding rumours."

Before Koh'sae could reply, Zezemu butted in with his papers. "If I never have to fill one of those again, it'll be far too soon. Come on, boy, these crates won't load themselves," he said gruffly, beckoning Koh'sae towards his goods with an impatient hand. Left with little choice, the Keeper followed after him.

Had Moro'a thought to spare him a glance, he might have seen the contrition writ plain on his face as he watched him go.

Time and time again, Moro'a had reckoned with the consequences of attracting curious questions.

It'd started with his strange visions. In Corvos, he'd made the foolish mistake of telling his mother about them, hoping for answers, reassurances; anything. He hadn't anticipated the depths of her paranoia, nor that of the tribe's elders, who might never have pushed him away if he had simply kept his mouth shut. Things were far less severe here in La Noscea, but every often a curious miqo'te would perk their ears up at his foreign huntsspeak, or a farmhand would tilt their head when he left a pail of water out every night to gather moonbeams, unable to shake off the habit. He'd abandoned the practice entirely after an awkward conversation with an elderly hyur accused him of dabbling in the occult.

Or someone would gawp when he attempted to explain where he was from. You came from one of the provinces? But you speak Common so well…

Moro'a had decided, so gradually that it had felt more like resignation, that the better option was to show as little as possible of himself. When he'd moved into the city, he chose to live quietly, without stirring up more trouble for himself or anyone else.

It was a lot easier said than done.

"A letter arrived for you," Rubh called out from the table, as he entered the flat they shared. It took him another moment to realise what she'd said. A letter? Who would have any reason to write him? Save for the guild, perhaps. But the sealed parchment lacked the Arcanist's wax crest. In fact, it lacked any sort of identifying markers at all. Moro'a stared at it, as though the intensity of his gaze alone might unfurl its secrets.

"It's not going to open itself," Rubh echoed dryly, looking up again from her tome.

Still Moro'a stared, unable to shake off his suspicion. "…Who sent this?"

"A young man about your age passed it to me, saying he very much wished for you to read it. Another Keeper, in fact." Moro'a made a face and turned, wanting nothing to do with the letter now—he didn't need to sniff it to know whose hands had been all over the parchment.

"Moro'a." Against his best wishes, he stopped, turning around slightly to meet Rubh's eyes. He knew he was in for a lecture. "What do we always say at the guild? You cannot understand one's mind if you do not open yourself to what they are saying."

"He was hardly interested in listening when I told him to leave me alone," Moro'a retorted calmly. When it all averaged out, he didn't mind her tendency to turn conversations into teaching moments. Rubh Epocan might have left Sharlayan's shores more than three decades ago, but the nation's philosophies still ran through her blood. Moro'a respected her knowledge, and was grateful for the freedom with which she parted with it. But not when his body was sore to the bone from a full day's work and when he wanted nothing to do with the information.

"Really now? He looked rather apologetic when he handed me that letter." That gave Moro'a pause. Rubh sighed eventually, resting her tome on the page she was reading. "I've seen that boy around town, on occasion. He is not without friends, but when he's on his own he always seems…adrift. Like he might be lonelier than he lets on."

Moro'a knew what she was implying. "I'm not looking for friends," he answered, as he must have done a dozen times by now. And like before, the way Rubh's eyebrows arched suggested that she was never convinced.

"Curiosity, Moro'a," she persisted. "It might kill the coeurl, but satisfaction brings it back. You won't know what more this star has to offer if you never go looking for it."

He was quiet as he shouldered his bag. For a blessing, Rubh let him be as he wordlessly took the letter from the table.

Her words brought on an unexpected pang of longing. Once upon a time, he would have wanted nothing more than to do just that—to live the life of a proper adventurer, travelling wheresoever he pleased and discovering the unknown while he relied on naught but his wits and skills. Before he knew it, he'd settled into this city looking for better ways to make gil, tying himself to it in the bargain.

In the privacy of his room, if one could count the small corner where he'd hung an old blanket from a beam for some semblance of privacy as one, he pried open the envelope and unfolded the letter. It was written in a surprisingly neat script, though it was full of misspelled words and scratched out attempts.

Dear Moro'a,

Sorry for how I spoke too you at the docks last senight. I was just excited too see another Keeper around town, and I thought you would be, too.

I think that realise what it sounded like when I said you didn't sound Sharlayan, and I've been kicking myself for it ever since. I swear upon Menphina's graces that I did not mean any offense by that, and I swear too only hope that we might be able to put things past us. Starting with a proper apology.

And If you'd like if there is a chance that If you would also appreciate some company, I'm always happy to I work at the Armourer's Guild on most days, sometimes nights. At the very least, I would be happy too lend a hand if you need one.

Koh'sae

Moro'a laid on his bed, the letter still in one hand as he blinked at the ceiling. He read it again, then ran his hand through his hair. The lengths Koh'sae had gone to in order to make amends were…unexpected, to say the least.

To understand, one must first listen. He breathed in, exhaling slowly. He'd hoped that his exhaustion would take him, but Rubh's admonishment continued to gnaw at him like a wolf with a bone. Life in Eorzea had been neither easy or simple, and the connections he'd made over the years were transient and fleeting. Farmhands came and went, seeking new pastures as they grew green and gold with the seasons, and the hunters followed their prey; he'd done much the same, and seen more faces than names he could care to remember. Hastbhar and Firmin were the only ones whom he still thought of occasionally—the unusual couple who'd gone out of their way to look out for a fellow outsider, and shown him that a world beyond mindless survival was still within his grasp.

He would always be grateful to them and Rubh for their kindness. But nestled within the burial ground of his childhood dreams was a yawning hole, carved out by the isolation inflicted upon him by the very people he should have trusted most. Like a poorly healed wound, it still ached on cold nights. Why did Moro vanish that day, leaving him to brave the journey alone when she should have been here at his side, showing him the lands she so loved? On the darkest of such hours, he'd hold the necklace she gifted him in his hands and remind himself that some terrible fate must have befallen her; that the woman who'd stood for him when his own mother betrayed him would not have abandoned him at the last moment, not unless circumstances had forced them apart.

He tore his gaze from the ceiling…only for it to land on the letter.

Perhaps it was time that he be the one to extend his.