Chapter Text
Home.
The word rang out in Qoribucha’s mind as he took in his surroundings properly for the first time since their group arrived in Reunion. He wasn’t quite sure he could call the Azim Steppe home anymore. Almost three decades had passed since he left the Steppe to join the Confederacy, and two decades since he last visited Othard as a whole. And yet, for reasons Qoribucha couldn’t quite decipher, it didn’t feel any less like home to him.
Qoribucha took a deep breath and sighed. The air was fresh, carrying on it the scent of grass, buuz, and dzo shit. An overwhelming mixture to the unfamiliar, but a relaxing one to any who called the Azim Steppe their homeland. It felt bittersweet to be back after all this time. It was a shame he was here alone.
He had recognized a few faces mingling about the crowds. They showed signs of age, wrinkles spreading across their faces, color fading from their hair, and the occasional grunts and groans in pain as their bodies protested against their usual routines. Qoribucha was certain that if they recognized him, they’d see the same marks of the passage of time in him. Considering how long he had been away, he wouldn’t be surprised if none of them recognized him.
“Buuz?”
Qoribucha lifted his gaze to see one of the two Warriors of Light standing a few steps away with a small container in hand. The smell of mutton wafted temptingly through the air. Qoribucha felt his mouth begin to water. When was the last time he had sampled buuz from the Steppe?
“That sounds nice, actually,” he grunted.
“I figured you’d want a taste of home,” Su’a said. The miqo’te sat down on the soft Steppe grass and opened the container, setting out the dumplings for the two of them.
Qoribucha took a seat next to Su’a, groaning a bit as his joints protested the action. He wasn’t that old but thirty years at sea does a number on the body. “It will be interesting to see if two decades of docking in Eorzea has ruined my taste buds. Vylbrand’s spices are a far cry from those of the Steppe.”
“ What? Steppe spices nearly ruined mine within 3 minutes!” Su’a cried in protest.
Qoribucha let out a loud laugh and smirked down at his companion. “And you call yourself a Yanxian. The west’s food doesn’t pack nearly that much of a punch. Except maybe some Ala Mhigan dishes.”
“Firstly, I’m Nyanxian,” Su’a said.
Qoribucha furrowed his brow in confusion. “You’re what?”
“Nyanxian,” Su’a repeated, the sly smirk spreading across his face immediately telling Qoribucha that he had fallen into the miqo’te’s trap. “You know like nya-!”
“Stop,” Qoribucha huffed, earning a fit of laughter from Su’a.
“Besides, neither Nagxian nor Yanxian cuisine is this spiced,” Su’a grumbled. He gestured for Qoribucha to hurry up. “Anyways, yes. Take some. I had to fight my brothers for the last batch.”
Qoribucha let out an amused snort as he picked up one of the dumplings. “Oh? Did they recognize you as one of their own and pick a fight willingly, or did you have to beat it into them?”
“They didn’t recognize me at first, but once we started tussling, my brothers put two and two together.” Su’a shrugged a little, scratching his cheek in thought. “Khal passed along the message a few years ago, but I haven’t had the chance to visit since I transitioned. They seemed excited to see me and almost spirited me away to their new grounds.”
“Well, I think the Captain would not be very happy if they did, but I can see why. You’ve grown into quite the man since we first met. Not only are they likely excited to welcome a new brother home, but they also undoubtedly recognize your prowess as a warrior and desire you for the Nadaam,” he said, taking a bite of the buuz. He hummed a bit in delight as the mutton flavor filled his mouth. It had been far too long since he had last sampled proper Steppe cuisine. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it.
Su’a wiggled his ears in delight. “Oh? Flattery won't get you back on the ship ya know,” he said smugly.
Qoribucha frowned. “Don’t get too cocky.”
Su’a reached out and took one of the dumplings. “I've learned much about you through this Othard adventure,” he said.
“Oh? Do share.” An amused smirk crossed Qoribucha’s face. “Still think me the uptight bastard with a stick up his ass that’s as straight as his spine?”
“Little bit,” Su’a teased, flicking his tail back and forth in amusement. “But I see where it comes from. Confederate pirates have to give up their previous allegiances, right? Did you have to leave home before joining?”
“I did, yes. You must sever your ties with your kin, your friends, everything. All relationships, good and bad, must be cast aside. It’s a way to foster a strong unit. You are loyal to yourselves, to the Confederacy, and no one else. Any past allegiances or squabbles can be a hindrance to the crew, and therefore must be left behind if you want to survive.” Qoribucha stared at his dumpling a bit as he sunk into his thoughts. “The flipside of that though is that should you ever leave, you’re entirely cut off, and a bounty is put on your head as a traitor to the Confederacy. You will lose your only allies and be cast out with nothing.
“When we encountered them again in the Ruby Sea, I was… hopeful that perhaps the new leadership would not recognize me. Or, at the very least, respond more amicably than the leaders of my time. It was foolish of me to believe such. Had it not been for you and B’runi, the Captain and I would likely be feeding the Corpse Eaters right now,” Qoribucha said solemnly.
Su’a leaned back a bit against the fence behind them. “Glad it didn’t come to that.” He looked over at Qoribucha between careful bites of his buuz. “You’ve been through quite a lot, haven’t you? Raised with your tribe, then joining the Confederacy, now quartermaster for some Eorzean pirates.”
“Some would say,” Qoribucha answered, “though I’d argue you have been through far more than I, and in a much shorter time too.”
Su’a let out a sharp laugh. “And I’m not even in my thirties yet!” He lightly hit Qoribucha before looking off into the distance. “It may not be in your best interest to be here, but I do want you to enjoy your homeland as much as you can.”
Qoribucha followed Su’a’s gaze and smiled a bit. “Over two decades have passed since I last visited my home, yet you would never know it by how beautiful the land has remained all this time. It is more breathtaking than I remember.”
Silence settled over them as the two quietly consumed their meal. Qoribucha found his gaze wandering over Reunion again, taking in the sight he realized he had long missed. The markets of Reunion, more so than anywhere else in the whole world, held a special place in his heart. It hurt to be back here, his heart aching with each second longer they remained. And yet, Qoribucha could not deny how much he treasured being able to finally return to the place he had first met his husband.
Qoribucha briefly caught sight of Captain Wuntwilfwyn and B’runi, the two deep in discussion with another Xaela. He had seen the selfsame woman speaking with Su’a earlier, and given her immediately recognizable garb, he could only come to one conclusion to their path forward.
“We are going to have to meet with the Mols, aren’t we?” he asked solemnly, pain shooting through his chest as he finally voiced the question that lingered in his mind.
Su’a shifted uncomfortably. That was all Qoribucha needed to know his assumption had been correct. Su’a flicked his tail in a slow, low to the ground motion as he considered his next words carefully. “Seems so,” he said after a moment, “Need us to go on ahead?”
Qoribucha lowered his gaze to the ground. That was the question of the hour, wasn’t it? His breast ached as sorrow clamped tightly onto his heart. This whole trip left Qoribucha feeling exposed in ways he’d never cared for, but now, returning to the Steppe, he felt like his heart was ripped raw. “I’m not sure,” he said after a moment.
“Well, you have Lynatwyr, myself, and the rest of us if you need it. We’ve got your back, Bucha.”
Qoribucha grinded his teeth deep in thought. Conflicted emotions swirled inside him like a typhoon and it took all his strength to keep a calm lid on it all. But that lid was coming loose, he could feel it. “If we encounter his family…” Qoribucha’s voice broke as his face contorted a bit. Tears stung at the corners of his eyes as Qoribucha clung to the last shreds of his composure like a drowning man to driftwood. “I cannot say how they will react. Perhaps their gods have already informed them. If that is the case, I will not be welcome back. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Elder Gods even went so far as to call for my head, leading one of their ugdans to his death.”
Su’a flicked his ears back as he watched the cracks spread throughout Qoribucha’s serious facade. He scooched over closer to Qoribucha and wrapped his arms around the large au ra in a hug. “It was never your fault.”
Qoribucha sucked in a deep, sharp breath. “I keep trying to tell myself that. Every day, for the last seven years. Yet, I’ve never been able to convince myself of it.” Tears began to trace down the sides of his face, dropping down onto Su’a arms below. “I stole their son, one of their precious ugdans, away from his people and his duties, only to lead him to his death in a faraway land at the hands of foreign deities. He would have never been there if not for me.”
Su’a squeezed Qoribucha a little in comfort. “You have to remember, he went with you because he loved you.”
Qoribucha’s body shuddered underneath Su’a’s hold as a sob forced its way out. He raised his hand to his face and attempted to wipe away some of the tears, only for more to quickly replace them. He awkwardly cleared his throat, attempting to keep his voice steady as he spoke. “Do you want to wager why I left the Confederacy? To leave behind my only allies and flee to Eorzea with nothing but the clothes on my back and a couple other refugees in tow?”
“Was it him?”
“It was.” Qoribucha lifted his gaze to the sky and felt a smile creep across his lips. “Rarely am I ever driven by my emotions. It goes against everything I was taught. And yet, with Caragai? I could never resist that siren’s call to my heart.” Qoribucha paused as his thoughts weighed heavily in his mind. “Even if I am not welcome there, his tribe deserves to know what happened. Someone needs to tell them about the sacrifice he made to save a city-state of strangers, and the legacy that those who knew him carry on in his name. They deserve to know even in a far off land, he still listened to their Elder Gods, and died a brave and kind soul.”
“It won’t be easy, that’s for sure, but… they will know best how to honor him. Perhaps even give him a proper memorial on the Steppe. Plus, you already keep his legacy alive by caring for the remaining crew, just like you do with that fermented tea business you started with Haurchefant. If Caragai and Cirina are anything to go off of, I'm sure the Mols will be kind to you.”
“Perhaps. We’ll just have to find out, won’t we?” Qoribucha futily attempted to wipe the tears from his face again, clearing his throat to keep his voice from cracking more. “Damn, the spices really got to me there. Seems Vylbrand really has weakened my tolerance.”
Su’a raised his eyebrows in amusement, seeing plainly through the transparent attempt to save face. He released Qoribucha and pat him on the back. “How about some warm milk then?” he offered, entertaining the lie to ease Qoribucha’s heart a bit.
“That sounds nice,” he answered. Qoribucha placed a hand against his chest and bit his lip in a weak attempt to regain his composure. “Gods, I miss him,” he croaked out.
“You’re so different when you’re in love, huh.” Su’a smirked in amusement at Qoribucha’s grumbled response, hearing something akin to a soft ‘fuck off’. He stood up and brushed some of the soft grass off his breeches. “Alright, I'll be back with your milk then,” he said before walking off towards the markets again.
Qoribucha appreciated the gesture. Much as he initially disliked the stray miqo’te that wandered onto his ship and caught the attention of his captain, Qoribucha could not deny that Su’a was an extremely perceptive and reliable ally. He had proven himself plenty capable of protecting himself and his friends during their adventures. In that aspect, Qoribucha found himself rather envious of Su’a. Perhaps, if he had been possessed of such strength himself, Caragai would still be here.
Qoribucha took the time alone to compose himself. He wanted to be in something of a presentable state if he was to be forced to confront his late husband’s family. Wiping his face dry and calming his breathing, Qoribucha slowly put the pieces of himself back together as he had so many times before. It was a routine he had performed every morning for the last seven years. People claimed time heals all wounds, but the gashes in his heart bled just as much as they did the day he lost Caragai. He had simply gotten better at hiding it.
Slinging his bow and quiver on his back, Qoribucha gathered his remaining belongings into his travel pack as he waited for Su’a. The keeper was swift to return, carrying a small sheepskin in hand. “Fresh dzo milk,” he said simply, passing the skin to Qoribucha. “Ready to meet up with the others? They’re with Cirina on the other side of Reunion.”
“Yes, let us be on.”
Su’a set off on a quick stride through the town, Qoribucha not far behind him. Lyre in hand, Qoribucha found himself subconsciously stroking the eternal promise band looped around its crossbar. Its gleam had long since faded, nary a glimmer from it again following the tragedy off the shores of Limsa Lominsa seven years ago. Yet, even after all that time, as the torrent of emotions stirred within him at the familiar sights and memories of Reunion, Qoribucha found that the band still brought him a measure of tranquility amidst the storm.
It was an odd thing to cling to, the marker of a traditional bonding from a foreign land that he simply happened to reside in for the last several decades. Qoribucha was not even sure he could consider himself a true worshipper of the Twelve, or any deities for that matter. He lost much of his faith in their existence after Caragai’s death. He had only participated in the ceremony because Caragai found the traditions of Eorzea as fascinating as those of the Steppe. Now it served as the only enduring reminder Qoribucha had of their love.
He held fast to his composure as they crossed through the merchant stalls. He recognized many of them, each familiar face and stall sending a pang through his heart. Each a memory of a time spent with Caragai. The stall where they purchased fabrics for their journey westward, the merchant who recommended them a new recipe for a seaside meal, the weapons dealer who equipped them with nothing but the best, all just a few of the many memories they made in their frequent visits here.
Qoribucha felt his facade nearly crack once more as they past a specific stall that he could barely bring himself to look at. Whether it was the scent of the wild garlic, the familiarity of the merchant’s voice, or purely instinctual memory, the recognition struck his mind sharper than any arrow he had ever fired. He hesitated, slowly lifting his gaze to look longingly towards the stand just a few fulms away.
Su’a’s ears flicked upwards as he noticed the sound of Qoribucha’s footsteps stop. The miqo’te looked over his shoulder, caught slightly off guard by the sight of the usually stone cold quartermaster now frailer than cracked porcelain. He flicked his tail anxiously, unsure of how to proceed. The others were just a bit further but Su’a knew Qoribucha couldn’t bear to be seen like this. Turning fully around, the keeper walked over to Qoribucha’s side and gently touched the au ra’s arm to get his attention.
A shudder rippled through Qoribucha’s body as Su’a’s touch brought him back to reality. He took a deep breath in, fighting back another series of sobs, as he grounded himself back in reality. Clearing his throat, Qoribucha looked down at Su’a and grunted his thanks. “Sorry,” he mumbled, “that stand was where we first met.”
“Don’t apologize,” Su’a said firmly, giving Qoribucha another gentle pat on the arm. “Take a moment if you need to.”
The xaela shook his head solemnly. “We’re almost caught up with the others. Let’s not keep them any longer.”
Not one to deter a man who had made up his mind, the Warrior of Light acquiesced, turning back to his path towards their companions. As they drew closer, Su’a could overhear Bi’tala in a heated discussion about fertility traditions within the Mol tribe. Su’a felt his face grow flush as his tail began to flick back and forth in low sweeps. He could see the amusement plain on his friends’ faces as Cirina delightfully entertained his question. Bi’tala’s tail wagged in excitement as he committed each suggestion to memory, a sight that would be adorable were Su’a not so embarrassed in that moment.
Sensing Su’a’s distress, Qoribucha quickly cut into the conversation. “Apologies for the delay. Su’a had to fight off some Buduga to help me acquire some local cuisine.”
“Aye, that be alright,” Lynatwyr said with a wave of her hand. “Allowed us te see a wee bit of yer homeland and interchange with her people. It be bloody fascinating how easily ye haggle when tae merchants don’t speak.” The pirate captain surveyed Qoribucha’s face with her ever-perceptive gaze, seeming to weigh if she wanted to voice the obvious question that floated in the air between them. After a moment, she decided against it, opting instead for a simple, “If ye don’t mind putting a pin in yer conversation, lad, I think we best away te the Mol grounds.”
Bi’tala flicked his ears to the side in thought before nodding. “I suppose it can wait. More people means more advice on how to make sure Su’a gets that baby,” he said proudly, puffing out his chest.
Su’a let out an embarrassed groan and buried his face in his hands. “Bibi-!” he hissed out in protest, tail flicking back and forth more. “Not in public!”
A wide grin spread across Bi’tala’s face as he quickly wrapped his arm around Su’a and planted a firm smooch on Su’a’s forehead. “Don’t mind him, he’s shy,” he said to Cirina, swishing his tail back and forth happily.
Cirina let out a short giggle, her amusement written plain on her face. “I’m sure the others will be delighted to share their knowledge with you. Come along now.” Not waiting a moment longer, Cirina took the lead alongside Hien as they began to traverse through the wilderness of the Steppe.
Qoribucha took up the rear position of the group as they traveled. Exchanging his lyre for his bow, he kept an arrow at the ready in case any of the passing purbols decided to be opportunistic. He doubted this particular group needed his strength, the two Warriors of Light alone could make short work of the overgrown seedkin; but much like their western cousins, the breath of these creatures was enough to knock out a full grown mammoth. Considering B’runi was preoccupied with being glued to her husband’s side and Su’a was still recovering from the second-hand embarrassment of his boyfriend discussing their future children, Qoribucha figured a little extra foresight couldn’t hurt.
“What ye be thinking about?” Lynatwyr asked as she fell back to match Qoribucha’s pace.
The quartermaster quickly glanced towards his captain before returning his watch to the purbols lining the roadside. “Purbol leaves were always one of Caragai’s favorite ingredients for his smokes.”
Lynatwyr snorted in amusement. “Aye, I remember. Had te get the thrice damn things imported because ‘e said morbol leaves didn’t match tae quality. ‘tever in tae Seven Hells that means.”
Qoribucha chuckled at the memory and nodded his head. “Can’t say I ever sampled any of his morbol leaf smokes, but I would be inclined to trust his judgment.” Qoribucha’s grip on his bow tightened as one of the seedkin began to wander closer to the path ahead of them. “Caragai taught me how to harvest their leaves without disturbing them back when I would visit him here. I was debating gathering some for his family.”
“Well, ye be in luck, ye do,” Lynatwyr said with a smug smile. Qoribucha raised his eyebrows as he watched his captain reach inside her coat to produce a small drawstring bag. “I bought them fer meself, thought they’d make a dandy price over at tae Eorzean markets they would, but if it pleases ye I be willing to part with the leaves. No strings attached now.”
Qoribucha stared at the small bag in shock. “You… bought these for me?”
“Ye not be very good at listening with me,” Lynatwyr chastised, “I told ye, they be fetching a fine price abroad. I can send fer another batch before we leave. Take it before I change me mind.”
Qoribucha pondered a moment longer before lowering his grip on his bow and taking the bag. “Thank you, Captain. I’ll repay you for this later,” he said as he stowed them away.
“Aye, see that ye do.” Lynatwyr gave Qoribucha a firm pat on the back. “They best appreciate the effort ye went now. Isn’t he superb see? Fetched ya leaves of smokes yer son loved most? Offer for his memorial and bring testament for ye Elder Gods. I nae tolerate any slander on yer behalf.”
Qoribucha let out a short chuckle and shook his head. “Well, I’m not sure we can really take credit for fetching the leaves, but I appreciate the backup, Captain.”
Lynatwyr huffed and waved her hand. “Oh ye know what I mean. Picking apart me sentences now, quit won’t ye? Tease me more and I change me tune from tae canary singing ye praises te a town cryer warning people of Qoribucha tae carouser with a bad case of grog blossom.”
“Aye aye, Captain,” Qoribucha said with a grin. “And I trust even if they won’t hear me out, you will be sure to inform them of his deeds in my stead?”
“Ye needs te ask me this? I will. Ye can be right sure of that, ye can. From the ways ye helped to fend off sirens by learning the Sea Wolf Shanties of yore to how ye helped protect the people of distant lands from ancient deities, I tell it all. And if they think me words worth a right two-gil, then Runi will clear up tae mess, I be sure. They may see ye and me as bloody bobbies but I doubt they dismiss the words of the Warrior of Light.”
Qoribucha hummed a low note in thought. “I do wonder about that.”
Lynatwyr crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at Qoribucha. “Oh now ye doubt Runi’s reputation? She nae be a chancer like we now, buck. Most be willing te lend a listening ear to the lass.”
“While there is a truth in that I cannot deny, Captain, this is not Eorzea. No offense to B’runi or Su’a, but I doubt anyone in the Steppe has likely heard of them, outside of Lord Hien himself. It will avail us little here. And considering their reputations are the only things that have gotten us this far, I worry about our chances. If we’re to bring about-” Qoribucha stopped when he noticed a smug smirk plastered on Lynatwyr’s face. “What?”
“Ye be fretting like me father used te. It be charming.”
Qoribucha’s jaw dropped open at the remark. Heat rushed to his face, causing the xaela to turn his gaze elsewhere sheepishly. “What can I say? Captain Wuntwilf was a great man. I took a few pages from his book, especially when it came to you.”
“Aye.” Lynatwyr gazed out into the distance, a forlorn look crossing her face. “I only hope I be half tae captains me parents were.”
“You are,” Qoribucha said, his lack of hesitation startling Lynatwyr. “Not only were you able to avenge them and the crew, but you continued to help those in need. First in Eorzea, then in Gyr Abania, and now here in Othard.” Qoribucha turned to look at Lynatwyr, locking his eyes with hers as he spoke, “Your parents would be so proud of you, Captain.”
As the Steppe’s sun caressed Lynatwyr’s sharp sea wolf features, her expression softened. Qoribucha felt a pang stir in his chest as, for the briefest of moments, Lynatwyr seemed to morph back into the little girl that clung to her parents’ boots when he first joined their crew. The world had taken much from her since then, but like a ship’s mast, she stood tall in the storm.
Just as quickly as it came, the moment of vulnerability was gone. Lynatwyr took a sharp breath in through her nose, holding it for a beat before slowly exhaling through her mouth. “Thank ye, Qoribucha. It-” Lynatwyr’s voice cracked, despite her best attempts to keep her tone from wavering, “it mean a lot to hear that.”
A soft smile spread across Qoribucha’s face. “Of course, Captain.” Qoribucha’s eyes trailed up the path ahead of them, the Mol’s yurts slowly coming into view. “I can only hope I have half of your strength for the tribulations to come.”
Lynatwyr wrapped her arm around Qoribucha’s shoulder and gave him a firm squeeze. “I be ready to lend it to ye. Ye need only ask.”
The pair walked in silence for the rest of their journey to the Mols. Qoribucha took the time to listen to the world around him, a poor attempt to steady his nerves. The sounds of the Steppe were plentiful and something Qoribucha quickly found he sorely missed after not hearing them for so many decades. The deep grunting of the dzo, the warbled trilling of the pubrols, and the bleating of the sheep accompanied by the sharp barks of herding dogs wove together into a symphony unlike any other.
Nostalgia blended with new familiarity as B’runi’s abrupt laughter echoed across the plains of the Steppe, the miqo’te grinning widely as she spoke with her husband. The sounds of chatter rang out from the group ahead of them as Hien found himself quickly inundated with questions from Lyse despite Su’a’s best attempts to convince her now was not the time for such an inquisitive barrage. As the familiar voices filled the air around him, Qoribucha felt his nerves ease just a bit. Confronting his past with the strength of the present at his back, he found renewed strength. But the worst was yet to come.
Each step grew harder than the last as they climbed the final hill towards the Mols’ yurts. No matter the peace and assurances his friends provided him, Qoribucha found that in the moment, the burden was far too heavy for him. Lynatwyr slowed her pace alongside Qoribucha, her arm firmly wrapped around her quartermaster as she gently guided him forward.
“There be a set of rocks ahead,” she said in a firm voice, pointing with her lips towards the small cluster of boulders near the largest yurt. “Take ye a seat there. Collect yerself. We fetch ye once the initial talks be done.”
“As you say, Captain,” Qoribucha grunted. Lynatwyr led her quartermaster over to the rocks and helped him take a seat. She squeezed his shoulder tightly and knelt to be closer to equal height with him. “I apologize. The strength all but left me as we ascended the hill.”
“There be nothing to apologize for, Qoribucha,” Lynatwyr said sternly. “Do ye need one of us to stay out here wit’ ye?”
“I don’t mind staying,” B’runi offered, lingering a bit nearby. She flicked her ears forward towards Qoribucha. “But only if you want the company.”
The xaela waved his hand dismissively. “I will be fine. While I appreciate the offer, you two are needed with the others. I can handle a few moments by myself.”
B’runi and Lynatwyr exchanged a look of worry, their mutual concern for their companion written plain in the lines on their faces. While he appreciated the intent, the thought of being a further hindrance to their endeavors only served to sour his mood even further. He slapped his tail impatiently against the rocks with a loud ‘thwap’, telling his shipmates all they needed to know.
“We’ll head in then,” B’runi said after a moment, lowering her ears and raising her hands in surrender. “Just yell if you need us.”
Qoribucha picked at his scales as he watched the group enter the main yurt. With the arrival of the warmer weather, so too came the shedding season. Perhaps he could acquire new tools in Reunion before they depart; his old ones were worn from thirty years of use and replacements were hard to come by in Eorzea. If he were lucky, there may have been advancements in the last thirty years that would make the process much less laborious for him.
He could feel the eyes on him, much as he tried to ignore them by occupying himself with thoughts of scale upkeep. Though they kept their distance, the hushed whispers and soft footsteps of the Mols that paused their daily duties to gawk at him carried on the Steppe winds. Qoribucha rolled his shoulders back and let out a long breath, attempting to ignore them.
Seeing no other option to ease his nerves, Qoribucha picked up his lyre once again and began to strum on it. If he had a captive audience, he might as well make use of it, he supposed, or at least with his music he could drown out the whispers of his observers. Plucking the strings gently with his claws, Qoribucha took in another deep breath of the Steppe air, letting the smells and sounds wash over him as he began to play an old ballad his father once taught him as a child.
Perhaps it was rude to sing a ballad about Azim and Nhaama in the presence of the Mols, but as Qoribucha’s deep voice echoed across the plains of the Steppe, none moved to stop him. His voice and lyre together wove a tale of lovers: a xaela and a raen said to have met on the shores of the Ruby Sea during a time when war between them was rampant. Yet even as their kin shed scales and blood on the battlefields crafted by Azim and Nhaama, the two auri felt nothing but love in their hearts for one another. Their meetings, initially secret, became known to many, and their love so infectious it moved even the gods. Their hearts stirred at the harmony among their children. Azim and Nhaama bequeathed the world to them and blessed the union of the young couple with children whose scales shimmered like the sun and stars in the sky.
Qoribucha found himself lost in the moment as he sang, barely registering the words that passed his lips as he sang in his old Qalli tongue. The normally rough language of the xaela carried a softer and delicate tone to it when sung with the songbird’s dialect, lifting the notes into the winds that swept across the plains before rising into the clouds above where all the gods could hear it. Warm tears tumbled down Qoribucha’s cheeks, he hadn’t even realized he had begun to cry, as the old ballad tore open the aching wounds of love in his heart. The emotions he had held back since their arrival in the East, perhaps even for far longer, now found voice through his song as the grief, rage, and sorrow from years of loss carried on each lyric of the gods’ ballad. Though he had long since scoffed at the ideas of the gods, the story of their love, to never be reunited lest it destroy the world and their children, struck a potent chord within him.
As the last notes of the ballad whistled across the grasslands, leaving Qoribucha’s throat hoarse and his fingers sore, he felt his burden was far lighter than before. Much as he loathed putting his grief on public display, he could not remember the last time he had taken a moment to sing for himself like this. Staring high into the sky at the clouds that swiftly migrated over the Steppe, he barely registered the applause and muffled voices from the Mols that were around him. As much as he had resented the idea of returning to his homeland after so long, perhaps it had been what he needed. Whether it was his prayers or his scorns they had heard, the gods, if they existed at all, seemed to have listened for the first time in many years.
Qoribucha plucked another note on his lyre as he prepared to sing another song when a familiar voice cut through the noise, striking directly into his soul.
“Qoribucha?” He froze, certain he was hearing things now. The voice that had gently caressed his ears for many years, and filled his dreams for even longer, now danced along the winds of the Steppe once again. “Qoribucha Qalli-Mankhad, is that you?” it came again, circling his mind and squeezing his heart tightly. He refused to answer, dared not look up less the spell be broken and his grief saddled back onto him like the cargo of a merchant’s ship. It hurt how much he loved to hear that voice again. It faded from his dreams as years passed with its absence in his life, yet here it was, clear as the rippling waters of the Rai Khaal.
Gentle fingers found their way beneath the scales on his chin, a familiar touch that melted his resistance in a single instant. Lifting his head, his gaze found another, one that had missed more than anything else in the world since they had disappeared off the shores of La Noscea years ago. The years had been kinder to him, not quite so many wrinkles creasing his firey skin as they did Qoribucha’s, though far more scars marked his scales and body. His hair, once green as the first blades of grass that coated the Steppe after each winter, was now faded to a lighter hue, more akin to the lights that sometimes dance along the northern La Noscean skies, caressing the beautiful night-touched scales that adorned his face and neck.
“Caragai,” Qoribucha whispered, the very name filling the other Xaela’s brilliant magenta eyes with tears. Discarding his lyre with a lack of care that he would scold himself for later, Qoribucha embraced the other man, one hand threading its way into his green hair and the other wrapping tightly across his back. Everything breath was filled with the smell of purbol leaf smoke, fresh grazing grass, and ground rhea, a familiar scent that he had missed dearly. It didn’t feel real, and by all accounts it couldn’t be, and yet as he felt Caragai bury his face into his neck, Qoribucha knew by some miracle, it was real.
After seven long years mourning the loss of the man he loved the most at the hands of primals in a land across the world from where they first met, they had found each other once again in the plains gifted to their ancestors in an act of love from the gods that made them.
He was home.