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In captivity, Rishe’s lifeline was retreating into herself. Her body no longer belonged to her, but the swines could not take her mind; they could try their hardest to break it, but her thoughts were yet her own. She could be harmed a million different ways in real life, but in her imagination she ran free, her friends all lived, and her kit was happy. Happy and with her. She could picture Eorzean delights she never got to see: crystal clear waters, birdsong in the woods, vast deserts with not a Garlean in sight. Most certainly none on top of her.
The reality of the lands she so yearned for is not quite as picturesque as she’d imagined, for few could match the dreams of an idealist. Still, every day in Mor Dhona is one she loves to wake up to. She had worried about drifting astray in her freedom, of not knowing who she was when her humanity returned to her, but employment keeps her afloat. It is the reason she came here, after all; a new crafter’s guild opened in the Rising Stones and gave her the chance to return to her leatherworking roots. Though she’d developed a tremor in her hands, whether from stress or chemicals in her gruel, she jumped at the chance with enthusiasm.
Her new colleagues have been kind and welcoming. Rishe is the only Viera in their midst, but that doesn’t seem to bother anyone. They all have something in common, which is a shared interest in the trades: woodworking, cloth weaving, pottery, jewelry, glassmaking, metal-smithing—the list could go on. It reminds Rishe of home, when she and her friends would do similar handiwork together, and then have meals afterwards, laughing and singing around the campfire… No, she should not think of that. Not here.
Those who died she could never bring back, but her kit has returned to her; a grown man, a strong man, who has made tough choices of his own but came out of them alive. In his smiles she still sees the little bunny who helped her gather firewood, who splashed their feet in the stream, who cried in her arms when the nights on the road grew cold. But now when her mind wanders as she works, she has new scenes to roam to.
The rhythmic tap-tap of her hammer shaping leather grounded her. She could focus on the scent of cured hide, the warmth of the Rising Stones’ hearth at her back, little anchors to keep her in the present. But sometimes, when Laku would drop by with a new commission—“Something sturdy, mom, that Zenos won’t slice right through,” he’d say with that crooked smirk—she’d let herself drift just a little.
“Remember when you tried to stitch your first belt and it came out all lopsided?” she teased him last time, holding up a harness for his inspection. “Now look at you: Warrior of Light ordering custom gear from his mother.” The way his ears flicked in embarrassment was exactly like when he was twelve summers.
It is a slow night at the shop and the scenes still run in her head: of their reunion in Old Sharlayan, of him walking the pier with her on the island he moved to, of afternoons sitting in the garden with him and his partner. The other crafters have departed, leaving Rishe in the quiet with her tools and her work. She sews a leather patch onto a cloak, a simple task so practiced that her motions have become instinctual. Not for Laku this time; she does thankfully have other clients, or her earnings would hardly cover her rent. Though even as she works, she wonders what little gift she could make for her son next.
A pair of heavy boots approaches, but Rishe hardly takes notice, even when they come to a halt beside her table. “Can I help—” she begins, raising her head.
She doesn’t recognize him at first. The tall Au ra looks much less imposing without his armor, more fitting for the gentle soul who comforted Rishe on the airship. When the thought of passing through Garlemald on the way to the moon was too much to bear, he kept her company and shouldered her breakdown. She still flinched around men, but this one had such a non-threatening presence she let herself be lulled into comfort. Without him, she might have become one of those creatures of despair so many turned into when the world almost came to an end.
“Good evening, ma’am,” he greets her—was that a nervous stammer in his voice? It doesn’t fit the soothing presence she recalls. “Apologies for the late night visit. I doubt you even remember me.”
Rishe’s ears perk up, her needle pausing mid-stitch. “Remember you?” Her smile is warmer than the forge’s embers. “You held my hand so tight on that airship I thought you’d fuse our bones together, Harpal.” There’s no need to mention how she still has the handkerchief he lent her that day, neatly folded in her nightstand drawer. She sets aside the cloak next to a half-finished glove—some hunter’s commission, unimportant now—and pats the workbench beside her. “Sit, sit! What brings you here all the way from Thavnair?"
Harpal flusters, rubbing the back of his neck as he perches awkwardly on the bench. “I was just—well, actually…” He pulls a carefully wrapped bundle from his satchel. “Saw these at the markets in Radz-at-Han and figured they might make good reinforcement for… armguards? Maybe?”
The fabric falls away to reveal long strips of shimmering titanoboa leather—the kind that would make even a Garlean bullet think twice. Rishe’s breath catches.
“It’s silly,” he hurries on, “But I thought of you. That you might like them.”
And there it is—that same quiet kindness that kept her from unraveling mid-air.
Rishe reaches out with trembling fingers, tracing the iridescent scales. “Oh, Harpal… This is enough to line three sets of armor!” She folds his hands around the precious leather, holding on longer than necessary. “You absolute turnip, I mailed you that business card to let you know I am alright, not for… not for you to give me more to thank you for!” For the past moon, she’d worried the postmoogle had fallen out of the sky, or else that ‘Harpal of the Hannish guard’ was too vague of an address. She should admonish him for not writing her back sooner, but she cannot bring herself to. A hiccuping laugh escapes her as she swipes at her eyes with a leather-stained sleeve. “Tell you what—you’re staying for dinner. And I’m making you the most reinforced armguards the star has ever seen.”
Harpal is snared between the urge to apologize and the relief that she accepted his gift. “You don’t have to do that,” he rushes to decline, but the look in her eyes leaves him no chance.
“You came all the way to Eorzea from a continent away, then walked halfway across Mor Dhona to bring me these,” she argues, gesturing at the leather. “Of course I have to. And don’t you dare tell me no.” Then, seeing the sheepish look on his face and hearing the rumble of his stomach, she adds softer, “Did you not eat before you came?”
Harpal shakes his head, and Rishe is half-tempted to headbutt him the way she’s seen her son do to his partner when he sulks.
“What am I going to do with you…” she murmurs, shaking her head in half-hearted despair. Then she rises, dusting the leather shavings off her apron. “Come on, you’re staying the night in my home. And don’t you argue.” With a hand between his shoulder blades, she guides the much-taller Harpal between the benches and up the stairs, to her little room above the workshop—the room her son called his own when the building belonged to the Scions. There, she’ll soon have a cozy stew bubbling on the stove.