“W-when do you think of this?..” she stammered.

Silence wafted over them, a contagious trail of pensiveness enveloping. The days since the operation at Castrum Abania had left the typically upbeat Twin Seasons cold and emotionless. Galaihaurat’s rescue, while successful, was not enough to break the man of his captor’s shackles.    “Oh, twilight’s respite comes to me in waves. Dreams, nightmares? I can no longer tell,” he lamented.

Galaihaurat sank into his chair, his strength deteriorated after such light prattling. Shiloh paced the room, her thoughts aflutter.

   “When you next wake - look to me; I’m real,” she pleaded as if in prayer. Their fates were intertwined, however at an inconsolable impasse. 

   “To tangle thee in this web - I am absent of the Crystal’s grace, her whispers snuffed or a cacophony of cries,” he sighed,  “I cannot pit La Trouvaille twixt the war and mine own fate.”

  “We placed ourselves in that hole - we saved you, Galaihaurat! Caelholdt - someone you have yet to even speak to, suffered for you!” she shouted, “You and y-your gift! Damn you! Damn your pride! Damn your integrity!”

“Prithee, the Garlean’s to have stolen my gift, to have siege’d mine heart ‘pon slabs of cold iron, to have rob’d the will of spirit from mine aether… ungranted death, left me disowned,” tears streamed down his face, “...Alack, I know thee would fight true for my tale as valiantly as for Eorzea, but you cannot follow me to the depths I must reach.”

Singing birds began their morning chorus - the livelihood of the Shroud’s dawn permeated the torpor that infected Galaihaurat’s office. Shiloh trembled at his statement, her efforts and organization of a suicide run had felt as if for naught. Without so much as a glance towards him, she made her way for the door.  

She stopped at the door, the palm of her hand resting at its middle, softly, she cried,