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Arenvald had never figured himself to be a collector. Collections were for rich people with big, empty rooms where they could display luxurious statues and expensive paintings. A kid like him? Once his mum had made it clear he wasn’t to darken her doorstep ever again, it had been a good day when he’d had any private space to hide his belongings at all.
So when Tataru had described his humble pile of envelopes as a “delightful collection,” he hadn’t quite known what to say. When she’d gifted him a small album in which to organize them (“What do you mean you can’t accept this? You’re still a Scion, and a gift like this is the least we can do! Take it!”), he’d stammered a shy “thank you” and almost couldn’t bring himself to crack open the pristine pages.
Now the elegantly embossed book was almost three-quarters full, and his stipend from the Resistance allowed him to write Tataru for the name of the craftsman so he could purchase a second volume.
Of course, while his correspondence with the Scion’s secretary made up a goodly portion of the collection, by far the bulk of the envelopes inside were from Alphinaud. Indeed, that was how the whole endeavor had begun. Arenvald had never had a "pen pal" before, much less one who wrote to him on perfumed stationary and shut his envelopes with a wax seal. So he’d started saving the many letters they’d exchanged, in part out of his growing sentiment for the boy, in part because Arenvald still wasn’t quite used to the idea such nice things were intended for the garbage. Why toss a perfectly good envelope when the seal could be scraped off and stamps applied anew?
But as he’d added letter after letter from the young elezen to his bundle, it was the stamps which Arenvald had come to value most. They were a tiny map he could use to trace the contours of their shared lives.
Here were stamps from Hingashi and Doma, the tranquil scenes of mountains and waves at odds with the fiery revolution occurring half a world away. (Just looking at it made Arenvald's chest swell with pride at the victories they'd achieved together!)
Here was a stamp from Mor Dhona, the sight of which had caused Arenvald to shout and leap with joy at knowing his fellow Scion had finally awoken from his moons of slumber. (And good gods, the envelope attached to it had been nearly bursting at the seams with Alphinaud’s recounting of his trials on the First!)
Here was a flurry of stamps from Ul’dah, Gridania, Limsa Lominsa, when Alphinaud had written near daily while Arenvald had struggled to regain what function he still could after his injury. (In those dark moments, he’d found the little book to be a lifeline, its small but tangible weight a reminder that he’d never needed to walk to touch lives around the star.)
Here was a primly neat stamp from Old Sharlayan, its exacting placement concealing the depths of anguish Alphinaud had felt at being disowned by his father. (It still made Arenvald’s heart ache with sympathy to look at it. He’d spent bells upon bells on his response, searching for the perfect words to convey the hug he’d wished to wrap around the young man’s shoulders.)
Here was a stamp from Garlemald, applied with shaking, freezing fingers. A stamp from Thavnair, half-singed as the postmoogle had fled the coming of the Final Days. Another from Sharlayan, ink spilled haphazardly across it in the frenetic rush to complete the Ragnarok. Here was not a stamp at all, but a tiny sketch in its place, conveying an alien sun Alphinaud had witnessed at the farthest reaches of the sea of stars. (Thank every god in existence he - and the rest - had returned safely from such an immense undertaking!)
Mayhap the total could indeed be considered priceless - after all, no amount of coin could persuade Arenvald to part with such treasures.
The gentle Highlander stretched contentedly in his chair as he looked westward out the window of his modest but tidy quarters in the city. Just this morning, the postmoogle had arrived with the newest addition to his collection. A stamp unlike any Arenvald had seen before, bearing the two-headed serpent sigil of the lands across the Indigo Deep.
Inside were sure to be tales of yet more fascinating adventures. But no matter where Alphinaud went, no matter what danger he was in, he always took the time to send a letter. Arenvald liked to think it meant he’d left a stamp of his own upon the wandering prodigy’s heart.
