T'was only a corridor-- a path between benches like one we had walked many times just outside of Camp Drybone. Sapho had traipsed through countless a sacred place with mud on his boots and a heavy heart. He hardly knew what it was like to stand in such a place and feel his heart leap with excitement—even joy. Next to J'tomo there wasn't much that he could compare to. That man was radiant light even on a normal day, but dressed as he was in such snowy white—the color of the land he had adopted as his home, Sapho could hardly look at him.
Finally, written as a vague mention in a single log book from years before the calamity had the name been scrawled along with Mikh'a and other members of their tribe's-- "Sapho'li."
Though he may never remember his parents, lost to the light that they too had served—he knew he had had more than just half brothers once, and perhaps they lived still.
Sapho’s life had changed so exponentially, touched and molded by the people; both man and beast—who he had met in Ishgard. Now, faced with a task that they may not return from, he and J'tomo knew it was the time to go through with it. It had been two years since Sapho had frantically forged the flawless bands that they had carried, hidden for all that time. On the eve fo the bloody banquet as J'tomo had chased the shadow of the Azure Dragoon, one Estinien Wyrmblood, he had sent the ring to him with a hastily penned letter. Then, he had thought it might be the last thing he was alive to do for J'tomo—that even if the traitorous Crystal Braves had managed to manipulate everything into a coup, they would at least be joined in this way.
Looking back on all that had come to pass, and who they had hoped might stand with them on the day of this momentous occasion, their family had grown small. But there was still hope and they still walked together towards the future. No grief could taint the joy of this day, as vows pledged would go on for eternity, as their friend Edda had taught them most fervently.