#Aymeric has that air of knowing love from being loved more than knowing love from what they didn't get enough of

[quinn-borel]

[Quinnmeric/Wolmeric Modern!AU. Part 1. Part 2. Part 3.Part 4, Part 5]

“So she just left? Just like that? Wow…you really did get blue balled.”

“I didn’t get blue balled, Haurchefant.”

“What the–do you even know what that phrase means?  That’s textbook definition.” Haurchefant laughed, “Still, that’s unfortunate all the same.  I had a feeling you two would get along, but not so quickly and so...yeah.”

Aymeric rinsed his razor before going back to his face, running it along the curve of his jaw, “It just…happened.  An now we’re going to dinner tonight.”

“Yeah, and then…”

“And then I expect nothing more.” Aymeric continued on with a serious tone, “Maybe we’ll share a bottle of wine, maybe not.  It’s entirely up to her.”  He could hear Haurchefant’s frustrated sigh in the distance, even with the sink running water.  Aymeric continued shaving as normal, glancing down at this phone expectantly to see if Haurchefant would continue to speak.

“Man…” Haurchefant finally broke the silence, “…she’s a lovely lady, Aymeric.  What ‘d give to be in your shoes-”

“Do I detect a hint of jealousy?”

“A hint? I’m full blown.” he laughed, “But in all seriousness, my friend, my brother, do you need any tips?”

“Tips?” Aymeric stared at his reflection carefully, making sure that he hadn’t missed any stray stubble, “What do you mean?”

“Well…” the air felt tense for a moment, “I mean, come on, friend, I know you better than most.  Do you even know what a clitoris is?”

Aymeric nearly cut himself at the remark, the razor slipping from his grasp and tumbling into the sink, “Of course I know what–! Yes, I know what that is.”

He could overhear Haurchefant’s laughter once more, though his friend tried his best to move his own phone away from him so Aymeric wasn’t blasted with such ridicule, “I was just checking. Just checking!”

“Please, this conversation has derailed into something you’d hear in a locker room.” Aymeric sighed as he retrieved his razor, “I…appreciate your willingness to give me…pointers? But it’s not necessary.”

“All I’m saying is that I don’t want to hear you telling me that she laughed at you for acting like a virgin.” Haurchefant warned him, “You can’t be sly and then completely flop in bed.”

Aymeric rolled his eyes.  Haurchefant was always the type to hype up his friends, even in college he tried to be Aymeric’s wingman at several bars much to his chagrin.  The man just wanted to see his friends succeed in all aspects, from sports to grades to even romance.  That being said, he always looked to Aymeric as if he were a prude…and thus a challenge to be paired off.  Obviously this had not changed over the years.

Aymeric wiped his face down, still staring at his reflection lost in the thought of even having sex with Quinn.  While they were close the day prior, it may have been a one-off thing for all he knew.  He had planned to simply have dinner with her that night, possibly offering to share a bottle of wine with her as well, but in a more public space.  Though he couldn’t help but to wonder what was going through Quinn’s mind in terms of the situation–was she just as curious as he was?  Did she, too, play with the thought of laying with him for the night?  It would be a lie to say that he wasn’t addicted to her kisses, his own fingertips then touching his lips as if he could still taste her.

“…Whatever happens tonight will happen.” Aymeric muttered, “And, of course, it will be none of your business.”

“C’mon, friend, you don’t have to go into detail with me.” Haurchefant laughed once more, “Regardless, I’ll be happy for you.  You two seem like a good pair.”

Aymeric was about to reply when his phone began buzzing once more–a call from Lucia, of all people.

“I have to take this.  I’ll talk to you later.”

“Get some, friend!”

Aymeric immediately hung up on him at that remark, quickly switching over to Lucia,

“Yes?  Is everything alright?”

“Sir, we just received an email invitation from a Merlwyb Bloefhiswyn with Lominsan Martime about an event for tomorrow evening at the Crystarium Hotel.  Were you aware of this?”

“Yes, we spoke and exchanged information briefly just the other day.” Aymeric sighed, “Sorry, I should have mentioned that yesterday to put on the calendar.”

“Is everything alright?”

“Just taking some personal time.”

“…That’s quite unlike you.”

“No need to fuss over it, Lucia.  Anyway, if you could send me the reports I requested over so that I have something to show Merlwyb tomorrow evening that would be wonderful.”

“Right.  Handeloup should be working on gathering our logistical needs forecast and should have those to you by later this evening.”

“I won’t be available until tomorrow morning, so tell him he can enjoy time with his family this evening instead.”

“I don’t see any meetings scheduled for you this evening, though—”

“Like I said,” Aymeric smiled at his reflection, “I’m taking some personal time.”

The phone conversation with Lucia didn’t last as long as expected after that, his assistant rather taken aback by his sudden need to be away from his work.  Aymeric wanted to make sure his night with Quinn wasn’t interrupted, and he had hoped her own work would respect the same wishes.

~~~

Her fingers were threaded together as her chin rested upon the back of her hands, her eyes gazing at him from across the table as she intently listened to his story.  She laughed as he finished, her smile once again brightening the dim room of the establishment–painted lips, scarlet nails, and a black dress that could kill a man adorned the woman who sat across from him.  The night started smoothly from the minute they both arrived at the venue, Quinn having confirmed with Aymeric herself that no one should be bothering them during dinner as her phone ringer was turned off.  Aymeric made the same vow, and neither one of them pulled out their phone during their meal.  They were fully involved with one another, sharing stories back and forth of Aymeric’s college days and Quinn telling him about her travels abroad.  She particularly enjoyed his second story, her laugh warming him from the inside out before she took a sip of her wine,

“Sorry, I just find that so funny that you two got thrown out of a library of all places.  That just doesn’t seem like you.”

“I was studying like a good student, but he had to come in with a horn and a beer bong.” Aymeric sighed, though he kept his smile, “that’s what I get for trying to pass my midterms instead of watching the game.”

“And yet you still cheered and took a hit.  Lovely.” she smirked into her wine glass, “It seems like there is a wild side to you.”

“I’ve calmed down a lot since then.” Aymeric mused, “I kinda don’t have a choice.”

“Well, hey, we’re in the same boat.  We both can’t party like we used to because of the eyes on us.” Quinn checked over her shoulder for a moment then back to him, “I wonder if anyone here recognizes you.”

“Hardly.  I’m no performer or anything of the sort, just a businessman who happens to have an Eorzeapedia page…for some reason.”

“You’re a big name in Coerthas, big enough for someone to post a bio of you on the internet.  You should take pride in that.”

“It’s actually a little unsettling.” he admitted, “I’ve never looked myself up, though.  How detailed is it?”

“Oh, not very.” Quinn gave him a look of innocence, but he already knew she looked him up a few days prior, “I mean, it just has your basic bio.  Probably things gleaned from newspapers and open company records.  It’s not like it has the more interesting parts about you.”

“And what about you?  I don’t really frequent those sites, so I’ll admit you’re still a mystery to me.  Not as much as before, but still…”

“What an interesting way to try to pry more information out of me.” she said with a smirk.  Aymeric shook his head as he tipped his glass,

“You don’t need to divulge to me anything that you don’t want to, Quinn.”

“Well,” she became noticeably tense, her hands went from propping her chin up to being hidden under the table, “I can’t say my Eorzeapedia page is worth a look, but I think you have the right to know some of the highlights. It’s only fair.”

“I’m fine with knowing you through conversing with you.” he simply stated, “It’s much more interesting than reading an article.”

Her shoulders slumped a bit as she relaxed, her hands returning to the top of the table, “I appreciate that.”

Aymeric sat back in his seat, “So you said you grew up in coastal Thavnair, right?  What brought you all the way out here?”

“New opportunities, I suppose.” it seemed that she was choosing her words rather carefully, “I needed to get away from my parents and the Gridanian area was promising for its local performance scene.  I left school and hopped on a plane with nothing but a suitcase full of clothes and that was that.”

Aymeric could tell there were details missing from her story, but he chose not to pry.  Not everyone had a shining clean slate to their past, and it seemed that Quinn refused to share some of her more unsavory notes.  It’s not as if Aymeric were not keeping his own secrets from her, notes that he’d rather not see end up on an Eorzeapedia page.  

“Are there any other instruments you know how to play?” he asked curiously.

“The harp, the guitar,” she began to count on her fingers in an attempt to list all that she knew, “the violin…I dabbled in the viola for a bit, but I preferred how the violin sounded…the cello, I even played on an old lute back in school…”

“That’s really impressive.” Aymeric said with what appeared to be stars in his eyes, “You know, not a lot of people can tout that many instruments under their belt.”

“Ah-”  a red flush painted Quinn’s cheeks, “I guess you’re right.”

“You’re well traveled, well-versed in musical instruments…” he bit his lip for a moment before letting the next part slip, “…and beautiful to add that to the mix.  You are quite the rising star, Quinn.”

She exhaled softly, her smile widening as the flush grew somehow deeper on her cheeks, “Thank you, Aymeric.”

“I only tell the truth.”

“You know…” Quinn’s tone changed slightly as she sat back in her chair, her fingertips fidgeting with the stem of her wine glass, “…I keep thinking about yesterday.”

“Oh?” Aymeric asked softly, wondering if it was appropriate to bring up all the events of the day prior over dinner, “What about it?”

Quinn’s eyes fell to her glass for a bit, again appearing as if she were trying to choose her words carefully, “…I keep thinking about how you treat me.  How you approach me.  Even so far as how you speak to me and I…”

Aymeric for a moment felt his heart sink as she trailed off–did he do something wrong?  Was she about the be the bearer of bad news?  Quinn immediately picked up on his sudden dread and gave him a reassuring smile,

“...I really appreciate it all.” she finally added, “I love it.  I really do.  I feel like a princess with you. And you’re so calm, down-to-earth, and, Gods, you’re gentle with your hands…”

Immediately he felt his pulse begin to race, his once-sunken heart suddenly beating rapidly within his throat.  His eyes slightly widened and his skin began to flare up with embarrassment all the way to his ears.  It took him a moment to gather his thoughts from the sudden whiplash of emotion he felt.  His gaze flashed to his hands, the same hands that held her so tenderly the evening before–his ‘gentle’ hands, as she described them.  

“I-I’m glad.” he stuttered a bit, still trying to gather himself, “I know we haven’t known each other all that long, but I will admit, Quinn, that I’m very fond of you.”

“The feeling is mutual.” she replied, “I’ve never met a man like you before, Aymeric.  Kind, charming, funny,confident-”

“Oh, there’s no need to go on like that.” he said rather bashfully.

“And modest.” Quinn added with a smirk.  Aymeric gave her a subtle wink as he finished his glass, to which she softly chuckled in response.

“So, Quinn,” he began, his tone low and silken, “dare I ask you to split another bottle with me?  Perhaps in a more private location?”

“Mmm, I’ll have to think on it a bit.” she shot back, though her alluring gaze and smile spoke for her.  Aymeric could only smile back at her with the same look, both of them knowing well what her answer would be.         

[roguelioness]

(i'll follow-) follow you down

Fandom: FFXIV Pairing: Alyzen Kaide/Estinien Varlineau, Alyzen Kaide/Aymeric de Borel Rating: T (mild violence) Words: 1784

(read on ao3)

The woman in his arms looks so fucking fragile.

She’s so silent, so alarmingly unmoving as he strides rapidly across the battlefield. There’s fighting all around him, soldiers of the Alliance clashing with the Garleans, the loud rotors and motors of their grotesque ceruleum-fuelled warmachina vibrating the air. Smoke and dust and blood is a near-tangible thing on his tongue, sour and acrid and bitter, and there’s a piercingly high scream coming from the right, but all of Estinien’s attention is on the pale-faced, bruised and bleeding Warrior of Light.

Savior of Ishgard.

Eorzea’s Champion.

He's only ever seen her vital and vibrant, whether in joy or grief or rage or sorrow. But now she wears a new look and he finds he does not care much for the sight of it.

In his arms, she looks so… human. So mortal. 

So frangible.

He should have acted sooner. He should have fought by her side, instead of watching as she parried blow after blow, as her skin turned from golden to purple-blue.

He thought she’d had it under control. And Halone’s breath, but she’d been magnificent as she danced around the battlefield, Zenos’ attacks barely touching her.

And she’d killed him. He’d seen it. He’d watched Zenos’ body slump to the ground, little better than a soggy sack of flour. He didn’t have to be a Sharlayan scholar to know that the dead weren’t meant to glow ominous red before climbing back to their feet.

Alyzen always had the worst luck.

Whatever that thing was, whatever manner of creature lived in that body, it had not startled Aly, or surprised her. No, she'd been so fucking resigned, like she'd expected it, a grim sort of desperation on her thinned mouth. Fool woman, he clenches his jaw as he carefully climbs over a twisted chunk of metal that had once been a craft, why would you attempt to fight a creature that could not be killed?

But he knows the answer, even as he rages against it. What other choice did she have? All too often, the fate of half a dozen countries rested on her shoulders, and he cannot even judge them for it, for had he not required her assistance to protect and defend the country he loves?

Why had she been alone on the battlefield? Where were the rest of her Scions, her friends? Why had they abandoned her in her time of need?

The kind of magicks it had employed… to see her in such distress, to know she was in pain and that he could do nothing– He should have intervened the moment he saw the body rise. Perhaps if he had… his gaze drops to her blood-soaked armor.

Mayhap it was his imagination, but had she stopped breathing?

Estinien dips his head closer to her face, his cheek near her nose, and a flood of relief washes over him as the warmth of her exhale fans over his skin. “Do not even think of dying,” he murmurs to her, ducking behind a rockface so that the soldiers passing overhead do not catch a glimpse of their hero so wounded. “I would be most vexed with you should you make the slightest attempt.”

The Alliance camp was easy enough to slip into without being noticed. Estinien cast his glance this way, then that, attempting to gauge the safest place to take her to. Alyzen has dire need of a chirurgeon, but were she to be seen it would cause a massive drop in morale. Search as he might, he cannot find the slightest trace of the Scions. A strange thing indeed, even more so that none of the leaders seemed unaffected by their absence.

In the midst of all this chaos, there’s only one person Estinien trusts.

He knows Aymeric well enough to instantly pick him out of the crowd. Weaving his way through a throng of bodies dashing about, his own hood pulled over his head, he makes his way towards Ishgard’s Lord Commander. Aymeric is ensconced within the tent that serves as his personal accommodations, fully busy giving out orders to Lucia, but Estinien cannot wait for him to finish– he barges into the tent, ignoring Lucia’s outraged exclamation, and pulls down his hood to reveal his face.

“She needs help,” is all he says.

Aymeric draws in a sharp, shocked breath when his gaze lands on Alyzen’s form, his features contorting with heartbreak, before he quickly gathers himself and barks out an order to Lucia to fetch a chirurgeon. Estinien ignores the woman’s departure in favor of settling Aly onto Aymeric’s bed, his fingers suddenly and unexpectedly shaky as he brushes away a blood-crusted strand of hair away from her face.

“What happened?” Aymeric asks, concern making his voice tremble.

“Zenos,” he says, then goes into the details of the fight he’d witnessed.

Aymeric’s breath catches in his throat. “That was not the Crown Prince that raised his blade against her,” he states quietly as he kneels by the bed, carefully undoing the straps and buckles that keep her armor together. “Zenos is dead. It is an Ascian that now wears his body.”

“She fought an ascian? What would possess you to send her out to face him alone?” Estinien’s voice vibrates with his outrage. “If the alliance does not care for her wellbeing, surely the scions would–”

“The Scions are not here, Estinien.”

“So I gather. I overheard a group of men say they were on a secret mission elsewhere. Why would they leave her to fend for herself?”

“They cannot be here,” Estinien’s never seen Aymeric look more troubled. 

A short explanation later, and a fresh horror has embedded itself into his chest; he stares down at Alyzen, quiescent and motionless. “You believe there is a chance the same fate has befallen her? You think her soul has…” he cannot bring himself to say it.

“It has occurred several times,” Aymeric is grim-faced now, “and my understanding is that it affected only the Scions. Each time it has taken place, a Scion has fallen prey. Alisaie fell but a week ago.” He exhales heavily, his shoulders slumping with the motion. “Would that I could have kept her from the same fate. Halone grant me strength, the sight of her like this is once I cannot bear."

Before Estinien can respond, Lucis bursts in, a chirurgeon close at her heels. He watches silently as the medic examines Alyzen, as they tug at her eyelids and measure her pulse and clean and suture her wounds, but even he knows that her injuries, numerous as they are, could not be responsible for her insensate condition.

The chirurgeon completes his examination. “She– she appears to be asleep, my lord,” he says, a frown creasing his brow. “Her breathing is steady, and her pulse is strong. Yet–” he hesitates.

“Yet?” Aymeric crosses his arms.

“I could be mistaken, of course, but her aether– it is considerably thinned.”

Estinien narrows his eyes. “What do you mean? Speak plainly.”

He clears his throat. “It is as though her soul is barely present. It clings to her body in the barest of threads.”

There’s a clog in his throat, a rusted dagger in his chest. Estinien’s fingers twitch, as though they’re seeking out the comfort of hers; he curls them into his palm, hiding his fist behind his back. 

“You are certain of this?” Aymeric asks. 

“Aye.”

“It bodes well that it yet lingers,” Lucia places a hand on Aymeric’s shoulder. “The Warrior of Light is strong. She will return to us; of this I am certain.”

Aymeric exhales. “Aye,” he murmurs. “I must have faith.” His gaze meets Estinien’s, and he can see the fear lurking in those depths – not the fear of a leader on the verge of losing his best soldier, but the fear of a man who cares deeply.

Loves, even.

Estinien clenches his jaw so tight his teeth hurt. He recognizes that fear for it sits within his own ribs. The recognition of that emotion brings with it panic. Surely it cannot be. He cannot possibly– Dimly, he registers Aymeric giving orders for Alyzen to be flown to Ishgard– “immediately. Ensure that none but the Alliance leaders are aware of her condition–” but all his attention is on her.

She does look like she’s merely asleep. If it were not for the bandages and the bruises he could fool himself into believing it. But she’s not asleep. Someone, somewhere, is trying to pull her soul out of her body. Someone, somewhere is trying to turn her body into a husk. Someone, somewhere, is hurting her, and he cannot do anything about it–

“Will you accompany us?” Aymeric’s soft-spoken question rouses him out of his thoughts. 

“What?”

“Will you accompany us?” Lowering his voice further, he adds, “Even if she is unaware of it now, I am certain that when she wakes she would be pleased to know you kept her company.”

Estinien hesitates. He looks at Aly, a belligerent blue bloom on her now-pale cheek, short copper hair – when had she cut it? – matted and plastered to her scalp. Of what help would he be, hovering by her bedside like an overzealous mother hen? Her foes are numerous and linger in the shadows, and his time would be better served in hunting them.

It is not, as that traitorous little voice in the back of his head whispers, because he cannot bear to see her like this.

“Nay,” he shrugs, a pang of guilt pricking him at the split-second expression of disappointment that flickers over Aymeric’s face. “I would be of little help in an infirmary, Aymeric.”

“I suppose I should not be surprised,” Aymeric sighs. “Though you can be assured that she would be most disappointed at your absence.”

“Aymeric.” His tone, subdued as it is, gets the Lord Commander’s attention. Whatever Aymeric sees on his face is enough to have his own expression soften. 

“I will see to her care, Estinien. Have no doubt that she will be tended to by Ishgard’s finest chirurgeons.” He reaches out and grips his shoulder. The weight of his palm is welcome; it steadies that shaky, wobbly part of him that worries and fears for Alyzen. “Do you have any message you wish for me to disclose once she regains consciousness?”

“Tell her–” he pauses. His throat is clogged with an emotion he refuses to acknowledge. “Tell her she is not alone.” With that, he turns on his heel and walks away, forcing himself to ignore the part of him that yearns to return to her side.

He cannot remain, not while there are still those who desire her demise. 

[myreia]

1 or 17 for Aureia? 👀

Thank you, Rue! 💗

17. What is the worst thing you have put your OC through story-wise?

Ooooo, well, outside of XIV plot events in general, it would be Aureia's backstory and her behaviour throughout most of Heavensward and Stormblood.

Her backstory, briefly:

She and her twin, Kallias, were born in Corvos to military research scientists working for the Garlean military. They were moved around a lot as children as their parents were moved from post to post, following orders from their superiors. When Aureia's natural magical talents manifested, she was told to suppress them as her parents didn't want her to cause problems for them or their place in the military. There were talks of her eventually becoming an Imperial signifier, but her mother had a whole different idea.

Throughout their teen years, Aureia (then under her birth name, Kira) were groomed to be operatives. Their team was sanctioned for operation when they were 18, a process which involved passing the scrutiny and testing of Zenos. They spent almost a decade in the field working against Garlemald's enemies until the Calamity - the massive amount of life lost made her question her upbringing and everything she knew, eventually leading her to defect. She fought Kallias personally the night she left, and thought she fatally wounded him.

She fled to Eorzea, shed her identity and her history, took up the name Aureia Malathar and landed in Ul'dah to hide among the refugees. Her early days in the city were spent in fear that her former unit would track her down and kill her for defecting. That confrontation didn't occur until well after she was established as the Warrior of Light.

As for HW and SB, I keep pressing the "make it worse" button because she's an absolute mess.

Losing the Scions and getting exiled from the one place she called home really did a number on her and it had ramifications for her mental health throughout most of HW base. Sidurgu is one of the few people she actually forms a bond with in HW; there's a bit of confused feelings there that neither of them act on since she's too afraid of a relationship to actually do anything with it.

By the HW patches, she is very emotionally confused, uncertain where she stands with Thancred, watching Aymeric fall in love with her although she can't understand why. She and Thancred spend a good amount of time being generally nasty to each other. She starts a relationship with Aymeric because she pushes herself to do so; while she cares about him a great deal, the relationship was always a little uneven because he loved her more than she loved him.

Fast-forward to Stormblood. Aureia's filled with righteous rage, desperate to kill Zenos since he symbolizes her past to her, and she's got it in her head that if she kills him, then she kills her past and Kira can stay dead for good. When that doesn't happen, she ends up in a downwards spiral. She pushes Aymeric away; their relationship doesn't formally end, but it is strained.

She has a very brief fling with Fordola, one of the only people she has opened up to about her past and with whom she can actually be herself. It's a one-time thing that happens accidentally because her mind is in a really bad spot, but she's wracked with guilt about it because she and Aymeric are on such rocky ground and she still loves him, but she doesn't know how to talk to him anymore.

She spends a significant amount of time with Sidurgu and Rielle inbetween SB patches. He's a breath of fresh air, she loves Rielle dearly and is deeply protective of her (relates a little too much with having a mother who wants you dead), and it's good to be isolated from all of the political ongoings. Her mind is its most clear when she is with them, but that also means that all of the buried feelings come bubbling back up. She and Sid have a very brief relationship before she calls it off because she doesn't want to hurt him and she knows that if they started anything in earnest, the foundation would always be cracked because she hasn't properly ended things with Aymeric.

The SB patches is when Aureia is at her absolute worst. She has a very hard time sorting out her emotions and figuring out where she stands when she's balancing who she is now against who she was formerly. It's all one big jumbled identity crisis and unfortunately people she loves very dearly get caught in the crossfire.

Some very hard truths need to come out before she can get better.

[edgy/misc ask meme]

[tenebriism]

❛  but i do care about you ... a lot.  ❜ ( daithi to aymeric! )

Love Confessions - [ NOT ACCEPTING ] ;;

'Tis a statement so simple, come packaged with so impactful a meaning. Aymeric feels it in his chest, how HEAVILY it sits 'pon his heart, but he is nothing if not ever cautious with his feelings and how he displays them. Daithi has long since monopolized the Lord Commander's admiration and affection that has gradually transcended beyond that of a respectful work relationship. Therein lay the issue, however, and mayhap he is being too OBLIVIOUS and doubtful for his own good, but pray forgive him all the same; this is new.

This is... frightening.

" To what extent? " He boldly inquires, letting a huff of air pass through his nose as he looks to the side, finding he can no longer focus on the tasks that line his desk. Daithi always visits when in Ishgard... always makes TIME for him. Aymeric would like to endeavor to do the same, no matter how much the endless stack of work perpetually sways and threatens to crush and bury him 'neath it. " I fear I interpret things in error far too much for my own good. One would think I knew how to carry myself when presented with something like this, but I... you... all manner of coherent thought and logic flee entirely when I am around you. "

It is frustrating, but strangely comforting. To not know what to do, to now be EXPECTED to know what to do. Aymeric may benefit in being more direct with how he feels, he KNOWS, but there is that silly fear that it shall impose upon the strong bond he has established with Daithi. That everything they have done together to see to Ishgard's restoration, and the safety of the world even beyond, shall be thrust aside and FORGOTTEN all because he made one silly, little confession out of some pitiable HOPE that his affections are reciprocated.

" ... I do not merely care for you, " he continues, passing the threshold of NO RETURN, because he tires of observing from his desk, wondering as to the WHAT IFS. Wondering what would happen if he stopped being a bumbling COWARD and attempted to seize what HE wanted, for once, rather than sitting complacent in his chair, letting that threshold ever tease him.

" I am in love with you. "

He jumps across the threshold... and waits for the ground to swallow him whole the moment his feet make contact again.

@elpiforos ;;

[wyvernwrath]

Fall of the Lightbringer - Ch.1

A Final Fantasy 14 fanfic that (currently) follows the storyline of Heavensward. So there are SPOILERS. Main character is an Au Ra of the Xaela clan by the name of Raven. She has a couple jobs under her belt, but is mainly a Gunbreaker, then an Arcanist. It can be read on Archive of Our Own. 

The Vault proved an easy clear. The lowly knights and priests that guarded the traitorous archbishop fell like the snow surrounding Ishgard - in a loud cacophony and raging against me. After taking down the Heavensward traitors, who did prove to be more taxing than their lackeys, I found myself slightly spent, but ready for more. Had I become addicted to battle, or did it find itself drunk on me?

Before me, the archbishop boards an air vessel, and behind me Aymeric appears with Lucia and company in tow. The air up here is shockingly thin and I struggle to catch my breath. Keep your eyes on the horizon.

“Father, please!” Aymeric calls, betrayal resounding in his voice. Estinien murmurs something about not being too late, but I hardly pay attention. “Why must you do this, Father?!” Aymeric calls out again. The archbishop keeps his back to the Lord Commander. “Nidhogg is fallen! There is no need for further deception! Now is the time to renounce the lies which led us down this path - to start anew!”

Strange. Why does Aymeric feel so desperate to win his father over, I wonder? Clearly, his father had been just using him. He was never loved, he was just a favorite toy. Yet, I find myself biased, and need to consider that which I do not know. Clearly I am but a new character in this story.

Finally, Archbishop Thordan lifts his head, “And tear down the very pillars of our society - our history, our values - everything we have built over a thousand years?” He pauses followed by a disappointed sigh, “A fool to the last.”

I glance over to Haurchefant, and we both silently agree we must grab that man before he can escape. My legs had recovered from our previous sprint through The Vault, and I spring forth to grab the man. We had but begun our sprint when a noise caught both of our attention and Haurchefant cried out, covering me as a lance of pure magic clashed against his shield. I saw it begin to crack seconds later and could hesitate no longer. Grabbing my gunblade, I twist my wrist and feel my senses overload in agony before going entirely numb. “Out of the way!” I shove him to the side as the shield shatters and the beam hits me in the chest. Luckily, my magic worked and the lance dissipates. 10.

Our unseen attacker, however, was enraged by his failure and leaps onto the bridge in front of me, shoving his fist into my gut. It doesn’t hurt. “Aurora.” I murmur. The blade soothes the numbness like the waves of La Noscea washing over me. 9.

“Perish, Lightbringer!” My assailant roars and he grabs me by my throat, lifting me off the ground. 8.

“Raven!” Haurchefant cries and I can hear the others screaming out as their thunderous footsteps draw closer to us. The Heavensward knight holds my struggling form over the edge of the bridge as Haurchefant wails on his back with his blade. 7.

I am thrown. A weightless moment is the only grace as gravity exchanges hands with the blonde elezen man before me. Those knights all looked the same to me and I never bothered to learn their damned names. 6.

“Raven, no!” I hear Alphinaud screech. I can barely see my attacker leap like a hound to his master as he joins the archbishop on the airship. Gravity drags me down swiftly until I can no longer see the bridge in the snowy haze. I am simply falling. 5.

4.

My head hits something. I hear a snap and feel agony wash over me before I continue my descent. 3.

I am falling again, and this time my back hits something hard and jagged. It stings, but not nearly as bad as it should, I believe. 2.

1.

I feel my shield break moments before I hit the snowy ground. It consumes me and slowly I lose everything. My breath, my strength, and finally my consciousness.

[starswornoaths]

Prompt 1: Crux

This just kind of. Sprinted away from me. Have some relationship discussion/examination and character introspection on some Elezen, through the lens of relationships. I hope this sparks joy! Cross posted on AO3

Word count: 2,442

“I beg your pardon,” Aymeric spoke up in the tense quiet of the sitting room. “But I believe this courtship disservices us both.”

His paramour— former paramour, he amended with some bittersweet relief— sighed as if in defeat (but not surprise, and Aymeric noted that acutely,) and set his teacup primly on its saucer.

“May I ask why? I had thought our arrangement had been going rather well.” 

It certainly had been, for a time. Then, as is inevitable with such intimate relations, the true nature of his partner emerged through sheer exposure to him. Aymeric could not reconcile the man he had adored with the man he now knew him to be.

“In coming to know you, I fear our differences are irreconcilable. Further pursuit on either of our parts feels dishonest.”

“This is about the marriage comment, isn’t it?” The noble asked, tone edging on something less than polite. 

A tone Aymeric had gotten uncomfortably familiar with suddenly and recently, when topics of lowborns or bastards came up. Always with the hastily tacked on, “Oh, but I don’t mean you, handsome!” It had guaranteed that he would never even want to entertain the notion of marriage, which in turn had rendered a courtship between them utterly pointless.

“I meant it. I would marry you! You’ve done well for yourself, given your...circumstances. We could still have—”

“No. We cannot.” Aymeric sharply cut him off. “It would require mutual interest. I assure you in the wake of your infidelity and disrespect, it no longer exists, but I thank you for your time.”

“My, my. How impersonal.” The noble stood and brushed nonexistent dust from his coat. The spiteful contempt on his face was evident.  “This is likely for the best. I couldn’t even expect a warm bed with you, you’re such an unfeeling cu—”

“If you are finished, my attendant will show you out.” Aymeric ignored his comment, and calmly returned to his tea to hide the sting of the insult.

After a few moments made more tense by the sound of silence pierced only with angry, labored breathing of his ex-lover and the faint clinking of Aymeric setting his own teacup on its saucer, the hard, rapid thumping of the nobleman’s shoes against carpet punctuated Aymeric’s loneliness, and capped it off entirely with the slam of the heavy oak door.

“Remind me why you put up with him so long, again?” Estinien groused into his ale later that evening, once the knights on the midday shift had made for the Forgotten Knight the moment muster was over. 

Aymeric lacked an answer that would satisfy either of them, and avoided replying by way of a heavy pull from his own flagon. Estinien leaned back heavily enough that his chainmail rattled against the back of the chair when he connected with it, a huff escaping him when he realized an answer was not forthcoming.

“I’m still going to break his fucking legs.” The lancer groused.

“Now, now, much as he is undeserving of his kneecaps, assault would only make more trouble for our friend!” Haurchefant piped up as he flagged a waitress down to order another round.

Though it more or less quieted the griping of their friend, it didn’t entirely silence the grumbling. Aymeric was unsure of whether to feel touched or concerned for how much they— Estinien in particular— cared. Still, flanked by his friends at the table as he was, it helped to feel less alone, and eased the heartache, if only a bit.

“Regardless of your penchant for violence against those who seek to use me,” Aymeric sighed and set his flagon down. “It means much that I am yet in good company.”

“That does bring up your unfortunate track record, my friend.” Haurchefant mused, and just this once, his expression was serious, troubled. “Though your courtships have been few...they have not particularly ended well, have they?”

“That is putting it mildly.” Estinien snorted. 

“Oh, must we?” Aymeric groaned, and swiped a hand down his face. When Estinien opened his mouth to reply, he instead continued, “I am aware that my relationships have hitherto ended...poorly. Spectacularly so. And I have been subjected to mistreatment in each-” he ran a hand through his bangs. “-I ended them all the moment I realized I was being used, being hurt. I know what it is to be loved, and I know what courtesy and respect I deserve, as a person.”

“Really, that’s the best anyone can do. Pray do not take our concerns as criticism of you—” Haurchefant tried to reassure him.

“Speak for yourself.” Estinien muttered into his ale. “I think him a fool.”

Haurchefant kicked Estinien’s shin under the table hard enough to make the lancer choke on his drink. As he dissolved into a coughing fit, Haurchefant continued as though he had never been interrupted, “We aren’t here to criticize, and most certainly should not do so. We only worry because we care. This is most assuredly naught more than a string of bad luck—”

“I would take it as a providential warning at this point.” Aymeric muttered into his ale before he drained his flagon and set it aside. 

After thanking the waitress for bringing them another round and tipping her for the trouble, he spoke up again, hesitant. “I think...I should just stop looking. Focus on the good things and the good people I already have in my life. For mine own sake.”

Haurchefant looked aghast at the suggestion— for how could he play matchmaker anymore if that was the way of it— but when he opened his mouth to interject, Estinien returned that kick to the shin with a hard heel to the ankle. 

Ignoring Haurchefant’s yowling, and the jostling of the table by his jolting in his seat, Estinien picked up his flagon and replied, “If that’s what it takes for you to not get hurt, then do so. Halone knows the both of you—” he gestured at Aymeric and Haurchefant with the hand still holding his ale, “—have little but your looks going for you.”

“Arse.” Aymeric and Haurchefant groused in unison.

“I mean it— the only thing Ishgard cares less about than the poor are the bastards. Anything you have that others would kill for? It makes you the exception to the rule. It makes you a target.” Estinien pressed, his expression serious. “So do what you must to be safe.”

A heavy weight hung over them, oppressive enough they all curled into their cups a little, falling quiet. Aymeric knew that his friend was right— knew that loneliness was preferable to being made to feel alone, and even before that silence was shattered, had already begun to lay the groundwork for those walls he would need to raise around his heart.

“You are right, and the contradiction between Ishgardian politics and my upbringing is the crux of the issue, I suppose.” He finally admitted softly. When Haurchefant sprang up to try and insist differently, he continued, “I know what it is to be loved, and what love and respect I would deserve from and to give my partner. I know that I deserve that, as a person, and I will settle for naught less. If that condemns me to be alone, then so be it.”

“Aymeric, my friend…” Haurchefant sounded sad, but could tell he knew not how to change his friend’s mind. 

Very likely, he could not.

“You need not worry for me.” Aymeric reassured, and for the first time in what felt like years, his smile felt genuine. “‘Tis as I said: I have known love from my parents— Halone rest their souls— and I—”

He hesitated a moment, and lowered his suddenly timid gaze to the frothy head of his ale. Thinking on the comfort that these two men had offered him, had continued to offer him and help support him with, even if he understood that neither of them romantically loved him— or at least, if they did, not deep enough to make it a courtship— he scrounged up enough bravery to admit to his own observations.

“And I continue to know love with the both of you. So ‘tis not all bad. I do not need a courtship to know happiness.”

“...We aren’t here to use you and toss you aside.” Estinien said suddenly, voice uncharacteristically soft. When Aymeric looked up at him, it was Estinien’s turn to stare into his half drank flagon of ale. “Neither of us can offer you that, but...but what we have offered, we’ve done it because we want to.”

“Because we do love you.” Haurchefant said with a nod. 

Estinien said nothing— though his lack of correction was noted, and what mattered.

“If tonight has proven anything, I hope it has proven that if I thought otherwise, I would not be here with you.” Aymeric reassured, and resumed drinking.

Though they did not speak of it again, their mood lifted significantly after that.

The trio, true to their words, had continued to give that warmth and comfort in what ways they could, in what capacity they had, though as their careers pulled them ever further apart, it became easier to forget what that sort of love looked like, until Aymeric couldn’t recall the last time they had been able to make the time for any of it at all. Not for years. Duty and schedules and stations had pulled them apart physically, though letters helped to bridge that distance. Aymeric had learned to make that enough. It was enough. He was happy.

Which was why, once the Warrior of Light had been welcomed as a friend to the three of them, he had thought nothing of stopping to speak with her following a chance encounter in the Pillars. That Haurchefant and Estinien had hung a few paces did not strike Aymeric as odd. As a flower after a dark knight, Aymeric bent toward her radiance.

“I’m so glad I ran into you!” Serella said brightly, and produced a book. “Here— I’m on my way out of the city, but I found it!”

“Found—?” Aymeric had a book suddenly pressed against his chest with a light thmp before he could ask.

Taking the book from her, and forcing himself to tear his gaze from the bright, excited smile she gave him, he glanced down at the book in his hands. When he realized it was the book he’d been meaning to pick up but could not track down a copy of, he gasped in shocked joy.

“How on earth did you manage to find one in the city?” He asked excitedly, already looking back up at her with what he hoped was a socially acceptable level of happiness.

“Oh, I didn’t. Gridania had a copy, though, in one of their bookstores.” She shrugged. “I was there on business, but when I saw it, I thought of you. Wanted to make sure you got to read it.”

“Why? I recall you misliked this series.” Aymeric lamented, even though his elation. 

“Sure, but I remembered how much you liked it.” She explained like it was obvious why she would go out of her way.

“What do I owe you?” He asked suddenly. At the confused expression and tilt of her head, he elaborated, “For the book? What do I owe you?”

Once she realized he was serious, she gave him a wince of a smile. Aymeric couldn’t help but wonder why there was a strange sort of sympathy in that smile.

“Enjoy it, and we’ll be square.” Serella reassured him.

“But what if he does not?” Haurchefant asked, all dramaticism and sweeping, gesticulating arms that managed to arrange themselves with a hand on his hip and an arm slung over her shoulder. “How ever shall he repay you?”

“Well, he needn’t at all. It misses the point of a gift!” She laughed brightly. “But if it would ease the Lord Commander’s guilt…” 

When she looked back at Aymeric, he swore his heart skipped at the playful twinkle found within her eyes. Had Haurchefant also been looking at her with what he could generously describe as a, “scheming bastard’s grin,” he might have forgotten what was being discussed at all in favor of watching her.

“A cup of tea in good company will do.” Serella finished her answer, and her smile widened ever so slightly.

It felt suddenly and unseasonably warm in the courtyard.

The spell was broken and he felt cold again at Hyana’s call from the foot of the stairs leading down to Foundation, as it tore her gaze from him. 

“Alright,” she called back, and threw the three of them another wincing, apologetic smile. “Forgive me, but duty calls.”

“As ever.” Estinien snorted. “Need you assistance?”

“We shouldn’t, thankfully, though rest assured I will contact you if that changes.”

Estinien gave a grunt and nodded, satisfied. 

She looked at Aymeric one last time, as if she wanted to say something else, but then her gaze darted between the three men, she nodded once, and with a simple, “Be well,” she was off down the stairs again.

Aymeric looked down at the book in his hands, and opened it to the first page— nearly letting the pressed lily there flutter away in the breeze for how unexpected it was. He managed to pin it down: a pale blue center with white petals— Halone’s Grace. A flower of immense sentiment to him. She remembered he’d mentioned that, too.

“I have yet to read it,” He called out before he could stop himself. When he turned to face her again, she had paused on the steps, pivoted to face him. “But if assures your return, I regret to inform you ‘tis awful.”

After the momentary shock morphed into another of those dazzling smiles of hers, she called back, “A cup of tea in good company, then, upon my return!”

It had not registered that he had been grinning, ears perked up, as he watched her go until he realized Haurchefant was watching him. He averted his eyes from both Estinien and the damnably observant knight. He cleared his throat behind his hand ears pinned back in humiliation.

“Well, well.” Estinien was the first to speak. “She seems…”

“Shut—”

“Nice.” Haurchefant finished the sentence for him, grinning like the cat that got the cream.

Aymeric hoped the flush that pooled to the tips of his ears would be attributed to the spiteful glare he threw at his friends and not the way his heart fluttered in his chest. Hoped, but was ultimately a realist.

[the-dragons-knight]

FFXIV Write 2021

Prompt #25 - Hide Not Your Happiness

<Post Stormblood Patch 4.0 MSQ>

Silver Lining - ‘a sign of hope in an unfortunate or gloomy situation; a bright prospect’

————————————————————

The ring on her finger felt so heavy suddenly, and she twisted it back and forth as she paced the small area in the gardens of House Fortemps. Her feline ears could still pick up the sounds of the music coming from the open windows of the ballroom and the voices of the guests happily chatting and laughing within. She made sure she could not be seen from those bright windows for her absence would surely raise suspicion. It was her celebration after all, a party celebrating the Warrior of Light’s return to Ishgard after the victory in Ala Mhigo, and yet here she was, fretting and worrying to herself in the garden. Of course she had ample reason to worry. Tonight was the night they would tell them all.

It was the night she and Aymeric decided it was time to tell the world of their relationship as well as their engagement to be married.

They had kept it secret all this time to not raise unnecessary suspicion from anyone that she had ‘swayed the lord commander’s decisions with her wiles’ or any such thing as they had come together in the midst of the Dragonsong War, and once it was over, Ishgard needed to focus on its own healing, not the gossip about the First Seat of the House of Lords’s love life. No, she already had to put those still holding on to the past in their places when they spoke ill of him. She would not be another reason for them to do so.

And so they hid their relationship, hiding dinners and late night dates behind the gauze of diplomatic discussions and waiting until the dead of night to meet one another. It had been hard to hide their feelings at times, and so they settled on others knowing about their deep feelings for one another, yet never the truth that they were together. Not until now.

It had been the first thing he had said when Aymeric had knelt down in front of her, the setting sunlight sparkling in his eyes and crowning his head as she had looked into the warmth of his loving smile and said as he’d held her hand, “I want the world to know of us. I want our love to be on full display for all to see. For too long I have hidden it, and I want to show everyone just how proud of our love I am. How proud I am that you call me yours, and I call you mine.”

She would never forget those words, how she prayed to the Savoir that she never ever would forget the beauty of his speech and the love in his eyes that day. Yet even while this happiness bubbled in her heart, her hands trembled as her nerves still ruled over her body. Her ears fell flat on her head as she stared down at the silver ring and how it glistened in the moonlight, spinning it slightly as the dark sapphire stone that was set in it sparkled with the gold filigree that accented it. She sighed deeply and turned on her heel to pace the other direction again, the fallen snow on the ground sweeping into the air with the movement of the long skirt of her Ishgardian gown. Aymeric was probably looking for her, worrying where she might have gone. Her absence was sure to be noticed too by others, and she knew she would need to return to the party soon.

“Katsum? Is that you?”

But not just yet.

The blonde knightess’s tail fluffed slightly in surprise as she looked up and stopped in her tracks, quickly hiding her ringed hand under the other as she did her best to smile at the aged Count of the house, “Lord Edmont.”

Edmont was standing on the last step of the small set of stairs that descended into the little garden they stood in, looking at her curiously as he held his cane close to him. His thick furred coat had a few of the fallen snowflakes on it, meaning he had been standing there for at least a few minutes, and Katsum’s heart trembled as she wondered how long he had been watching her pace. Yet he merely smiled at her, regarding her with a gentle nod of his head, “Needed a moment away from the noise, yes? It can be rather overwhelming at times.”

Katsum quickly nodded in response, happy for the excuse he provided her, “Yes. I have quite a lot on my mind so I…needed a moment away to think.”

Edmont nodded, “You are a busy woman, a very sought after one as well. Though Ser Aymeric spoke of having news to share tonight which has me rather curious.”

He didn’t…did he

“Oh?”

“Yes, he mentioned it was some wonderful news, though it leaves me to wonder what better news can we get over the liberation of Ala Mhigo.” He chuckled, stepping down off the last step and standing before her now.

She did her best to smile and laugh with him, “That is true yes. I suppose we can only wonder. He did not mention anything to me as of late.” She hated lying, but the painful throb of fear in her chest gave her few options.

He seemed to think about that for a moment before he spoke again, “Actually, I am glad that you are here. I had come to do some thinking myself, but I would like the company of another for a moment or two if you wouldn’t mind?”

The knightess blinked as her insides shiver in worry, but she controlled herself and gave him a warm smile and a nod, “I’d be glad to.”

He nodded and led her to the stone bench that was settled in the middle of the garden, facing a small statuette of Halone surrounded by a snow-covered bush of red flowers. Katsum settled herself beside him on the bench after sweeping off the fallen snow, glancing over at him out of the corner of her eye.

Edmont stood his cane in front of him and settled both hands upon it as he gazed up at the moon, “A beautiful and peaceful night, yes? It reminds me of the first night and yours came to Ishgard. An uncommonly calm night that was, but I'm sure you know that by now.”

Katsum nodded, “I remember that night well.”

“It was that same night that I chanced to hear someone singing in the silence, and when I had opened the window, I found it was coming from one of the rooms upstairs, and the window to your room was open too,” Katsum froze in shock, yet Edmont seemed not to notice and smiled as he continued, “And while I listened, I noticed another figure walking along the late night streets and he too heard the singing and stopped to listen, enamored by its loving tune as I was. I was not sure at first who the man was, but when the moonlight caught his scaled regalia and the royal blue of his coat, it was hard not to see Ser Aymeric.”

Katsum was horrified. She had thought no one had seen or heard her that night, and now she knew that not only had Count Edmont heard her, but Aymeric had as well?

She locked gazes with the smiling count, and he laughed at the shock he saw there, “It’s alright, dear. I’m sorry to have spied on you, yet I noticed something else that night that neither of you did for quite a while I think.”

She blushed lightly with embarrassment as she looked down at her clasped hands, still hiding her ring finger and the glittering ring that encircled it, “And what would that be?”

“That you both of you had fallen for one another before you even knew what love was.”

Her ears stood straight up as her jaw fell, “My lord, that’s—!”

“May I see it?”

“..See what?”

“The ring, dear girl, the one you are hiding from me.”

Katsum’s sapphire eyes flew back to him before she looked down at where he held out his hand to her, gesturing for her own. With shaking fingers, she let go of her own hand and placed it gently in his, watching his gloved fingers clasp hers gently as he turned her hand and watched the ring gleam and shimmer in the night air.

Edmont smiled warmly, and breathed a deep and happy sigh, “How beautiful. And how happy I am for you both.”

“But…how did you…?”

“I was a boy once myself, Katsum. A boy who walked a similar path to Lord Aymeric’s. I know those longing looks and stolen glances. They were my own many not so long ago when I was young,” He let her hand go as she returned it to her lap and he leaned back on the bench, “I cannot say that all noticed, but I did. I could not help but notice.”

“I see…” She mumbled softly.

“So then I ask as I am rather worried. Why does it weigh on you so now? Are you not happy about being engaged to him?”

“Of course I am!” Her voice was a bit louder than she expected and spooked her slightly as she softly apologized and lowered her words so only he might hear her, just in case, “I am so joyous it is hard to contain at times. I’m marrying the man I love more than anyone after all, but…I worry. I worry what Ishgard might have to say of such things.” Edmont did not answer right away, looking to be in thought of this as she continued, finally just letting go of it all and laying it all bare, “Aymeric has been the subject of gossip all his life…and I fear that some would question him more if the woman who helped save Ishgard were to become his wife. Would they think I swayed his decisions with my…body…or something, or would they say I was stringing him along for a high seat of power in the nation? Would they call him a heretic for marrying a woman not of the same faith, and a miqo’te as well? I just…”

“Katsum,” Her voice died as he laid a hand on hers, “Stop.” She quieted, her sadness and worry showing itself in her face and eyes as she looked up at him. He sighed heavily before responding, “My people are a stubborn sort. Or should I say ours, yes? Your mother is of Ishgardian descent, or at least from the colonies. Not that it truly matters. You are right, some will question things, yet the same people will question if the people of the Brume should be allowed to speak about the issues of their own nation. The answer is undeniable yes, yet they will still question it. The point I mean to make by that is why let the words of these people stop you from being happy, hmm?”

Her ears fell as the truth she had been trying to tell herself finally rang through to her heart, happy to hear him continue as his voice chase away the seeds of doubt and worry, “You have done so much for this nation, putting your own life in the line to fight when so many of the noble folk have never stepped foot on the battlefield. Who could, in their right mind, question your marriage as being anything other than love truly? The only proof they could ever find is the amount of caring love you both hold for one another, always running to the other’s aid whenever it is needed. Yes, people will gossip in their jealousy, but Katsum, I say let them. You deserve this,” He laughed with the next words he spoke, “And by the Fury, I will see to it that one of my sons is happily married before I leave this world, I swear it.”

Katsum couldn’t stop the giggle that left her and it warmed her heart to see him smile so brightly in response. She looked down at the ring again, smiling at the blue gem as she breathed out the last of her anxieties, “You are too kind, my lord, truly…but thank you. Your words have helped me see the happiness again.”

“Good. Then show it here,” He pointed to her face as he tapped his cane on the stone path beneath their feet, “Show the world happy you are that your finger is lined with silver and gold, and the promise of forever.”

The blonde warrior nodded, “I shall.”

“Katsum? Lord Edmont? Are you out here?” The familiar ring of Aymeric’s deep voice called out over the hedges to them and the count moved to stand, holding out a hand to her to help her stand as well.

“Ah yes, it is quite time to return to the festivities, and high time you returned to your husband-to-be’s side, yes daughter?”

Katsum shook her head slightly with a laugh as she took his hand and rose to her feet, “Yes, I do believe so. We have joyous news to share after all, yes?”

He nodded, walking beside her up the path to the manor, making their way to where the Lord Commander stood waiting for them, “I thank you for your time and for listening to an old count’s ramblings as well, my lady.”

“Lord Edmont?”

“Yes, Lady Katsum?”

“Thank you. Thank you for easing my worries.”

“It was my pleasure, child.”

((Thank you, Stephen Critchlow, for the life you breathed into this character. The count shall always hold a special place in my and Katum’s heart, so thank you for the character your words and voice gave him.))

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV: A Splatter of Rage

Wolmeric Week #1: Formal

A/N: So I was messaged by a couple people that today was apparently the first day of Wolmeric Week on twitter (which I do not have an account on), and at first I was all, “oh jeebus no I just did twenty-eight days of prompts, no more!” But then the first day’s prompt stewed in my brain. And then turned more into worldbuilding than shipping, whoops, but it’s not like I don’t prefer worldbuilding, some days. So. Enjoy?

Day 1 || Day 2 || Day 3 || Day 4 || Day 5 || Day 6 || Day 7 || Bonus!

RATING: T WORD COUNT: 1677 WARNINGS: Brief references to misogyny and classism

---

For all that Synnove intensely disliked (an understatement) what Ishgardian nobility considered a proper social function, she moved through the crowd of the Haillenarte parlor with an ease that certainly didn’t appear wholly feigned. Part of that, Aymeric knew, came from being forced to attend the much more cutthroat soirees of Ul’dahn business magnates by her mother and absorbing how they traded barbs disguised as compliments, whether she liked it or not. Part of it also stemmed from the years of maintaining the façade of bureaucratic benignity while serving as a cargo assessor for Mealvaan’s Gate and waiting for the right moment to bury a merchant-captain in so much red tape they couldn’t see the light of day for sennights.

“There is no Ishgardian count or lordling,” Synnove had muttered to him the first time she had accompanied him to a party as his beloved and not a Warrior of Light, “that has an ego to match that of a member of the fucking EATC board of directors. The likes of Lolorito and Lady Shushuha would flay this lot alive with just their tongues and barely consider it sport.”

Tonight was the type of gathering that was focused on gossip and hobnobbing rather than dancing—admittedly something neither of them had overly minded, too tired from overwork to gather the energy for more than idle strolling while sipping fine wines—and he had been drawn early on into a conversation with Counts de Haillenarte and Dzemael and the Speaker for the House of Commons, Lionnet Aucheforne. Artoirel and Lord Edmont had thus taken turns to keep Synnove company for most of the night; he had caught her eye more than once as she had taken leisurely turns of the room with either gentleman, delighting in the spark of predatory, possessive satisfaction in her gaze when it alighted upon himself. She was quite fond of him in the fine blue coat she had brought back from the First for him, and it was his honor to be a source of some pleasure for her this eve.

Unfortunately, it now appeared that in the lull between father and son switching off escort duty, someone had waylaid his lady. It was only years of exposure to the subtle shifts in Synnove’s carefully maintained mask of pleasant neutrality that allowed Aymeric, even at this distance clear on the other side of the large room, to pick out the sourness lurking at the slightly downturned corners of her mouth, the chill turning her lovely eyes from grass green to sharp emerald. He couldn’t see who it was that was speaking to her, however; leaning around Count Baurendouin would be far too obvious, so instead he kept half his attention on the conversation in which he was supposed to be participating as he flicked his gaze towards Synnove every few moments.

Finally, the crowd parted, just a little bit—

—oh, Seven fucking Hells.

Aymeric was quite certain he had not spoken aloud, but there was no hiding the horror contorting his face at the moment, as both Counts and his House of Commons counterpart immediately ceased speaking to stare at him in quiet bemusement for a handful of heartbeats. And then, in one synchronized movement, all three men turned to follow his gaze. Another heartbeat of silence and then while Master Aucheforne maintained his puzzlement, both Count Baurendouin and Count de Dzemael swore.

“Why would you invite her?” Count de Dzemael hissed.

“I did no such thing, and neither would my lady wife,” Count Baurendouin replied in the same tone. Both men had hunched their shoulders in unconsciousness defensiveness.

Clearing his throat, and speaking in slightly more normal tones, Count Baurendouin turned to him and said, “Ser Aymeric, I will take no offense should you decide to escort your lady home early tonight. Or if anything untoward should happen to another of my guests in ensuring your lady leaves further unmolested.”

Without any further prompting, Aymeric broke away and strode in ground-eating movements for Synnove while the two counts explained to Master Aucheforne why the sight of Lady Isabeau de Torsefers—Aymeric’s mama’s absolute least favorite cousin—struck terror into most of high society.

Lady de Torsefers occupied an unassailable position in Ishgard: widow to a noble knight of means who had died in honorable combat slaying Dravanians. That she was widowed at twenty-one, five months after her marriage and carrying her husband’s heir, had been considered a romantic tragedy among her generation. That her position mere steps away from saintliness had meant no one had been willing to rein in the worst of her snide, cruel comments for anyone who presented the slightest inconvenience to her whims and wants, that had transformed over the decades into the haughty never-wrong surety of an elderly dowager, was considered a waste of potential of a maiden who had been a shining example of proprietary and grace at the time of her betrothal.

“A feral croc in karakul’s clothing, that one,” he had overheard Mama mutter to Hersande when Lady de Torsefers had shown up unannounced for afternoon tea, once.

He wove through the crowd with ease, startling no few of the lords and ladies, leaving a wake of rustling silks behind him. And with every step closer, Synnove’s expression chilled further and further until her face was as cold and expressionless as a statue of the Fury Herself.

(That tiny, atavistic part of his mind recognized that “Fury” was too-apt a comparison.)

Aymeric finally reached his lady’s side, nearly out of breath, to hear Lady de Torsefers say, somehow managing to look down her nose despite age having shrunk her to ilms shorter than Synnove, “—though I suppose you aren’t the worst choice to final beget a passel of Borel heirs.”

Synnove’s hand tightened on her wine glass until her knuckles whitened. Aymeric internally seethed, but this, unfortunately, wasn’t the first time some too-nosy noble had thought they needed to venture their (unwanted, unasked for, absolutely inappropriate) opinion about what type of family Synnove and Aymeric should have. (Never mind they had everything they wanted just as it was.) Still, it never failed to have him see red that anyone would reduce a woman, much less a heroine of the Dragonsong War and a Warrior of Light, to breeding potential.

“Children aren’t in our future,” Synnove said in a voice so frosty it was a wonder her breath didn’t ice the air before her. Aymeric ilmed closer to her, gently setting his hand on the small of her back; she shifted imperceptibly to press back against him. “The carbuncles are rambunctious enough on their own.”

Lady de Torsefers laughed, dry and mocking, her beady eyes glinting. “Oh, children are a much larger challenge than pets, though a proper governess makes that simpler!”

Synnove growled, low and furious, with enough force that Aymeric felt it reverberate up his arm. He may have made a similar sound himself, he couldn’t say for certainty, though he did know he saw red once more. The fact there currently wasn’t blood staining the Haillenarte carpet and walls was likely a product of divine intervention: nothing enraged Synnove quite so much as any implication that her carbuncles weren’t people.

His mama’s least favorite cousin for obvious reasons gave him a dismissive glance. “Two governesses, perhaps, to counteract the late archbishop’s taint.”

Aymeric’s jaw dropped, shock knocking away his rage as he stared at Lady de Torsefers and her mean little smile, so absolutely taken aback that his mind skittered to a halt. He heard more than one outraged gasp from the nearby nobles.

There was a beat of stillness, the sounds of the rest of the party distant and dim—and then Synnove threw her wine into Lady de Torsefers’s face.

The dowager shrieked in surprise and outrage as the liquid streaked her face powder and dripped onto her widow’s weeds. She pulled out a handkerchief and started frantically dabbing at her eyes as a few startled, choked off laughs echoed around them before the culprits hurriedly turned away; Aymeric didn’t bother to do similarly, instead letting out his smirk as malicious glee unfolded in his chest. Once her eyes were sufficiently clear, the widow lowered the handkerchief to glare at Synnove, a nasty sneer curdling her mouth.

“How dare you, you ill-bred cur,” Lady de Torsefers hissed.

Synnove matched her glare, unblinking, as she set her now-empty wine glass down on the tray a server had whisked over to present, and just as quickly whisked away. “Madam,” said Synnove, voice shivering with barely-contained rage, “should you ever again insult a member of my family, whether it be in my hearing or not, I will do worse then douse you with wine.”

The malicious glee morphed into pride and deep affection; even years after she had first done so, it never failed to awe Aymeric that Synnove had chosen him, that she counted him among her loved ones and a member of her family. In as deliberate an insult as he could manage without actually wasting words on the woman, he turned his back on Lady de Torsefers, ignoring her gasp of outrage. Synnove sniffed at his nudge on her back but acquiesced, spinning on her heel, and in unison, the couple left.

They were, fortunately, not far from the large parlor’s exit, so only a few eyes followed them as they swept out with a pointed swirl of Synnove’s green skirts. Her heels clacked loudly against the marble floor of House Haillenarte’s grand entrance foyer, the sound sharp and strident as she near-vibrated with fury, as she growled, “I know we’re rather overdressed for it, but I want a drink from the Forgotten Knight.”

Aymeric used the hand still on her back to pull her closer and kiss the side of her head. “No argument from me, darling,” he said. “And then we can detour to the Congregation and blow up a few striking dummies. We can even dress them in old black rags.”

“I’m keeping you.”

“You’d better!”

[carrotycake]

the world put you in front of me (and we aligned)

A chance encounter at an Ishgardian dance, and Ysayle finds herself falling in love all over again.

4.1k words | Rated M | FFXIV | Estinien/Ysayle pairing | AO3

*

It’s funny, Ysayle thinks. She has spent so much of her life fighting and despising everything the nation of Ishgard stood for, that to be standing here, on the balcony of one of Ishgard’s largest manors, feels a tad hypocritical. For the first time, she appreciates the beauty of the land stretching out in front of her, the late-night sunset (which is as close to a summer as Coerthas gets) casting orange and pink hues across the grey pointed spires of the city itself. She rests her arms on the balustrade, observing the chatter of guests down below. It is oddly peaceful, despite her protestations at being invited in the first place. And still bitterly cold, of course, despite it being summer. Ysayle, shivering, rubs her hands together in an attempt to warm herself up; she had left her coat inside and the thin fabric of her gown was not nearly enough to ward off the freezing night air.

She sighs, her breath exhaling into a cloud of mist in front of her. Had she not gone by the name ‘Iceheart’ for years, revered by her heretic followers? She had survived many harsh Coerthas winters, only for her to shiver now at the merest hint of a breeze. Admittedly, she had found the warmth of the ballroom inside to be a little much, packed as it was with nobles, commoners, and politicians alike. The fresh air, cold as it was, was extremely welcome.

It was Aymeric, of course, that was behind the ball, and her invite to it – the Warrior of Light’s dear friend, and perhaps the most influential man in the city. Endlessly charming, he had persuaded her that it was an olive branch, of sorts, to mend the rifts between heretics and men. And – well, she had wanted to make amends. Lead those who walked after, and all that.

“Out here enjoying the festivities, I see?”

A familiar voice drags her from her thoughts, and she turns to see the tall, lithe body of Estinien crouching carefully on the gables above the double doors leading back into the ballroom. She frowns, irritated that he had caught her unawares in a moment of introspection.

“How long have you been sitting there?”

He shrugs, getting to his feet and gracefully hopping onto the ground beside her; ever the dragoon, she notes. He’s not in the armour he wore the last time they had seen each other, before Azys Lla. Like Ysayle, he is dressed in an approximation of Ishgardian formal wear, his long white hair tied in a loose half-ponytail. He’s handsome, her mind helpfully supplies, and she wills the thought away before it becomes trouble.

“Long enough,” he replies, leaning on the railing a fulm or two away from her, his gaze distant. He frowns. “Formal…balls aren’t really my thing. I needed some air. And – a break from drunk nobles trying to get me to dance with their offspring.”

Ysayle chuckles, despite herself. “I must admit, I did not recognise you at first. You clean up well, when you’re not head to toe in dragon blood.”

He bows his head. If Ysayle is not mistaken, she sees the hint of a blush colour his pale cheeks.

“Well,” he mutters, “You are the opposite, Iceheart. I believe there was not a soul in that room that did not notice you upon entering.”

She raises an eyebrow. “In a good way, or a bad way? Pray, do elaborate.”

Estinien splutters for a second. “Well, I – It is a nice dress. That is all I meant. No doubt the haberdashers will be inundated with requests for similar styles by tomorrow morning.”

A slightly backhanded compliment, but a compliment, nonetheless. “Damned by faint praise, I see.”

She turns to look back towards the sunset. “It is actually one of Tataru’s creations, so they’ll have a hard time prying the pattern from her little hands.”

Tataru had taken over creative control of this project, because formal dances were certainly not Ysayle’s area of expertise, and the Lalafell had been only too happy to help out. The light, drapey cerulean fabric of the dress belied the traditional Ishgardian style, but Ysayle had never cared much for tradition anyway. It was pinned and tucked beautifully, with embroidered details on the neckline and hem. It even – scandalously – showed off a little cleavage, something Ysayle wasn’t necessarily unhappy with.

They stand like that together, a little distance apart, for a few minutes; enjoying the last rays of the sun in what appears to be a companionable silence. How many times had they done this, a mere few months ago? Accompanied by Alphinaud and the Warrior of Light, of course, but together nonetheless. Sunsets always seemed even more spectacular when seen on islands beyond the clouds. Ysayle had never thought to see such beauty again in her lifetime; she had expected to die on Azys Lla, one last act of service as Shiva.

The gods, as it happened, must have had other plans, as she’d fallen from that great height and landed in the middle of a Vanu Vanu outpost; the last remnants of Shiva’s protection shielding her from further harm in the fall. Word had gotten back to Camp Cloudtop of her survival, and she had eventually woken in the infirmary in the centre of Ishgard. Mere days after her own discharge, and Estinien was staying there under the very same care as she had.

She had avoided visiting, though, despite Alphinaud’s almost-insistence that she do so. She had never thought this far ahead in life; now there was peace, real peace, and her old role was no longer needed. Lord Aymeric, introduced through the Warrior of Light, had requested her help in rehabilitating the remaining heretics and repairing the city in exchange for a pardon for her crimes, and she was not about to turn down such an offer. The Scions had allies, and she herself was still blessed with Hydaelyn’s gift, so she might as well make herself useful.

In quieter moments, however, her mind always drifted back to Estinien. She admitted to being a little disappointed when he disappeared from Ishgard without a trace after his recuperation; the small, naïve girl within her longed to believe that they could have been…something, more than just acquaintances passing in the night.

“You are deep in thought, my lady,” he says, a statement more than a question. Ever with the formalities, even when they were at each other’s throats with opposite ideals.

She shakes her head. “Just reminiscing. My life has taken on a trajectory I could not have anticipated before I had met you and your allies. I have much to be grateful for.”

“I admit, I was – glad to hear you had lived. My own fortunes were, you could say, not so lucky after our victory on Azys Lla. I did not hear about – you – until after I had awoken in the infirmary.” Estinien looked – embarrassed, perhaps? Ysayle could not tell, in the dim light of the evening.

“I-” He falters, swallowing. “I wanted to apologise. For things I have said. Knowing now the full truth of the war betwixt man and dragon, I – I said some unkind things. ‘Twas not your fault that I was ignorant.”

Ysayle takes a moment to think on his words. They were not the people they once were, after all. The truth, she thinks, has changed them both. She looks at him, then – he does not shy away from her eye contact – and nods.

“Apology accepted. For what it’s worth, I have a great deal to apologise for as well. My conscience is not clear, by any means.”

Estinien cracks a small smile. (She tries not to think that a smile suits him. It really does.)

“Aye, that is true.”

Their conversation was momentarily interrupted by a change of music from the ballroom – a slightly faster tune, reminiscent of folk tunes Ysayle heard as a child at communal dances in Falcon’s Nest. It was clearly designed to bring more couples onto the dance floor, and was so far having the intended effect. Ysayle could see the Warrior of Light, dressed in finery (another of Tataru’s creations), swinging Alphinaud a little too fast round in circles on the dancefloor. Aymeric could be seen, too, dancing politely with Hilda; commoners and nobles alike danced merrily to the band’s music. If this was their new republic, Ysayle thinks, then she quite likes it.

It is this train of thought that compels Ysayle with more bravado than she has; not thinking about where it might lead, she turns to her brooding companion.

“Well, when all is said and done-” She holds out a hand to Estinien, “Care for a dance?”

His brow furrows. “I’ve never- I mean. Forgive me, Ysayle. I’m not much of a dancer.”

She smiles lightly. “Neither am I. But we are alone, for the time being. Indulge me.”

“As you wish,” he frowns, still a tad reluctant, but he takes her outstretched hand regardless and pulls her close and Ysayle thinks, oh.

Oh no.

It has been a long time since she has been this close, physically, with anyone, and she wonders if Estinien can feel her heart thudding loudly in her chest. They stumble at first, taking a few attempts to figure out the rhythm of the song versus the clumsiness of their feet, but eventually settle into a gentle waltz.

Ysayle is acutely aware of the position of Estinien’s hand on the small of her back; its warmth – and he is so warm – practically burning through her dress. They are closer than they need to be, exactly, for the formality of ballroom dance, but Ysayle finds that she does not mind. He is avoiding her eyes now (deliberately, she thinks), so she instead concentrates on the position of her hand on his shoulder, her other hand clasped tightly in his as they circle aimlessly together across the balcony.

“So,” he begins, uncertainly, once they’d found their rhythm, “Where did you learn to dance, then? You seem to have more of a head for it than I.”

Ysayle smiles. “A little, as a child. And we had plenty of impromptu dances when I was-” When I was with the heretics¸ she would have said. Another time, in another life. Estinien, evidently noticing her hesitation, raises an eyebrow.

“Forgive me, my lady, but I simply cannot imagine a band of heretics indulging in such trivial things as dances whilst plotting the fall of Ishgard.”

“You are a fool, then, if you believe that we did nothing but sit around and curse the Holy See whilst getting drunk on dragon’s blood,” Ysayle scowls, swinging Estinien round a little more forcibly than she had intended. He stumbles, a little, before righting himself.

“I did not give much thought to the heretics unless they were forcibly attacking the city,” Estinien says, his tone serious, but the quiet glint in his eyes relaying a certain kind of humour. Ysayle rolls her eyes. He always knew exactly how to push her buttons to get her riled up when they were travelling together, and it seems not much has changed.

“I’ll have you know,” she huffs, “Lord Aymeric himself requested my assistance in restoring the city-”

“To avoid a jail sentence, yes,” Estinien has an eyebrow raised, smirking. He positions his arms just so, allowing her to dip backwards as part of the dance. His arms are secure, holding her in place perfectly before swooping her back up. They continue their circles together, Estinien chuckling at Ysayle’s irritation.

“For someone of little skill, you have picked up this dance remarkably fast,” she comments, her face flushed – from the exertion of the dance, or from Estinien’s attention, she was yet unsure.

“I’m a fast learner,” he says, and was it her imagination or was he a little closer to her than before? He stares resolutely ahead, his expression faintly jovial, and Ysayle tries not think about how good his arms felt holding her up.

The upbeat song currently playing comes to a close and, after a brief interlude, a new one starts up, slower than the previous one. Adjusting their pace accordingly, she thinks back a few months to their expedition together. Gods, she had not cared for the dragoon upon first meeting him. He was narrow-minded, and brash, and had been all-too willing to fight and kill the very creatures they were trying to make their allies without a second thought.

And yet – she had grown to like him, over those many days travelling. At first, the attraction had been purely physical. He was handsome, after all, and Ysayle had caught a peek of him removing his armour to see chiselled muscles and a wiry frame; something inside of her had fluttered, momentarily, when he had removed his helmet in front of her for the first time, revealing uncharacteristically soft, fair hair and deep-set blue eyes.

“Don’t get used to this,” he’d muttered, noticing her looking at him. “I can’t eat your soup with a helmet on.”

She’d blushed, then, almost as much as she was surely blushing now.

Even with Estinien’s growing connection to the Eye of Nidhogg – she’d felt it, creeping, growing, gnawing at him even as they travelled together – and his insistence that killing the wyrm was the best solution, she had caught glimpses of a kinder man underneath his harsh determination. Alphinaud had seen it too, as had the Warrior of Light. It endeared him to her, whether she wanted it to or not. And in the long weeks that had followed her miraculous survival, there had been much time for her to dwell on these thoughts.

Halone’s tits, she was in it now, wasn’t she?

It occurs to Ysayle, just then, that the slow pace of the current song meant that their little, secluded waltz had become less of a dance and more just – swaying gently, endlessly circling, not really paying attention to any kind of rhythm. The whole world, for a second, felt like it was just the two of them, the stars aligning to bring them together in a single moment.

“Your hands are cold,” Estinien murmurs, and she forgets for a moment that she still had one of his hands in hers. Usually a woman of great eloquence, she suddenly finds she is tongue-tied, she cannot speak-

“Y-yes, well. Perhaps it is you that is warm,” she whispers, her breath hitching in her throat as he brings her hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. He almost seems surprised at his own boldness, his eyes crinkling in a rare bit of humour at her response.

“Mayhap,” he replies. The night is almost completely upon them now, the only light illuminating their faces being the candlelight from the outside lanterns and the ballroom itself. Their eyes meet, Estinien’s expression unusually soft.

Ysayle is not sure who makes the first move but suddenly his lips are on hers, her arms snaking around his neck, his hands on her hips, guiding them in a new kind of dance. In the end, it does not matter, because she is kissing him, and it is suddenly all she can think about. How long had she thought of this moment? How long had she imagined what Estinien’s kiss would feel like? It was, in truth, longer than she would care to admit.

He kisses with the air of someone who does not have a huge amount of practice, but makes up for whatever experience he lacks with strong, guiding hands; Ysayle soon finds herself pressed up against the iron railings of the balcony, the coldness of the metal on her back in sharp contrast to Estinien’s warm embrace. She feels goosebumps on Estinien’s neck where she is touching him; – yes, her hands are always cold, so cold – she moves a hand round to his lapel, using it to anchor herself to him and pull him closer, ever closer.

They break apart to catch their breath, and she looks up at his face, flushed as red as she’d ever seen it, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Do you, perchance, have a residence in Ishgard, Ysayle?” he breathes, still so close to her. Ysayle knows where this is going, knows where this might end up. And she wants it, Halone knows she does.

“That depends,” she says, curling a lock of his hair around her finger. Estinien exhales, almost impatient.

“On?”

Ysayle pulls away, just enough to see his face fully. “Is this…something you want? Truly?” Am I someone you want? She doesn’t say it, but the words settle between them anyway.

He frowns, a trademark scowl, and grasps the hand currently playing with his hair.

“It is. I am not one to deliver undue suffering to a soul such as yourself. And-” He looks flustered, struggling to articulate, “-this is something I have thought about often. In times of difficulty. The possibility of…something more.”

Oh.

“Well then,” she murmurs, his answer more than satisfactory, “In that case, I have a small apartment in the lower wards of the city.”

“I would very much like to get out of here,” Estinien replies, pressing a kiss to her cheek, another along her jawline. She lets her nails scratch the back of his head, just a little, privately enjoying the effect it seems to have on him.

“If you would permit me, my lady-” He breaks away suddenly, a spark of mischief in his eyes, and scoops her up bridal-style. She splutters, wriggling.

“What are you doing?!”

He peers over the edge of the balcony cautiously. “Avoiding any odd stares we might receive from my good friend’s guests. Now, hold still.”

Before Ysayle has any chance to protest, Estinien bends his knees and leaps, and Ysayle’s heart is rushing, the wind howling in her ears momentarily, and it is not far off what a dragon in flight feels like-

He lands, gracefully, some distance away from the mansion, and places her back on her feet with an uncharacteristic amount of care.

Hand in hand, she leads him through the lamp-lit streets, following well-worn paths to the lower area of Ishgard. More than once he catches her against a wall in a bruising kiss, so the walk takes considerably longer than it normally might on one’s own, but Ysayle is too busy wrapped up in Estinien’s arms to care.

The night is fully upon them now, so upon reaching Ysayle’s apartment there is a small amount of stumbling in the dark until she manages to find a lantern. Estinien, helpful as ever, is predictably distracting as she reaches for a pack of matches, hindered by his hands on her waist as he caresses her from behind.

“You know a lantern isn’t really necessary,” he growls, apparently eager. She rolls her eyes – realises too late that it was a gesture he could not see – and bats him away, momentarily.

“I don’t know about you,” she retorts, “But I like to see my lovers when I’m in bed with them.” She manages to strike a small flame into the lantern, illuminating them both in dim, soft candlelight.

Estinien raises an eyebrow, tailing after her as she leads him to the bedroom. “And has the Lady Iceheart had many lovers, in the past?”

She places the lantern down on the chest of drawers with a thunk. “A few. Borne out of convenience, mostly. Some out of love. All enjoyable, for the most part.”

It might have been a cold way of looking at it, but her time leading the heretics had come with its perks, namely that there was no shortage of people interested in her and her powers. She would never have dared manipulate anyone into sex or abuse her power in any way, but she had not been without company, had she so wanted it.  

“And what about the famed Azure Dragoon?” she says, her tone a little more defensive than she had intended, “I’m sure the position comes with its own amount of attention.”

“Some,” he concedes, “But for the most part, I preferred to spend my free time training. A few dalliances, here and there. Nothing serious.”

Ysayle nods. Fair enough, she thinks. You’d have to be out of your mind if you actually wanted to sleep with that grouchy, stubborn arse of a dragoon anyway. Yet here she was.

“Well then,” she says, instead, “I still wish for your company tonight, if you’ll have me.”

Estinien is already against her, capturing her mouth in his and lifting her – a little roughly, not that she minds – onto the bed. “I was hoping we would get to that eventually,” he grins, wickedly.

“You’re an arse,” she replies, but there is no heart in the insult, not really. There’s not much time for thinking, after that, and she is happy to lose herself in Estinien’s arms for the time being.

Ysayle wakes from what might have been the most restful night’s sleep she’s had in some time. She casts a sleepy glance over her small apartment; the curtains had been left half-drawn the night previously, and the morning light was casting a bright glare across her bed, and the sleeping souls that lay within.

Ah, right.

Estinien is still sound asleep next to her; they must have moved apart in slumber during the night, but she distinctly remembers falling asleep in his arms. For the first time, she sees him and all of his scars in full daylight, and fights the urge to trace them gently with her fingertips. She settles for brushing his bangs out of his eyes; he is so peaceful in sleep, she thinks, his usual furrowed brow replaced with one of general content.

There are bruises too, newer ones, scattering across his neck and chest. Ysayle blushes, a little, because she knows that she is the one who put them there, and that there are similar marks on her own body. They will be covered with clothes, eventually, but for now they sit as a reminder of newfound passions and a lover she can’t quite forget.

His eyes flutter open, and an immediate scowl crosses his face as he adjusts to the bright light streaming in.

“Gods, do you always wake this early? To this kind of racket?” His voice is raspy with sleep, his long hair a little dishevelled.

She throws him a mock-frown. “Usually I remember to shut the curtains. I might have been…a little distracted last night.” She runs a finger along his jaw, lifting his chin so that she could lean and kiss him. He leans into her touch, a different kind of reverence.

“Ah,” he says, softly, when she pulls away, “Yes, that would make sense.”

Their clothes, haphazardly rumpled on a nearby chair would also suggest a measure of distraction. They had only paused long enough last night for Estinien to peel off Ysayle’s dress and his own clothes and place them somewhere off of the ground before continuing his ministrations.

“I don’t have anywhere to be today,” she says, by way of invitation, unsure as to how her overture would be received now that it was morning. Morning, bringing with it clarity, and the uncertain light of day. Estinien may not want anything more than whatever the previous night had been.

To his credit, though, Estinien reaches for her and brushes a few strands of silver hair behind her ear.

“Me neither,” he says, and Ysayle’s heart thuds in relief, “What activities have you planned? Lunch out, mayhap?”

This elicits a laugh from her, despite herself.

“Mm,” she smiles, “Maybe later. For now, I want you all to myself.”

Estinien responds in kind, using his advantage of strength and centre of balance to hold her firmly by the waist and flip her over, laying on her back.

“That can be arranged.”

His eyes are dark with want, and Ysayle finds that it pleases her greatly to be able to obtain this kind of reaction from him. She wants – well, she wants Estinien. All of him. Now. Obviously.

What she really wants, though, is Estinien for longer. Knowing that they might have something to come back to, a home found in each other’s hearts – the thought terrifies her, as it wasn’t something easily articulated to her stoic lover. Still, she thinks, perhaps in time.

For now, she has the man she wants in her bed, and that is enough.

[aethernoise]

( privileged information )

this week has been anxiety brainfog hell, and feral horny Alyx is apparently what I needed. So take this incredibly silly and filthy thing I wrote to cheer myself up. maybe it’ll cheer you up too.

cw: very NSFW because Alyx tired and has no filter. 1106 words. do not fuckin perceive me.

-

After the day Aymeric had just endured, the pleasant surprise of a letter from Alyx was exactly what he needed.

In lieu of Alyx herself waiting in his office, which he could admit was the best-case scenario, her words were the next best thing. So varied was their correspondence he had little idea of what to expect--it could contain anything ranging from cryptically phrased Alliance business or news from the Scions to amusing anecdotes or simple words of love. Regardless of their content, they warmed his heart to receive, even if just to have something tangible.

He carefully broke the wax seal and slit open the additional layer of paper, surmising this was something worthy of great care and privacy. 

“Dearest Aymeric,” the letter began, as they often did. “Please be advised that the following contains highly privileged information and should therefore probably be destroyed after reading.” 

Oddly formal wording, he thought with a puzzled frown.

“Then again,” it continued, “if you should wish to keep it for further reading in private, I would not object. In fact, that’s the idea.”

Oh. 

Aymeric looked up from the paper briefly. He knew, logically, that there was nobody else in the room, but instinct bade him check before further indulging his own temptation. He read on:

“Of the two of us, you might have the advantage of a silver tongue (and pen!) but hopefully my lack of linguistic refinement more accurately communicates the severity of my predicament. 

That being: I’m exhausted. I’m sick of the humidity of Eastern La Noscea this time of year. We’ve almost tracked down a rumored crystal shipment, and I’m supposed to be decoding these trade manifests, but I’ve had just enough to drink that I am easily distracted and gods damn it, I want your cock in my mouth."

Aymeric choked on air.

“By the Fury,” he muttered, flush creeping up his neck. Wide-eyed, he kept reading.

“I love pleasuring you, do you know that? Do you have any idea how wet it makes me to taste you, to feel you pulse and twitch against my tongue? I don’t think I’ve ever told you, but sometimes I want to touch myself so badly while sucking you off’--"

Aymeric exhaled another curse, shifting in his chair. This sort of letter was very rare--even after several rounds of escalation back-and-forth between them she was seldom so blunt. Nevertheless, the knowledge imparted was somehow even more arousing than the image in his mind--so incensed by giving him pleasure she would seek her own. He decided, immediately, he might like to encourage this impulse at a later date.

Reclaiming his breath, he swallowed thickly. 

“--but I can be patient.”

He chuckled breathlessly at the claim, but could not refute it. As impatient as she could be, she was also selfless.

“Speaking of patience, I wonder where you’re reading this. Did you wait until you got home, or are you still in your office?”

The throbbing in his trousers made him wish he had gone home. 

“Either way, I wish I was there to help you christen your new parliamentary chambers, Lord Speaker,” the words tingled down his spine, “How tall is that brand new desk of yours? Is there room for me on my knees underneath it?"

He looked down as if he was somehow capable of approximating measurements with his current cognitive faculties--

Likely not, he decided thickly, Though there is a rug. 

"That's where I want to be. On my knees with that gorgeous cock in my mouth and your gorgeous hand in my hair."

Aymeric lurched forward slightly, the friction of his pants against his growing erection making him lightheaded. He exhaled through his teeth.

"Unless you would prefer me on the desk," Alyx's familiar script continued, "What better way to break in new furniture, than to fuck the vaunted Savior of Ishgard completely out of her mind?"

She would still have her boots and stockings on, of course. Perhaps the ones without garters, the ones that pinched her thighs in such an irresistible way. He imagined her in that new dress that was so low in the back, a perfect invitation for him to kiss and mark her shoulders--the bodice unlaced just enough to free her breasts so that he might give them the same attention. 

“Do you want to bend me over?” Ayx wondered in ink, “Or lay me on my back so you can watch me take every ilm?”

And oh, he would. He loved to watch his length disappear into her slick and needy flesh, he loved to tease her with the head of his cock until she begged. He loved to be within her and to feel her flutter and squeeze when she came, and through every quivering aftershock. But through all this he loved to watch her face--every playful smile and furrowed brow and look of pure, blank-minded abandon. 

Sometimes, when she could reach, she would grasp him by the hair or back of the neck and look into his eyes right before she came apart, and--

By all Twelve, the way she would look at him so full of love and lust and wonder, like she beheld him as one might a divine and unearthly being; while he, mortal and reverent, was blessed to claim the love of a goddess. 

Besot by pangs of longing beyond and compounding those of his flesh, Aymeric kept reading.

“You may have me any way and as many times as you desire, my love, as long as you tell me I’m yours.”

He took a breath, shifting in his seat again. 

"Tell me with your hand on my throat."

Merciful Halone--

"Or holding mine beside my head."

She was effectively torturing him from hundreds of malms away.

"Or just tell me with that silver tongue of yours."

Oh he would, as soon as she was within reach.

"In turn, I mean to remind and reassure you in every way possible that you're mine." 

It always inflamed him to see her so fierce and ravenous, even to imagine it. Passionate and sinful--

"All mine."

Sin, divinity, perfectly imperfect.

"First and foremost with my mouth, because writing you about it is nothing compared to the real thing."

Aymeric laughed weakly. 

"Until then: take care of yourself, my love, and think of me."

Whether he could wait until he returned home remained to be seen, but if it was indulgence she asked of him, he had neither strength nor desire to refuse her. 

The game had begun, however, and before he did anything else he would attempt to craft a suitably torturous reply.

----

[allycryz]

WOL Challenge #8: Apart

[Prompt List Here]

[Filled Prompts Here]

Heavensward, post-Vault

Aymeric visits a recuperating Haurchefant while their loves travel to Azys Lla

Rating: T for mild sex talk, references to Aymeric’s time in the Vault

Pairings: Haurchefant x Nerys, Aymeric x Estinien

Discussed Estinien x Haurchefant, Implied Aymeric x Nerys x Estinien, Haurchefant x Aymeric

"Thank you for coming." Count Edmont de Fortemps says as he personally escorts Aymeric through the manor. A development he hadn’t anticipated.

That could be said about much of the past week.

"I owe Lord Haurchefant a great deal," Aymeric replies with an incline of his head. "And not just recently. He has always been a good friend to me."

"I hear that often, especially of late." The Count's brow furrows with an emotion between pride and sorrow. "It seems my son is well-loved."

"He is." There are those who will never show favor to someone like Haurchefant–like Aymeric–but all else adore him. Despite his near-constant presence at Camp Dragonhead, the man made friends of the apple sellers of the Crozier; the scholars in the Church; every tavern owner in the city; and much more besides.

"Then he has surpassed my every hope." Lord Edmont looks him over. "And how are you faring, Lord Commander? I have not forgotten the state you were in days ago."

"On the mend, thanks to the chirurgeons you found." Loyal men sword to Lord Edmont and House Fortemps. Young Master Leveilleur had monitored the healing himself in the initial days. No one spoke aloud what they all thought: a traitor might slip in and finish the job. 

Blessedly, his father hadn’t seen to that particular cruelty.

 "Tell me, how is he?"

"...Better. But we are discovering that my son is not the best patient."

"Truly? I would not have guessed that."

"Oh he is good-natured to all. But he alternates between pushing himself too fast, too soon or falling into a quiet sulk when he cannot get his way. No doubt that whatever mood he is in, he will try to hide it the moment someone walks in."

"That sounds more like Haurchefant." 

They reach the door--handsome oak with subtle unicorn carvings in the panels--and Lord Edmont steps back. "I will leave you to it, Lord Aymeric. Twill do him good to see you."

“Thank you.” He is surprised by the genial clasp of his shoulder. There has been much talk of the changes seen in the three sons of House Fortemps. But Aymeric thinks the patriarch has also changed–as if Nerys’ presence has given him permission at last to be more open with his affection.

He cannot put into words, how much he appreciates the fatherly gesture just then. 

Haurchefant slumps in an armchair by the fire, clad in a finely woven red and gold dressing gown over a tan nightshirt that falls to his ankles. He sits tall at the sound of the door, wincing when the movement jostles his injuries. The wounded arm is in a sling, carefully obscured beneath the scarlet silk. 

“Aymeric,” he says. “Father told me to expect you. Forgive me for not standing, I am under strict orders to remain in this chair.”

“If you did, I should be very cross with you.” Aymeric sits in the opposite chair, warming his legs by the roaring fireplace. “You know you don’t have to stand on ceremony with me.”

Haurchefant covers his mouth, wincing as a chuckle moves through him. “Was that a pun?”

“It wasn’t not a pun.” Aymeric grins. “I’m sorry, I see that laughing is painful for you right now.”

“Don’t you dare apologize, I haven’t laughed in days.” He adjusts in his chair, mild consternation creasing his brow as he seeks a comfortable pose. Aymeric has suffered enough battle wounds in the past to know the frustration well. At last, Haurchefant picks up a bell on his sidetable. “Tea? Food?”

“Tea sounds lovely. Are you hungry?”

“Oh it’s complicated, that question.” Haurchefant’s genuine smile turns into something artificial. “I am not hungry and not hungry and not hungry but then I eat something...suddenly I am ravenous. The body is truly strange when it ails.”

“I remember.” Aymeric motions to his right side. “I took a mercifully non-fatal wound here a few years ago and that was the very same experience.”

“And your wounds recently?” Haurchefant rings the bell and settles back against his chair. “How are you faring? You look better.”

“I am better. All that’s left are the usual aches and sores of the body healing.” And a few scars, but those would fade over time. It was more than he had hoped for in that dungeon–Don’t think on it. Ask about him. “You look much better, too.”

“Flatterer.” Haurchefant winks. “But come now, you can pay me a prettier compliment than that.”

A servant enters the room, waiting at attention once it’s clear no one is in distress or pain. Haurchefant requests tea (“plenty of cream and birch syrup on the side please”), finger sandwiches, and the famous petit fours. Éléonore refuses to divulge her secrets despite all of Aymeric’s attempts to wheedle them out of the Fortemps’ chef.

“A ravenous day then?”

“Not really, but! My dear friend has come calling and I would treat him to things he likes.” 

“With or without the prettier compliments?”

“With, naturally. Else I will tell Gregor to summarily evict you from the premises.”

Aymeric gives a long-suffering sigh, the one that can only be learned from Estinien Wyrmblood. But he stands to take Haurchefant’s uninjured hand and raises it slow to his lips, maintaining deliberate eye contact. 

Etiquette demands he kiss the air above it but they are old, dear friends. He presses his lips to the knuckles and murmurs, “To see your beautiful face, to see you on the mend...it does this heart much good.”

“...Pretty indeed.” Aymeric doesn’t think he has ever seen the other man blush before. He won’t point it out but instead treasure it, for as long as it lasts. “Serves me right to challenge an unapologetic charmer.”

“I’d believe that if I didn’t know you love being put in your place, in the right mode.” Aymeric resumes his seat. “Estinien told me as much.”

“Ah…” An even dreamier expression overtakes Haurchefant. He should have visited sooner, if he is this gifted at lifting his friend from despondency. “That was a night I shan’t forget. He said he would tell you, but I never knew if he actually did.”

“He did. We talk about most of our intrigues and it was no small thing, that one of us should spend a night with our oldest and dearest friend. I never thanked you, by the by. For watching over him when he fled with The Eye.”

“No thanks required.” Haurchefant says. “I only wish I might watch over him now. He and Nerys both.”

“...I feel the same.” Aymeric admits. The very subject he hoped to avoid, if that was even possible. “Though I am well aware that we must stay here, just as they must go.”

“Must they…?” Worry and sorrow are clear in Haurchefant and he is slower to mask these. Hopefully, because he feels safe to bare such emotions in this company. “Ah, I know they must. As I know they will prevail. But it goes against everything in me, to stand by while my heart is in danger.”

“Hear hear.” It does not become easier, watching Estinien leave for another mission. To love a warrior is to embrace the possibility of loss with every day. Estinien took the same chance when he fell for Aymeric. “I am proud of them.”

“As am I.” Haurchefant fidgets again. “My apologies Aymeric, I did not mean to be so dour with company.”

“If not with me, then who?” Aymeric shakes his head. “You understand why I lost my heart to that man. Orchestrated it, even.”

“Ha. I only saw two friends pining and saw fit to help...push them along, as it were. You lost your heart long before I got involved.”

“Fair. I always wondered…”

Two servants enter with the refreshments and it takes some engineering to put everything in easy reach. Haurchefant has to adjust his pose again, doing a near-perfect job of hiding any discomfort. He thanks them profusely for their concerns, saying he is feeling better than he has in days.

Once alone, they fall quiet as tea is sipped and sandwiches tried. Aymeric sets aside a plate of three petit fours with sugar violets. If not, they will disappear by the time he finishes the savory portion.

“You feel that much better?”

“In truth...I am exhausted. The act of getting up and washed and dressed alone left me feeling as begrimed as before.” Haurchefant sighs. “But I did not want them to feel like they had to wait around. In any case, what did you wonder?”

“Hm? Oh.” Aymeric sets down the delicate red and white cup. “Why you went to such lengths when it was clear you held a torch for Estinien.”

“That? That’s easy.” Haurchefant shrugs and immediately winces. He must have forgotten that gesture was off-limits. “My friends were in love and I wanted them to be happy.”

“You had no notion we would be what we are,” Aymeric presses with a vague gesture. “A couple with an open arrangement.”

“My reward was your joy. That Halone saw fit to give me an extra gift well…” Haurchefant smirks. “Proof that patience and self-sacrifice are holy in her eyes.”

“Such blasphemy.” Aymeric does his best not to laugh or smile.

“Not at all! Did not Menphina find love in the arms of both Halone and Oschon?” 

“I beg of you, Haurche.” Aymeric shakes his head. “The Fury must love you for all she has done, but even her divine grace must have limits.”

“Ah but who are we to set limits upon anything? Her divine grace or the boundaries of our hearts?” Haurchefant grins. “I wish I had known that teasing you was medicine. Can you come again tomorrow?”

“If I can manage it, I’ll come every day.” Aymeric says, truthfully. “Until this is over.”

The mischievous glint in Haurchefant’s eye trades for a solemn mien. He sighs. “Pray that the Fury brings them home soon. Not just to save you from my teasing, but so we have them back safe and sound.”

“I will drink to that.” Aymeric lifts his teacup. “To their safe return, so we may fuss over them.”

“To their safe return,” Haurchefant echoes. “If I am still unable to move well, you may have to embrace them both in my stead.”

“Gladly.” 

If only Haurchefant knew how near to the truth he was. Estinien will tease him for it later, the Lord Commander hugging Nerys. But as Aymeric had pressed his lover about particular fantasies involving the Warrior, it is only fair. 

Though when they return, Aymeric will feel less passion and more utter relief. Would that he might keep all three of them safe in the Pillars from then onward.

“Oh, I know you would.” Haurchefant says, lowering his cup. 

Aymeric remembers that look. An invitation to meet him in the evening for stargazing, the night of a meteor shower. Only, he had found Estinien there instead. Who also wondered where Haurchefant was.

Some poor boy–no doubt tipped outrageously well–appeared with a message that Haurchefant was detained and they were to enjoy themselves.

“Drink your tea, my lord.” Aymeric says.

“Yes, ser.” 

Perhaps Haurchefant knows, after all.

[efrmellifer]

Where The Road Led

Seven Days of Estinyan: Day One

When she felt his gaze on her, Etien looked up to meet Estinien’s eyes. “Yes?”

“You had an odd look on your face,” he replied. “Are the flowers too heavy?” He reached out to take them from her.

She shook her head. “The flowers are the lightest thing I’m carrying.”

Estinien stopped walking along the pathway that led down from Zenith. “What in the gods’ name are you talking about?”

“I came here by myself after the war had been brought to an end.”

He nodded, signaling that he followed her so far.

“And while I was wandering around, avoiding Hropkens and hoping the Moogles didn’t see me, I had been doing some thinking about how much had happened over the time I spent here.”

Estinien came to her side. “Here specifically, or in Ishgard and Coerthas?”

“Well, both. More here, Churning Mists here, while I was up here, though. But I had been thinking about how much longer and heavier my job description had gotten when I added the tentative title of Savior of Ishgard.”

“Did it?” he asked, stopping again.

Etien sighed. “When I first arrived in Gridania, my most pressing worries were accidentally catching the soft part of my arm in my bowstring and losing track of a specific animal I was supposed to hunt. Even defeating Primals was a little less pressure, at least compared to ‘help us end a war that has raged on for one thousand years, while trying to reassemble the group of people who have given you this life.’”

“I suppose we did do that,” Estinien mumbled, looking at his boots.

“It led to this, so I do feel bad for complaining, but it was a long year to live, and the years just keep getting longer,” she sighed.

“Led to what?” Estinien asked. “Rather… I’m sorry we worked you so hard for a homeland not your own. To save a people who were not your own.”

“Well, when Haurchefant had been so hospitable, and Lord Edmont adopted me…”

“Still,” he rebutted. “House Fortemps treated you like the heroes and gifts from Halone that you are, and the rest of us were backbiters, suspicious, and all too eager to put you into service to prove your good intent.”

Etien made a noise that wasn’t quite either a snort or a laugh. “Now you sound like Aymeric.”

“Because he was right. We need to deliver these flowers, do we not?” He pointed to the structure to the east, still whirling with wind-aspected aether, but less tumultuously.

It hadn’t been the gale force winds in a fair while, actually.

Nidhogg had softened his heart to a mortal who loved him, had fallen in love with her as well, and as a result the skies had become that much safer.

Etien and Estinien still boarded their manacutters to get there faster, though.

While they flew, Etien took stock of the flowers again. She’d been thinking over and over about their arrangement as she harvested what she could and bought the rest, wrapping them earlier in moist paper so they would survive the journey through the Mists.

Now, she looked them over one last time. Spearmint for warmth of sentiment. Ivy for friendship. Irises for trust and wisdom. Daffodils for regard. Hopefully, this bouquet of high esteem would touch the hearts of the great wyrm and his greatest love. But that remained to be seen.

They landed, and Etien tried to lead the way after Estinien helped her from the miniature ship, but she made a poor leader in this instance. She was walking too hesitantly, stumbling as she tried to tread silently, but didn’t feel confident in her steps, leaving her ankles rolling and her body pitching.

“Is aught the matter?” Estinien asked from behind her.

“I… I know Dae won’t let him hurt or kill me, but I’m scared.”

He laid a hand on her back, feeling how cool her skin was from the wind, hoping to warm her just a little. “Do not be afraid. I am here. And I will also not let him hurt you. I will protect you.”

She gave him a look, just slightly distressed.

“Not like that. I made a pact and promise just like everyone else did. Moreover, I’m retired from that life. I don’t even have a knife on me, let alone my lance.”

Etien relaxed, then nodded, her boots clicking on the stones into the Aery.

“It has been a long time, hmm?” Estinien murmured as they stepped inside.

“Nidhogg of the first brood, hear me! ...please.” She called, hands cupped around her mouth, flowers in the cook of her elbow. “’Tis I, Etien. I come with a guest, Estinien Wyrmblood. We come in peace and friendship.”

There was a roar, then a thundering as the wyrm approached.

“Thou bringest him unto me and my home, when he was of the order who slaughtered my kin?”

Dae stroked his snout, hushing him gently and succeeding in soothing him. “He comes to our home with friendly intent, in the wake of the pact for peace. If they keep their end of it, we should keep ours. See? They’re both unarmed. Etien brought flowers again!”

She took them from where they were still cradled in Etien’s arms, offering them to Nidhogg to sniff.

When he’d had his fill of the flowers’ fragrance, he turned back to Etien, who had called him from the inner chambers to begin with.

“As thou hast come bearing gifts rather than steel, I shall allow thy visit. Come thou along, Dae will attend to thy comforts, as I cannot.”

For a time, they sat, Etien trying to ingratiate herself with the wyrm who so loved her friend, while said friend sat happily nestled in Nidhogg’s horns, stroking is snout and kissing the side of his face to prove just how relaxed a gathering this was.

Estinien was on the best behavior he could manage, though that did include making faces at the broodlings. Some liked it, giving sparky little giggles, while others flew off and hid at his “fearsome expressions.”

By the time they left, boarding the manacutters again, Etien’s heart was lighter, with tensions of the past eased slightly and on the path to dissolving more fully.

It helped that Nidhogg had liked the flowers.

But Estinien had questions. Not about relations with the dragons, that was his realm only when it came to Orn Khai. No, he was still curious about what Etien had meant earlier

They disembarked from the manacutters, and he didn’t let her hand go after he’d helped her to standing on the ground. As he guided her to the edge of the rock, with a quiet “sit with me?” he watched her scoot as close to the edge as she was willing to go, then stop.

Ah, right. Her fear of heights. Or perhaps, based on his observations, it was more akin to the fear of being too close to the edge of a long drop? She had no problem with flying, and even admired the views from the Last Vigil. But when she got too close to the edges of the Aetheryte plaza, or places like this, she was tense.

He’d noticed it most acutely the time he’d laid a hand on her shoulder as they walked along the path over the Brume, and she’d jumped, hair on her tail standing up and ears flattening.

But he let his legs dangle off the edge, and so she scooted a little closer, still holding his hand.

“You won’t fall,” he promised. She unfolded her legs to rest so her calves were halfway stuck out into the air.

“All right,” she said finally.

“So… led to what?” Estinien asked after a moment.

Etien tipped head. “What?”

“You said the war ‘led to this.’ What’s this?”

She blinked. “Oh! Us.” She shook their hands where they were clasped. “This. Well it was you, me, and Aymeric, more exactly. But you know. The final year of the war, the one I was there for, was hard, but at the end of it, I was endeared to Ishgard. And I ended up married to Aymeric before I left for Rhalgr’s Reach. In secret, of course; it was only that we were worried about what would happen if I happened to die on my way east.”

Silently, Estinien looked at her. She was wearing all black, but the brass buttons were a perfect complement. They, like her hair, were bold. He was only thinking about the black because in the moment that was swimming to the front of his mind—a moment he had thought about a lot since it had happened—she had been wearing much more white.

“Do you know it was here in the Churning Mists that I first began to feel for you?”

“I did not,” she replied. “When, when we were here with Ysayle?”

He nodded. “You tend to go quiet when people are having a heated debate in front of you. I had noticed it when Alphinaud and Aymeric were having their little discussion, but I thought you were just quiet.”

She laughed lightly, just a single harder exhale.

“I know now that you aren’t,” he added. “But aye. That night, I watched you sitting silently, watching the fire when you didn’t want to look at us, and how your eyes looked like emeralds.”

Now she giggled behind her hand. “How poetic.”

“I’ve had time to refine the comparison.” He felt his cheeks warming, and he was fairly sure it wasn’t windburn. He sighed. “I didn’t fully know the dimensions of my feelings until later. I struggle to recall when now, but before you won the day for Ala Mhigo.”

“I’m glad you figured them out,” Etien murmured, leaning in and kissing his cheek. “Because it led to this.”

[elfyourmother]

Dear Gisele: What is a time you saw your lovers falling for each other that gladdened your heart?

Ah...my heart soars to contemplate these things, chérie! There are few things on life that fill me with such joy. I scarce know where to begin...

Mayhap after our first unsuccessful chase of the Archbishop, when we returned from the Sea of Clouds empty handed. I went to the Congregation’s infirmary, late one night, and skulked the halls well after visiting hours to Haurche’s room, to see it top filled with beautifully arranged flowers—every surface! It resembled a hothouse much more than a sick room. What’s more, though they were beautiful beyond measure, I knew enough of the Ishgardian language of flowers to mark well the message writ in blossom and petal. When I saw Aymeric keeping vigil at his bedside, I knew then that every one of those arrangements was made by him. I nearly left, not wishing to intrude, but Haurche beckoned me inside. I felt a warmth I can scarce describe.

And later, when Haurche was well on the mend, I chanced to see him in the practice yard when I went to visit one day. He was pushing Ysayle in her wheelchair, on a morning constitutional, and I cannot describe the way she was alight in his presence. I know well how infectious Haurche’s conviviality, how he is the risen sun to warm any spirit. But I knew then she was fond of him, and I prayed he might return it, for both their sakes. It wounds me still that it took so long for them to confess their affections upon the First, not least of which because they feared hurting me, or betraying me in my absence. If only they knew how I yearned for them to partake freely of the love I shared with each of them by turns.

Forgive me if I do speak overmuch of my spouses, for I do not wish to give the impression that my lovers among the Archons of mine order are any less dear to me, or that I should take any less joy in the affections that blossomed between them. I know Thancred well by now, enough to mark the steady change in his rapport with Urianger. I saw the tenderness with which Uri tended his myriad wounds, when I did not, and noted with an ache I can scarce describe how that ever present tension within him fair melted, if subtly, and only for a moment.

There were many such moments, upon the First—not merely between these two, but Shtola as well. And they filled my heart with so much joy. But I confess that I grew fearful, I suppose, that like Thancred before them, Uri and Shtola had resigned themselves to the notion that now that I was Lady Fortemps, I had no use for them, and should withhold from me their affections. I feared that should I bear my heart to them, they would turn me aside—or worse, simply keep their distance, as Thancred did. Nothing could have been further from the truth, of course, and in the end we all were together.

Still, I am haunted by mine fears; that mayhap Wynne was right about me after all, and I am naught but a greedy and selfish harlot to treat my lovers as conquests, and am not satisfied unless the world revolves around me and mine own happiness. For all my airs of confidence, I fear this most, in my heart of hearts. I do not wish to be that kind of person, that I was so accused of being even from my adolescence in the Circle. For I have never viewed love as a finite resource, to be fought over like Carteneau, that if one should stand to gain another should always stand to lose. But few have understood this truism, or my fundamental nature. And I am but mortal; the barbs have stung, and still do, even if no hand has hurled them against me since I set foot in Eorzea.

[mirageofthecrystal]

FFxiv 30 Day Writing Challenge - Day 14: Commend

commend (verb)

praise formally or officially.

present as suitable for approval or acceptance; recommend.

"It's time, lad. They're waitin' for us outside. And this is a crowd you don't keep waitin' for very long. Despite all we've lost... you've earned this. Saved my arse more than once out there from those scaled bastards. Saved a lot of other lives besides."

"And what about the ones that I couldn't save," Despair painted Faiolan's words, the memories of the battle all too fresh in his mind. "You honor them, remember them, and then you move on. You never forget, but you don't let it keep weighing you down." Reynard seemingly never was without wisdom, and this weight was likely a familiar one. The weight of companions lost, never to be found again. The image of their corpses, marred by the savaging of their Dravanian foes, would not soon leave Faiolan's mind. Reynard offered him a hand to pull him to his feet, revealing the poor condition in which the little lordling found himself in. One arm was held in a sling, and his chest was freshly bandaged beneath his tunic. His face was bruised, one of his eyes almost swollen shut still. But with the careful ministrations of the chirurgeons, he would make a full recovery in time. And if it weren't for the insistence that the deeds of the brave and bold be recognized, then perhaps he'd recover a bit faster. "The blue bloods sure do love a good ceremony. Ah, no offense to yourself. Gives 'em a chance to pat themselves on the back for being loyal and faithful servants of Ishgard, even though we're the ones who did all the bloody work."

Faiolan hobbled along beside Reynard, his steps uncertain and each breath accompanied by daggers of pain digging into his chest. He'd wear a brave face for the people who looked to them for protection, but the sooner this was over the better. He could do with some hot stew, some hard liquor, and a stiff nap, not fanfare and chest pounding. The doors parted, beams of light breaking through the crack 'tween them that grew wider and wider as the portal allowed them passage. The familiarly cold sting of Ishgardian air was refreshing, albeit uncomfortable, as it filled Faiolan's lungs after days of isolated convalescence. He had little chance to simply enjoy it, however, as the assembled crowd quickly came into view and burst into cheers. They were joined by others who had been at the battle of the Front, others who had been lucky enough to survive when so many others perished. The Siege of Whitebrim Front had lasted for three full days, only fully broken when the Dravanians had thrown far too many of their own upon the walls of the fort and Isgebind deigned to return to the Stone Vigil rather than expend any more of his forces. At the head of the procession, beyond the sea of dutiful admirers, stood the Lord Commander of the Temple Knights, the Very Reverend Archimandrite of the Heavens' Ward, and the Archbishop of the Ishgardian Orthodox Church himself.

They assembled before the trio, falling into rows and columns somewhat clumsily with a number among them still sporting injuries from the battle. None would look down on those who suffered for Ishgard's prosperity, and when all were appropriately assembled, the speeches began. "Gathered before use today," began the Archbishop, "are the brave survivors of the recent attack on the Whitebrim Front. Such a siege we have not seen in some time, as our mortal enemies have long been gathering strength within the Stone Vigil to press their advantage. If not for the bold actions of both those you see standing here, as well as all those who we shall sorely miss for making the ultimate sacrifice to our nation, Ishgard itself would likely be under assault by the forces of the dreaded Isgebind. Our fight, which has lasted for a thousand years, may not be at an end, but these courageous heroes have gained us another reprieve to gather ourselves, our forces, and our loved one together in respite. It is your prayers and support that continues to drive Ishgard's defenders to defy the Dravanian menace, and it is your continued faith that shall continue to be the strongest bulwark against the horde. Prayers that fill the hearts of these knights and soldiers with the courage to continue fighting, knowing what it is they seek to protect. By the hand of the Fury and of King Thordan, I, Archbishop Thordan the Seventh do hereby bequeath upon those assembled before me today honors and recognitions appropriate to their service and sacrifice, as well as for those who fell in battle."

The Archbishop deferred to Ser Aymeric, who began with the names of the fallen and the honors they received. Far too many names, with those among the crowd who knew them bowing their heads are breaking into fits of weeping. Though Faiolan mourned all the losses, a single name caught him with a hard blow to the chest. "Esmeralda Myste," passed the Lord Commander's lips, but the rest of it became white noise. Faiolan had hoped she had survived, somehow. He had seen her in the thick of the fray, covered in the blood and guts of their enemies, until at long last he had lost track of her. To know that she had fallen... regret built up inside, threatening to burst like a raging river against a dam.

"And Faiolan Penderghast, who has on multiple occasions shown bravery and skill of the highest level, I do hereby name a Knight of Ishgard, and offer him candidacy as a squire to the Heaven's Ward by order of Archbishop Thordan VII, as well as the following list of honors to be forever ascribed to his service." Reynard's hand clapped down on Faiolan's shoulder, but the young knight was filled with disbelief. They called it bravery, courage, or whatever else, but it had always seemed like luck. He'd survived the efforts of several Dravanians to slay him and his fellows, but always because fortune willed it rather than anything related to skill or ability. To be given such an honor would surely bring great pride to his mother, father, uncle, and sister, whom he knew were probably beaming somewhere in the crowd. Knowing that it was not his place to refuse such a thing, he dropped painfully to one knee, and felt the touch of a blade upon each of his shoulders, before rising back up as a Knight of the Holy See.

[referentblood]

cw religious zealotry , child neglect , toxic family dynamics , and  emotional abuse & mental  abuse , victim  blaming .

      the  de  borel  family  were  a  house  of  wealthy  merchants  well  known  for  their  patronage  and  donations  given  to  the  church  on  an  annual  basis . the  lord  and  lady  of  the  house  were  strict  in  their  adherence  to  the  doctrine  as  it  was  taught  in  cathedral  walls  and  worshipped  halone  fervently , every  day  dedicating  hours  of  time  in  devotion  to  her . they  were  unquestioning  in  their  loyalty  to  the  church , and  to  the  archbishop  thordan . there  was  nothing  the  church  could  truly  do  wrong  in  their  eyes , and  any  wrong  they  did  percieve  was  outside  influences  fault  not  the  churches .       the  poor  were  suffering  in  the  brume  not  because  the  church  denied  them  aid , but  because  they  didn’t  believe  in  halone  enough  to  better  themselves . those  opposed  to  the  church  were  not  opposed  because  of  any  slight  or  wrongdoing , but  because  they  were  wicked . the  bastard  child  of  thordan  was  not  a  sign  of  corruption  within  the  archbishop , but  corruption  from  the  maiden  who  dared  tempt  him .      and  aymeric  was  the  product  of  such  a  wicked  temptress , so  when  the  church  entrusted  his  upbringing  to  the  de  borel  family  they  knew  that  they  would  raise  him  to  be  extra  reverent  to  wash  away  the  wickedness  staining  him  since  birth .        it  was  not  a  house  abounding  in  love  that  aymeric  had  been  adopted  into , it  was  as  cold  and  unforgiving  as  the  breath  of  winter  against  the  nape  of  his  neck . mistakes  of  any  kind  were  not  tolerated  in  this  cold  and  viscious  manor , and  his  days  were  often  filled  with  punishments  for  things  that  he  could  not  control .       a  babe  cannot  help  but  stretch  out  their  lungs  in  a  piercing  cry , breathing  in  the  air  around  them . it  cannot  be  helped , it  just  was . but  a  toddler  was  a  different  story  --  there  was  to  be  no  crying , no  tantrums , and  no  coddling . he  must  be  to  their  standards  of  perfection , with  all  their  ideals  being  what  formed  him .      and  aymeric  had  no  way  to  say  otheriwse : this  was  his  normal . this  is  what  he  assumed  all  families  did , or  that  his  punishments  were  deserved  even  if  he  had  done  no  apparent  wrong  because  he  was  wicked , the  spawn  of  a  serpent  he  hadn’t  even  met .       aymeric  did  not  have  it  in  him  to  resent  the  way  they  had  raised  him . it  affects  him  every  day , with  every  reaction , with  every  emotion  that  crosses  his  heart  and  is  subsequently  pushed  away . to  say he  did  not  consider  himself  lesser  to  others  was  wrong , the  needs  of  the  many  oft  outweigh’d  the  needs  of  the  individual  and  until  aymeric’s  dying  breath  he  would  place  his  people  before  his  own  self .      upon  his  adoptive  parents  death  he  was  bequethed  the  manor  and  the  de  borel  name , and  he  could  not  lie  in  his  relief . it  brings  him  shame , how  light  his  heart  felt  knowing  he  could  return  home  and  live  in  peace . there  was  no  ill  will  in  that  relief , but  there  was  no  grief  spared  to  them  outside  of  that  of  a  child  wanting  what  was  only  right : the  love  of  a  parent .     his  lack  of  self  worth  and  his  beaten  in  devotion  to  the  church  has  started  to  wane , more  so  every  day  that  he  continues  to  carve  paths  to  change  within  ishgard , but  he  still  struggles  with  how  he  was  treated . he  no  longer  troubles  himself  with  the  church  outside  of  what  is  needed  for  the  speaker , and  finds  himself  at  times  selfishly  indulging  what  he  wants  rather  than  what  he  deserves . this  is , in  it’s  entirety , thanks  to  the  friends  in  his  life  that  have  taught  him  that  he  is  worth  far  more  than  he  allows  for  himself .

[buns-with-a-book]

The Dreaming Lily

Part of a shortfic challenge list posted by ao3commentoftheday, the first of five fics.

Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV/Final Fantasy Online Characters: F!Viera!Warrior of Light/Aymeric de Borel, Feo Ul (minor) Tags: @nimnox

Summary: Feo Ul notices her beloved sapling isn’t in the best of spirits. Nothing a good ole dream can fix!. Set during Shadowbringers (5.0) and has spoilers regarding events in Shadowbringers

Feo Ul sat quietly at the bell, hidden by fae glamor as she watched the Viera mage walk away to the bed. She had her suspicions about her beloved sapling’s state, despite her every move to hide it. The smile that wasn’t as wide as it used to be, the worry behind those blue eyes of hers, every slow step that was full of hesitation, as if she feared she would collapse at any moment, even as she spoke with the air (although there was something...off about the air she spoke to, something she couldn’t quite see, but it seemed to help her so Feo Ul would let it pass for now).

Feo Ul hated to see her suffer, the sapling she had come to know as Lily Wisteriale, the Warrior of Darkness, bringer of the sunless sea that was the night sky, her brave little sapling. As she sat, she leaned against her knee, humming thoughtfully as to what to do to comfort her sapling. It was one thing for her to say something, another for this mysterious air...but she clearly needed something more than them. Someone she trusted, someone she loved more than life itself…

Feo Ul suddenly gasped, jumping off from her seat on the bell. That was it, someone she loved! That would raise her little sapling’s spirits! She darted towards the nightstand, where a beautiful gold ring rested, decorated with an azure insignia. A signet ring, as Lily had explained to her when she asked, and it was her most prized possession. She had received the ring from a noble elven knight named Aymeric, akin to an engagement ring. Feo Ul knew enough about Lily’s own world, from both the Exarch and from how Lily described a certain place in her world named Ishgard, a land of ice and snow, a thousand-year old history with warring dragons, hidden truths, and how she aided in the ending of that very war. As Feo Ul’s gaze searched the ring, she could easily sense the deep bond laid within the gold, the perfect thread that would lead this Aymeric to her distressed sapling.

‘Oooh, just you wait, my little sapling!’ Feo Ul couldn’t help but giggle happily as she disappeared, to soar through the land of dreams and seek out the elf’s radiant spirit.

---

Lilies.

That was the first thing Aymeric saw when his eyes opened. As he sat up, his gaze was nearly blinded by the endless field of snow white lilies before him, illuminated by the light of a beautiful full moon. Far into the distance, great mountains rose, encircling this pristine field of lilies. He slowly stood, trying to get his bearings. He remembered falling asleep in his bed, at his small manor...so this had to be a dream, right?  

A childish giggle caught his attention, head snapping to the direction of the sound. He blinked at the...creature fluttering before him.

“I see why my little sapling likes you so!” The creature, autumnal orange in hue, fluttered before him. “Strong, brave, noble...a perfect picture of a knight!” Before he could ask anything, the creature darted forward into his face, causing him to step back in surprise. “The questions can wait! Go!” The creature flew around behind him and pushed him forward with more force than he expected. “She needs you, right now!”

That finally got his feet moving, dashing across the field of lilies, petals flying behind him. The creature shot ahead of him, as if leading the way through this dreamlike world. The creature flew ahead before pausing, turning to smile warmly at him. He came to a stop where the creature was, a gasp leaving his lips as his eyes met a too-familiar form, curled up in the lilies. He quickly sat down, pulling her into his arms.

“By the Fury...Lily, what happened to you?” He murmured, his gaze moving up and down her body. The simple nightdress she wore only covered her torso and thighs, leaving the rest of her skin exposed to his eye. It was as if she was a cracked doll, fractures dancing across the pale skin and seeping out the faintest of lights. Her eyes fluttered open, beautiful light blues staring up at him.

“Aymeric…?” She murmured. He nodded, earning a soft smile from her. She carefully sat up in his lap, staring down at her fractured body. “I see. Containing this light is taking all my strength…”

“I wish there was more I can do but I have more questions than answers.” Aymeric said, shifting to let the viera settle in his lap. Lily nodded.  

“Well, I suppose I should begin with the headaches. I was being called away from our star to save another, known as Norvrandt. That’s where the Scions are as well. Upon my arrival, my purpose became clear: take the aether from these powerful beings of light known as Lightwardens. But it seems I overestimated how much I can do.” She stared at her hand. “But...no one else can do what I can do.” Aymeric could feel her lean into him. “And now...I’m scared. Y’shtola, the miqo’te, she said that I can’t hold much more aether without dire consequences and...and she’s right! I know she is but I don’t know what I can do. Nobody can do what I can, the only other person is a child thrown into this grand destiny she never asked for, so it falls onto me, it always falls onto me to save everyone!” She curled up in his arms, trembling. Aymeric lowered his head, a hand reaching up to carefully thread through her hair. The Viera let out a soft noise, relaxing from the sensation.

“I only wish there was more I could do to ease this burden you bear.” He said gently. “Alas, all I can do is give my faith and love.” He lowered his head, pressing his lips against her head.

“I just wish I was stronger…” Lily murmured. “As I said before, it takes so much of me just to make it look like I’m fine when I’m not.”

“When strength fails, tenacity and conviction takes place. And I know you have the conviction to survive and the tenacity to come back home with the Scions. It was both that I saw that day, when you stood against Nidhogg on the Steps of Faith.” He let out a slow sigh. “That was the day I realized I was in love with you. That I had been in love with you the entire time.” He paused, watching as a tremor wracked her body, the Viera mage hissing in pain before it subsided. A part of him couldn’t help but become saddened by the sight of her, a far cry from the confidant woman he had fallen in love with.  

“Aymeric...please, stay with me. For as long as this dream will allow us.” Lily murmured. “When the morning comes...I fear we may not meet again in the land of dreams.” Aymeric nodded, carefully laying down in the lilies with her so as to not aggravate the pain she was suffering from.

“As you wish.”