#The Dragonsong War

[aroseyetbloomedwrites]

Hope in Roses [ A Founders Fanfiction - Flavien de Fortemps/Driancoin de Haillenarte ]

Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV

Category: M/M but Gen fic I guess.

Rating: T

Pairing: Flavien de Fortemps/Driancoin de Haillenarte

Characters: Flavien de Fortemps, Driancoin de Haillenarte, Francel de Haillenarte makes an appearance.

Additional tags: Mild blood, pre-canon, pre calamity, The Dragonsong War, light angst

Authors note: Inspired by the Valentione's day event. Part of what may be a working series by the name of One Thousand Years Ago. Squint for the Romance.

Ao3 Link: Here

Summary:

“No. I will call them nothing, in the absence of hope.” Driancoin looks upwards, and over them, beneath the shining sun, he will see a glimmer of a dome in that brief moment that protects the Last Vigil.

Sneak Peek:

From the distance there, beneath yellow sun, he could see him, with hair of spun flax, nay even more interwoven with gold than that. threaded from Heaven’s gate? And he would be able to tell, beneath the fringe of his precious hair, that gems would be set into a face, glistening eyes of piercing determination, of discernment, of kindness. The sun bore down onto a steeped back, gold hung loose about a honey face, and light lashes blinked away sweat, a droplet of which curved over an angular jaw and hung from his pointed chin. Beside the hunched form, arose an imposing manor, grey faced against the stretch of blue which would be the sky, a smoky whisp of cloud drifting in the far-ground, curling around a bare peak in the distance. Perhaps it too, would have brethren to join in the distance.

Long fingers dig into warm, moist soil, reaching past the top of a dandelion sprout to it’s roots, and plucking it up, the yellow sproutling comes free, and the man, with dirt on his grey trousers, sets it aside into a pile at his side. He remains hunched where he is, taking the end of the scarf tied around his neck, and flipping it up against his chin, dabbing at a streak of sweat as the sun bores down on his back, he drags the end of the cloth up to his temple, and it glistens no longer beneath the intimidating rays.

There are rows of sprouts, green with budding, serrated baby leaves of a red hue. Tell tale of sproutling roses that he works at. When one looks further down the patch aside the manor, rose bushes of varying size stand at attention; at the far end, gnarled, twisting, thorned roses grow in full bloom, as though they have been there since founding, and perhaps they might have. The petals red as blood, and their stems unforgiving and dark. Even their leaves are like knives. The blossoms are small, dot the green-black leaves and curling stems, wild and free. A gift, once upon a time, from the Dravanians. It hurts to look at them. Aside those, growing to attention, in cultured rows, a demure set of roses, their blooms are larger, open faced and loose, baring their filaments to the world openly, easy to polinate, and their red borders on pink. Mountain roses, from Coerthas, tempered to cooler climes, but surviving in the humid summer of the city. The soil they are cultured in remains cool beneath their leaves, and the staff waters them, if… Driancoin does not. So it is, the man who gently reaches out towards a bright green stem, lifting up towards the expanse of the sky, that very roseling spared from the spread of weed, as it grows diminutive in hammered, and carved, wooden planters beside the other rows, and rows, and lines, and lines of roses that mark the renowned pagoda of Haillenarte. And Flavien, he beholds the care, and attention, his dearest companion holds for the namesake of the House.

With their manors across eachother, it was only natural Flavien would see the knight most often. Driancoin was a quiet, and regal soul, firm with the sword, strong with the shield, and he was an honor to fight beside. But as he comes around the wellspring of a fountain that separates their Manors, will see the defaced way he looks upon his roselings. They were close, as brothers in arms would be, should be, could be, but there was that inkling within Flavien, as steel-toed boots pace closer, that he could be… even more so. That he wanted to be, but what of Driancoin? Who would sometimes break fast with him, cross sword with him, lay in a grassy knoll with him? His face was open and serene at all times, sweet and rounded slightly at the cheeks. He does not smile as easily as he used to, but then-none of they do, the four, and, missing Ser Haldrath, more like as not.

Driancoin looks up, as Flavien skirts around to his side, his cheeks are red in the noon sun. Flavien’s hair is so dark it is almost reflective, but Driancoin does not shield his eyes, they merely glance downward, towards his moving mouth, but blood rushes in his pointed ears, and he cannot hear what it is Flavien says to him. If anything, he flushes even more, looks away, and licks his salty lips. Flavien can see red over pink, and his chest expands with air on a deep breath.

“My apologies, I—did not hear that.” Driancoin sounds like a cool breeze through a crystal chime. Soft. Airy. Lilting on a song. He puts his hands to his knees, and slowly gets to his feet, unfolding, like the rose. He gives a sway as of in a breeze, but Flavien does not help him. They are knights true, Driancoin would hardly accept it.

Flavien offers a very small smile, the blizzard of his eyes cool Driancoin marginally. “Merely, that I wondered for what you planted more for? Perhaps, ‘tis another type?”

A deduction based on descending order, but for what, or why Driancoin wanted more was beyond him. The man, he puts dirt covered fingers to blond hair, briefly brushing the strands from his warm forehead, and endearingly, smudging soil against his temple before when he releases his hair, it sways back over it. Then he turns away, and his side profile cuts a regal visage, the sun glows from the crown of his head like a halo, but they, none of them, are angels. Not even Driancoin. Flavien at first does not follow the sidelong look Driancoin puts upon his garden, instead looking at his eyes, the blues as deep as an unfrozen ocean, and just as impenetrable. Then, he looks too. Unto the little roselings, sticking straight up from their dark soil. Hopeful.

“Do not… Tell anyone, ser Flavien.”

Flavien does not look back, and Driancoin does not pare him a glance either.

“I shan’t.” Is all he says.

Silence rings in his ears, a breeze curls inky strands about his long ears. Driancoin speaks evenly.

“They are spliced.”

Flavien finally looks away from the garden, to Driancoin, who elaborates a little further.

“I took cuttings from the Dravanian bushes, and from the Coerthan, and with a little slice, wedged them together. They grew around each other, in harmony. I do not know what they will look like, as their lives will intertwine.”

Flavien tucks a hand into his trouser pocket, one by one, his fingers curl into a fist, mostly hidden from view. But, Driancoin does not look at him.

“Will you name them?” Flavien asks him.

“No. I will call them nothing, in the absence of hope.” Driancoin looks upwards, and over them, beneath the shining sun, he will see a glimmer of a dome in that brief moment that protects the Last Vigil.

Morning comes, in the way that the sky above will lighten from bruised purple, to a grey blue. Dalamud glows warm in the sky, ever present, ever watching, as the true moon passes into a peek of sun over the east. It is cool outside, in such a way that dew will coalesce from the previous evenings warmth, upon just about every smooth surface. It falls heavy, reminiscent of rain, from leaves which turn over beneath the weight of it. There is a sweet call of a Mourning Dove, its mate will match it. The morning will drag onwards and upwards, from young to old, and Flavien, comfortable in his chair, holding the stem of his coffee cup, will note his companions absence. Driancoin does not join him this morning, as oft he does. So it is, that he shall pull on his evening coat, and halfboots, and sweep to the outers of the sleepy world.

Driancoin is outside again, hovering by his gardens far end, stooping, and straightening, putting his back and shoulders into something. He wears nothing but a long sleeved tunic and trousers, riding boots tied up to his knees. Flavien thinks, something is terribly wrong, and as he rounds the fountain, he can see past Driancoin, the stems of his Dravanian’s have been snipped away, and the golden knight is taking shovel to them, hacking away at their roots and prying them up from the ground. The blossoms are littered around the gnarling branches ground, trampled in some places, their little petals dispersed and withered, glistening in the rising sun. The rest of the garden had been spared.

“What has happened?” Flavien sounds somewhat harried, breath aches in his lungs, as he watches Driancoin upend his garden.

“A new age.” Driancoin murmurs, dropping his shovel, letting it clatter resoundingly through the misty air, and with bare hands, he reaches into the bush, wrapping slender fingers around the branches of his thorned roses, blood slicks his hands as he pulls the rest of it up by hand from the ground. Flavien reaches out, as if perhaps he could stop his companion, as if perhaps he could soothe him. That shoulder jumps, fine muscle flinching beneath his large hand as he turns Driancoin partially around, and finds his face is a blank slate, his slack mouth moves again. “Dissent.” He pulls his shoulder out of Flavien’s hand, so that he can round on his Dravanian roses, staring at their fallen blossoms. He drops the bushel he hold. “I will hold this secret in my heart, and die with it.”

And Flavien finds his courage in that moment, a pile of blossoms at their feet, bushes on their sides, piled unceremoniously, but not with anger. Driancoin never handles his roses, thus, Flavien puts his arm around Driancoin’s shoulders, and the shorter of the two, tips, just slightly, against him. The mist is clearing, aether static in the air, as he will raise his arms, and crimson drips from the tips of his fingers, from deep cuts over already scarred fingers and knuckles, creating rivulets and pathways to his elbows. Flavien lets him bleed a moment longer. Let them feel.

“Not alone.”

Treachery in their veins.

One Thousand Years later. In a neighboring land. Roses will bloom, their blossoms are large, crimson, but not like blood. They are vibrant, beloved by butterfly and bee. Growing beneath a canopy of green, from whence their original lands had banished them. Dappled by a warm sun through deciduous trees. Their stems grow sturdy and dark, their thorns are small, but sharp, protective, but not as of a weapon. And, a regal man will stand aside, will watch from afar, as Roses which once stood proud at his doorstep, were beheld by loving reveler. He brushes away whisps of blond from beneath the brim of his green cavalier, humidity clings to his honey skin and sweet sweat marks a trail over a round cheek, and dark blue eyes not unlike an unfrozen ocean look out over the Roses his family only ever beheld before the Calamity.

Francel de Haillenarte feels hope renewed.

Driancoin lives on.

[hazycorvus]

Thousand spears long Dragonsong war...

(Available as a print)

[itsmeishmi]

Year of the Dragon Year of the First Brood! HAPPY LUNAR NEW YEAR! With my attempt at a Bahamut and Ratatoskr too! ;v;

[nekkyousagiart]

FFXIV - Estinien Wyrmblood

Nekkyo Usagi Art (c) 2023 - ARTSTATION | INSTAGRAM | KO-FI

[drag00ni]

Evergreen makes a return... on a horse??? Where did his chocobo go...

[kaitontenchu]

" . . . There was no other way . . . " -

DSR cleared on 4.9.2024

[moonchildffxiv]

|| healing in Alx Trine ||

[nekhcore]

7.1 fucking up thancred's face pissed me off so i finally got off my ass and finished 3.2 and 3.3. pleasantly surprised with how well i managed to sort out wolcred. they're actually normal now. i'm so proud of them!

anyways, after seeing nidstinien at the conference, thancred finally understands what misha's damage is and they're on the same page. they catch up on linkpearl while they're apart and misha tells thancred about every single person in ishgard that pisses him off. subjecting this stupid hyur to nightly yapathons with his cabbit wife

[wildstar25]

MiqoMarch Day 08 - Fav. (Side) Job

When she's not running around as Ninja or Summoner , Arsay's next choice is the lance. Being bestowed a source of draconic power by Midgardsormr moments before his slumber, and knowing how to channel the powers of Bahamut with dreadwyrm trance, Arsay's power as a Dragoon rivals that of even the former Azure Dragoon. With that said, she'd much rather use her polearm to hunt monsters.

[ladyofvoss]

FFXIVWrite 2024 #21: Shade

noun: comparative darkness and coolness caused by shelter from direct sunlight. or color, especially with regard to how light or dark it is or as distinguished from one nearly like it.

“Tell me what it’s like”

Thalia looked down from the book she was reading, to where Haurchefant was lounging comfortably in her lap, stretched out as they sat comfortably in front of the fireplace in his quarters.

“Tell you what what’s like?”, she inquired, absently running a hand through his locks. He practically purred at her touch, a hand lifting to stroke her wrist.

“Your home”, his answer was punctuated with a kiss to her palm, “where you grew up. Everything.”

She laughed, playfully pinching his cheek before smoothing her thumb over it. “I hardly think there’s anything interesting to tell.”

But he looked at her expectantly, an intensity to his gaze that had Thalia blushing, as if he was prepared to give her his undivided attention, even if she spent bells going into monotonous detail about the various shades and consistency of the dirts and sand throughout Thanalan. His eyes seemed to tell her, I’d find anything you love fascinating.

So she told him as much as she could, the holidays and festivals celebrated, the legends and myths she’d be fascinated with as a little girl. Her favorite foods to eat, the food stands that would line the streets in the city, rich aromas of cooking food thick in the air. She even spoke of the weather, joking about the unforgiving heat, how even the summer storms would not cool things off for long, as the blistering sun would return moments later.

Haurchefant patiently listened to all of it, interjecting with questions, hanging on her word with a pleased smile on her face, and it made Thalia wonder. Wonder what it would be like if they were like this back home. Perhaps it would be after one of Ul’dah’s many lavish festivals. They’d be in her grandmother’s garden, just like this. Lounging in the shade of a nearby treat finding refuge from the sun, Haurchefant’s head in her lap, her stroking his hair as they told each other mundane details about their day.

A poke to her cheek and Thalia blinked, before glancing to see Haurchefant watching her with a confused and bemused expression.

“Gil for your thoughts my friend?”

She couldn’t explain why, but something in her ached. Something suspiciously like longing.

“I….” she began, “I was just thinking……once everything is behind us….it’d be nice if I could bring you to my home.”

The way his face lit up, the smile that spread from ear to ear, and Thalia felt a newfound determination to see that dream a reality.

“That”, he said, kissing her fingertips again, “would be splendid, my dear.”

[sylverbough]

House Belanger. What could have been, and what is.

[quinn-borel]

Lucia!

She took a fist full of Coerthan tea leaves and, somewhat elegantly despite her iron-clad hands, dropped them into the hot milk to allow them to steep in the teapot. Closing the lid, she returned the intricately designed pot to the platter and sat it amongst its matching teacup.  Oh, well, a second teacup should probably be in order, the Lord Commander did have a guest after all.  It would be impolite to only serve him tea, but at the same time would anyone question a second teacup on the platter?  That guest was not necessarily supposed to be there so late in the evening…

Then again, only certain temple knights roamed the halls at such a late hour and would most likely pay her no mind.  Another cup was pulled from the cupboard and placed gently on its own saucer followed by a few biscuits and a tiny jar a birch syrup.  That would do for an evening tea...for two.

She slowly inhaled with a rough exhale to follow–it wasn’t the first time she had made this arrangement, nor would it be the last considering how things were going.  But having to discreetly deliver tea to her Lord Commander was an absurd measure that she felt she would never have had to take had he pursued his interests outside of working hours.  But alas, a man would be a man.  Somehow, Lucia thought more of him—he was a man who took his station seriously, a man who could not be moved by distractions...

And yet, there she stood, making tea for him and his distraction.  That’s all she really was to Lucia.  Not that she didn’t respect the Warrior of Light for all she had done for Ishgard, but Lucia had hoped that she would finally move on to other ventures once the Dragonsong War was over.  But no, that was far from the case as the Warrior of Light had secretly put her roots down within Borel manor for the time being.  

What used to be a fascination turned into infatuation—Lucia watched as moons passed while her Lord Commander grew fonder and fonder of this god-slaying adventurer.  It would be a lie to say that Lucia was not impressed with the woman’s reputation, but she was also aware from her intel the woman’s entire reputation.  Though the woman’s vices did not seem to bother the Lord Commander one bit, for he must have been able to see through her rough exterior.  He had a way with that.  

Like many others, Lucia expected him to eventually court a noblewoman despite his tendency to equate himself with the common man.  Though coming on the age of thirty two, Lucia simply expected that he had no interest in courting anyone and that he would spend his days leading the country with her at his side.  (Formally speaking, for Lucia cringed at the thought of others pairing her off with her employer.  She swore to be his shield and his right-hand solider, nothing more.  She wasn’t like her sister, after all…)

Yet, the world had its ways of surprising her.  As she carried the platter down the hall she remembered the day Aymeric had called her into his office to swear her to secrecy that he was courting the Warrior of Light.  Lucia recalled that she felt a small tinge of surprise, but moreover she had asked him if it was wise to pursue the woman who killed his father.  For sure there would be conspiracies floating about that could lead to more violence—the son of the Archbishop called for his assassination and then courts the assailant?  All while then being elected the official Speaker?  At best, minor whispers.  At worst, more fires and more violence.  But the Lord Commander urged her that he would be careful, and explained that he could no longer modestly deny himself the simple pleasures in life.  

A crack in his leadership, she thought.

But…a man will be a man.

Lucia approached his office door with refreshments in hand.  As she expected, in the silent hallways, the contents behind the door were as loud as ever.  A soft feminine giggle followed by the sound of the Lord Commander gently hushing her.  Lucia felt that it was her chance to enter and interrupt them before things escalated…

And as she opened the door, she heard Quinn scrambling to get off of the Lord Commander’s desk while her boss resituated himself at his seat.

“Oh, Lucia.” Aymeric said with what appeared to be relief, “It’s just you.”

“Yes, just me.” she replied rather flatly as she approached them with tea in hand, “I have prepared your tea to your liking, my lord...and provided a second cup for your guest.”

“Oh, ah, thank you, Lucia.” Quinn said rather bashfully, “I really appreciate it.”

“It’s no trouble.” Lucia eyed the pair–sure enough, they had been in the midst of sharing affections back and forth as Quinn had a clear mark on her neck from where the Lord Commander had done his work.  Quinn seemed to notice Lucia’s gaze and she quickly covered up the mark with her hand.

Aymeric cleared his throat in response, “Yes, thank you for the tea, Lucia.  I should be finished looking over those reports you handed me–”

“Take your time, my lord…I know your hands are…full.” she gave a bow and turned on her heel, dismissing herself from the room before the awkward tension cut through her armor.

Unfortunately, she would have to get used to the couple’s antics for quite some time.  

[vettir]

Weekly streaming schedule.

Streams for this week:

Wednesday: FFXIV. Some class/job quests, then the Warring Triad, and further MSQ fun, possibly even hitting the next set of Alexander raids.

Thursday: Hades II. We've made it both to the surface and to Tartarus, so let's see how far we can make it this time. Meet the bestest boy a second time.

Friday: FFXIV. Some hand and land class quests, further exploration of tribal quests, and hopefully, the true end of the Dragonsong War.

Streams start between 5 and 7pm Pacific, end at 11pm Pacific.

Stream link: https://www.twitch.tv/vettir

[itsmeishmi]

Thinking about DSU Again :3c

[mahvaladara]

I finished Dragonsong War and it was all I ever wanted and more.

[amoebaforce]

A ffxiv req here o/

Maybe childhood friend that’s followed Estinien, and/or thancred throughout their whole life and even went on all their travels with them?

(Could you maybe do the same for mister Meteor himself as well 🥺?)

Thank u op!!

this was such an interesting idea, anon! so interesting, indeed, that I decided to use a new POV for these little blurbs. here's one for Estinien and one for Thancred, written in second person.

i also LOVE the idea of doing one for the Meteor Survivor, too, but i just know i would get carried away and write waaaayy too much for an ask reply!!! that being said, i am going to write some notes on the subject for a longer fic. if you want to be tagged in such a thing (if and when i DO post it), please DM me and let me know! <3

characters featured: Thancred Waters, Estinien Wyrmblood tags: light angst, mentions of canon violence, trauma, second person, no pronouns used for reader

When you try to remember a time without him, you can’t. Even in the earliest shreds of consciousness, Estinien’s face is always there. At first, it was soft and boyish, with freckles like constellations across his nose. In your mind, that face swirls with flowery fields and the slow, sweet sunsets of childhood. It was unlined and innocent. Then, one long summer turned it angular and sharp — the same season that saw Ferndale burn. 

Everyone lost someone when the dragons attacked, and you were no exception. You will never forget the screams of the dying, the unholy blaze that clung to roofs and walls and clothes, too hot and furious to quell. How could you, when your skin still bears the scars? To this day, you don’t know how you lived through it. But you did, and so did the silver-haired boy that lived next door. 

In the span of a day, you both went from happy, normal children to homeless orphans. Wretches forced to rely on charity. Thankfully, you had grandparents in Ishgard. They were old and strict, but they loved you, and they were willing to take you in and help you heal. Estinien wasn’t so lucky. All he had was his rage. 

After you moved to the city, life went on. Sometimes you saw Estinien around the city, trailing the Azure Dragoon like a shadow, looking so wholly unlike the child you remembered. His eyes were hollower, cheeks gaunter. He wore too-big armor and carried a too-long spear, body not yet caught up to the mind and heart. The first time you called to him from your window, Estinien looked as though he’d seen a ghost. He avoided you for weeks, until you finally cornered him in the markets and forced him to explain himself. He broke down; you broke down. The two of you have been inseparable ever since.

And yet, your relationship, too, bears the scars of the past. It’s no longer the carefree, untethered bond of your youth, full of whimsy and make-believe. The years have changed it into a fierce, protective thing. A thing with teeth and claws, willing to rip and tear to keep itself safe. You’ve witnessed one another at the best and worst of times, comforted each other through agonies untold. You’ve laughed until your sides ache and screamed until hoarse. There’s not a soul on earth you understand better, perhaps including your own.

Without him, you’d never have left Coerthas. You’d never have the chance to walk the vibrant halls of Radz-at-Han, witness the sweeping vistas of Ala Migho, or visit the bustling markets of Kugane. And without you, Estinien knows he would have crumbled a long time ago. 

***

You were there from the beginning. Back in the days of pirates and back-alley deals, when Thancred was nothing but a scrawny thief on the decks of Limsa Lominsa, you were the one watching his back. With no parents or guardians to speak of, your tiny community of street urchins was the only family you had. Every child you ran with had a similar story, one where sickness or tragedy stole their childhood and forced them out onto the streets. You and Thancred were the eldest of the group, and thus bore the largest share of the responsibility for keeping everyone fed. 

That’s what drew the two of you to Louisoix — not greed or hubris, but plain, biting hunger. You were tucked in an alley that fateful day, keeping an eye out for Yellowjackets as Thancred made the first move. He was quiet as a cat, and just as nimble, too, as he crept up on the berobed Elezen. He was so clearly a tourist. An easy mark. Neither of you expected the sage to have such quick reflexes. 

When Thancred was caught, you braced for the worst. Your mind ran with a million fears at once. He wasn’t just your best friend. He was a lifeline. Your skills consisted of planning and acting as a lookout; Thancred was the one who actually did the pilfering. How would you feed the young ones without him? How would you treat them when they were sick? But instead of calling the guards, Louisoix bought Thancred a meal and gave him the opportunity of a lifetime.

You won’t lie, you were a little hurt when you found out Thancred meant to take the old man up on his offer. How dare he leave the gang, leave you behind? After all the things you’d done together? All the promises you’d made on those cold, hungry nights? So, like any rational Lominsan urchin, you took matters into your own hands and stowed away on the ship to Sharlayan. It’s been decades since then, and you still find yourself watching Thancred’s back. 

Not that you’d want to be anywhere else. He’s more brother than friend, crafted not by the same womb, but by the same circumstance. It’s evidenced in the jokes you tell each other, the secrets you’ve told and sworn to keep, and the volumes of information you can exchange in silent glances. Talking to Thancred feels like talking to another part of yourself, as if you share a brain, or a soul. It’s beyond familiar — it’s inherent. He is a fixture of your life, and you of his. It has always been this way, and you hope it always will.