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sheepwithspecs · 6 months ago

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A Piece of You

|| FFXIV || Rated T || XIVRarepairWeek2024 ||

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(Seven years + two emotionally compromised pirates) ÷ a special gift = ???

Day 2: Lover's Token Carvallain x Rhoswen

“I have something for you.”

“Hm?” Rhoswen stretched languidly, basking in the luxurious feel of crisp linen against her bare skin. Her lover was already half-dressed, gaskins unlaced and hanging low on his hips as he walked across the bedchamber. He held something in his hand, too small to see; to see his long fingers curled protectively around it brought to mind younglings cupping tadpoles in the shallows of the Agelyss River.

“Here.” Carvallain sat on the side of the bed, the mattress barely sagging beneath his weight—no doubt a testament to the fine quality of the mattress. Of course, everything contained in his private rooms was fine, if not exquisite. As one of the richest men in Limsa Lominsa, he held shockingly high standards for what others might call creature comforts. Surprisingly, his taste for extravagance had never managed to rub off on her over the course of their liaison, aside from a growing appreciation for high-quality fragrances and linens. “Take it,” he urged, gesturing for her to hold out her hands.

Rhoswen sat up, stretching her arms over her head for good measure before reaching out to take whatever it was he kept so well-hidden. Before him, she had never been one for gifts; she could name every one she’d ever received on one hand, and still have a few fingers left over. But now they were a regular occurrence, and she was inclined to take whatever he offered on these frequent romps of theirs. Had she not known better, she might have feared herself a kept woman. But Carvallain was the sort of man who shared his affections through material means, rather than sweet nothings or pet names. It was as though he knew there were things he could not offer freely, and sought to fill the gaps with all manner of trinkets from lands she’d likely never see in her lifetime.

Into her hand he dropped a tiny box, blue paper and red ribbon, nondescript beyond the fact that it had seemingly appeared from nowhere. She had not noticed it sitting out when she arrived, though her attention had admittedly been captured by the sight of him waiting for her.

“What’s the occasion?” she laughed, trying to downplay her growing anxiety at the sight of so tiny a box. It fit perfectly in the palm of her hand, small enough to warrant concern but almost too large to be the thing she most dreaded to see: a ring. Their current arrangement was fun. It was comfortable. The last thing she wanted was to see it go down in flames thanks to some misguided sense of propriety, or worse— duty.

“Must there be an occasion?” he replied in the same tone, any humor underlined by something too close to nervousness for comfort. “Most women enjoyed being lavished upon, you know.”

“Most women wouldn’t see through yer game.” Sometimes it was far easier to fall back on their tried and true banter. She turned the box over in her hands, appraising it without any attempt to discern its contents. “Ply me with wine n’ sex, then catch me unawares.”

“Am I that obvious?” His answering smile was strained. “Perhaps I was merely waiting until you were in the best possible mood to accept my little cadeau.”

“Is there any reason I wouldn’tbe in a good mood?” She dangled the box by the ribbon the same way he had. “Best tell me now, afore I see it myself.”

“It is only that—” He patted his thighs absently, lower lip caught between his teeth as he thought. “Sometimes your mouth moves faster than your ears, my dear. All I ask is the chance to explain, should you find my little gift… startling.”

“Explain what?” Carvallain did not answer, staring intently as he waited for her to make a move. It was a look he often wore during games of Meracydian chess, when the stakes were highest and he felt cornered. She slid her legs beneath the coverlet, feeling more naked than she ever had in her nameday suit. Her eyes darted to where her clothes lay, tossed casually across the round dining table. Part of her wanted to scramble across the bed and snatch them up, if only to feel a little more secure in her skin. But it would be silly to show that sort of weakness, especially for something as paltry as a gift.

“Aren’t you going to open it?”

“Don’t rush me,” she muttered, fishing about beneath the coverlet for her smallclothes. Her toes caught the corner of his silk blouse and she cut her losses, yanking it from its hiding place and slipping it over her shoulders. The fabric billowed at her elbows, sagging down around her lithe frame a good three sizes too big, but it was still better than nothing. Tucking it comfortably around her hips, she again turned her attentions to the box, swallowing back her trepidation.

In all honesty, she wasn’t entirely sure when her—surely unfounded—fears had taken root. Their relationship was not exactly casual, but neither was it to the point that she’d happily throw caution to the wind and follow him to that blasted temple in the Twelveswood. Seven years, give or take a few tumultuous moons of confusion and ale-addled lust, but they’d never felt the need to put a name to what they were doing.

That in itself was common enough in Limsa Lominsa. Pirates didn’t marry one another to live happily ever after. If nothing else, they might eventually commit themselves to a single companion for a number of years, until one of them inevitably found their way to the Navigator’s bosom. A pirate courtship could be romantic, in its own way, and sometimes even soft or affectionate… but never fairytale. Never domestic. Those fantasies were better suited for naïve young lasses who dream of knights on white chocobos— something she had not been for many, many years.

This is ridiculous. There was no reason to drag out the inevitable, after all. Rhoswen gingerly untied the ribbon, sliding open the box and pushing aside the tissue paper before peering cautiously at what lay within. A moment later her head snapped up, eyes narrowed.

“What the—?! Ye told me ye lost the damn thing!” For nearly a fortnight, his left ear had been oddly bare, bereft of its usual silver adornments. For as long as she’d known him, he’d only ever removed his ear clasps when bathing; he even wore them to bed, citing them to be “too important�� to leave lying around. Despite this, he had seemed strangely unperturbed when one came up missing, shrugging away her questions and brushing off any attempts to help him locate the misplaced clasp. Now it had resurfaced, nestled neatly in the translucent paper.

“Is this some sort o’ joke? Ye know I can’t wear it.” Scowling, she picked up the clasp and turned it so that the silver gleamed in the candlelight. It seemed as though she’d never tire of admiring the beautiful scrollwork, so tiny and delicate that it seemed wrought by fae hands and not a master smith. “All ye had to do was say ye found it…” she trailed off, puzzled. “Is it me, or is it… smaller? Here, let me see the other.”

“I had it fitted for your ear. Open the—” Before he could finish, her curious fingers uncovered a hidden hinge. The clasp fell apart in her hands, revealing itself to be a clasp no longer, but an earring fit for smaller, rounded ears. Ears like a Hyur’s. Rhoswen stared down at it, her thoughts too tangled to sort out into proper questions. Finally she dared to look up, cursing the way her lips trembled as she spoke.

“What kind o’— Why would ye— Seven hells!” An icy hand gripped her heart, squeezing for all it was worth. “If this is some sort o’ swivvin’ proposal, I’m about to stick my foot straight up yer—”

“No! Gods, no!” He reached for her, seeming to rethink it at the last moment and letting his hand fall to the mattress instead. “See? This is what I meant; if you would just give me a moment to explain myself—”

“Ye got thirty seconds afore I march right out o’ this room, bare-arsed n’ all!”

“It’s not always romantic!” Carvallain snapped, looking both ashamed and obstinate. “They’re simply a symbol of… of…” His hands worked in midair, trying to grasp the words that would not come. “There are many different meanings. The first is traditionally a symbol of maturity. The exact reasoning varies between cultures. In Ishgard, a mother gifts her child the first clasp on the eve of their Confirmation, and the father gifts the other when they are fully grown.”

“N’ when one person giftstheirs to someone else? What’s it mean then?”

“I suppose the closest word would be devotion—which is not the same as romance!” he added, seeing her lips part in protest. “It can be any number of things: filiality, fidelity, camaraderie…. When a knight falls in battle, their brother in arms might choose to wear one as a physical reminder of the bond they shared. Close siblings might choose to trade if one of them is going on a long journey. Best friends who make a pact, or a bereaved spouse wanting a keepsake, or… any number of occasions, truly. Wherever you go, be it to another continent or another life, you’re carrying a piece of them with you.”

“But it can be romantic.”

“Yes,” he groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “it can sometimes be romantic. Within the confines of courtship it is often used to promote… exclusivity.”

“Aha!”

“But that was not necessarily my intention!”

“N’ just what, pray tell, did ye intend by it?” He pressed his lips into a thin line, fingers twisting together in his lap. It was a rare sight indeed, the confident and cavalier Carvallain unsure of himself. There was power to be had in that, and perhaps she might have taken advantage of it, had she not also felt as though the proverbial rug was about to be pulled out from under her feet at any moment.

“Whether or not you choose to wear it is, in the end, up to you. But if you… choose… then know it to be a symbol of my— of my l—” His tongue tripped over the word, breath hitching as it caught in his throat. “My regard,” he managed to choke out, hands balled into fists. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Tch.” It had been several years since she’d last worn earrings. She winced as the refitted clasp jabbed through the skin where the hole ought to be. The hinges separating the two sides closed over the bottom of her left earlobe with a soft click of metal. Twisting around, she viewed herself in the round mirror he kept on his desk; with the two halves in place, it looked as though she wore an identical version of the clasp on his right ear.

Ever so gently, he turned her head so that he could take a look for himself. He traced the shell of her ear with one cautious fingertip before averting his eyes the moment his own seemed near to overflowing.

“Oh, none o’ that, now,” she murmured, pulling him back until he had no choice but to face her once more. “Ye can’t go barin’ yer ‘eart like that n’ not expect me to take a peek.” He scoffed, though there was no real heat in the sound. “I got nothin’ for ye in return.”

“You don’t need….” His thumb traced over the silver slowly, back and forth. “Seeing you wear it is enough for me.” He leaned forward, bumping his forehead lightly against hers, noses brushing before he caught her up in his arms. She squeaked out a startled breath as he pulled her flush to his chest, burying his face in the join of her neck and shoulder. “I can hear your heart racing,” he sighed, the words muffled against her skin.

“I can feel yers racin’, too.” The clasp was heavy on her ear, but it was a welcome weight. A piece of him… wherever I go. She wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning her cheek against his skull and breathing in the soft, perfumed strands of hair. “So, does this mean we’re exclusivenow?”

“We’ve been exclusive for some time now, I should think… unless there’s a rival you haven’t warned me about.”

“I do like to keep me options open.” She grinned. “Still, can’t say I have many offers these days. No market for ol’ crones, I reckon.”

“You’re beautiful.” Pulling back, he looked down at her with a smile, eyes shining with everything he couldn’t—wouldn’t—say. “My lovely harpy.” Regard my arse.

“That’s right,” she beamed, combing her fingers through his hair. “Yer harpy… claws n’ all.” As she spoke she ruffled his bangs aggressively, cackling as the fiery strands stood out in all directions. Carvallain jerked back with a vain cry, letting go of her in an attempt to salvage the remnants of his coiffed style.

“You damnable—!” Tongue working in his cheek, he launched himself over the bed at her. “You’ll pay for that!”

“Will I?” Still laughing, she let herself be pinned to the mattress. “Careful! Won’t be no fault o’ mine if this puffy shirt o’ yers gets ripped t’ shreds.”

“It’s never your fault, is it?” He regarded her sullenly. With his hair still askew and a pout twisting his features, he looked more like a petulant firstborn than an angry lover. She shrugged, as well as she could manage with her hands pinned over her head, laughing again when he groaned in defeat. “My tormentor, more like.” Nevertheless he bent his head, feathering kisses over her forehead and cheeks.

“Who’s the tormentor now?” she muttered when he refused to meet her lips, lightly kissing her jaw, her chin, her nose before finally obliging with a smirk. “Bastard.” He’s no knight, but I suppose a privateer on a regular chocobo’s probably the best I’ll manage… not that I’m complaining.

“Your bastard.”

“… Aye.”

#ffxiv #ff14 #final fantasy xiv #rhoswen #carvallain #carvrhos #my writing #xivrarepairweek #I'm going slow on these... but I'm going!

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