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rune-writes · 27 days ago

Text

A Healer's Duty

Fandom: Final Fantasy XVI

Word Count: 4023

Rating: T

Characters/Pairing: Tarja-centric, Clive Rosfield/Jill Warrick; Joshua Rosfield/Jote

Summary: As a physicker, Tarja thought her job was to heal, but when faced with the deadly affliction called Lithification—a fatal bodily petrification that will claim a Bearer's life—Tarja learns that to be a healer does not equal to saving everyone. There is a limit to what she can do, and sometimes, just alleviating someone's pain may be the greatest kindness she can offer.

Notes: written for Fulminate: A FFXVI Fanzine. Leftovers are open til Feb 28th! Check out the store HERE.

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Do you know what makes a good physicker, Tarja?” her mentor asked.

He sat on a stool next to his desk, bent over a mortar and vials as he ground herbs and flowers into powders. Tarja looked up from changing the bandage of a wounded soldier’s arm just as her mentor poured the powder he was working on into a beaker.

Outside, the dins of war had subsided into barely a murmur. A respite or some such, which meant the infirmary was flooded with patients. Where the anguish and agony had rendered her frozen in place before, now her body moved in the automatic way of a seasoned physicker who’d dealt with broken bones and stabbed wounds by the day. Tarja had had her hands full administering whatever potions she could give, bandages she could fix, cuts she could stitch.

Still, they were not enough. Tormented cries pierced the tent’s walls from every side as soldiers fought against the pain of their advancing curse. And those she could not save lay on a heap outside, waiting for the carrion birds to arrive, because none of the soldiers could be bothered enough to give any of them a proper burial. Who were they but Bearer soldiers, meant to be used until the last drop of their lives and then discarded at the first sign of impairment? Her instructions were clear: to heal just enough for them to function. Not a day went by where it didn’t grate on her conscience.

Her mentor waved her over as he placed the beaker over a small fire and began stirring the contents with a long, thin spoon. Tarja finished her task then patted the moaning soldier’s shoulder, promising him she’d bring a pain reliever before rising to her feet and coming to her mentor’s side.

“This is Elysia. Or Tears of Mercy as I like to call it,” he said, grabbing a jar from his makeshift cabinet. Tarja viscerally cringed at the large eyeball staring at her. Her mentor chuckled. “Weeping widows. I had one of the men catch one for me. One drop of the tear can easily paralyze your entire nervous system.”

Tarja watched him pick the eye with a pair of tongs. He brought it to the beaker, then carefully let one… two… three tears drop before placing it back inside the jar. He stirred the beaker’s content again.

“I saw how you look today.” A pause. Tarja clenched her fists; she knew where this was going. “You can’t save everyone, Tarja.”

“I know that.” Tarja grounded her teeth.

“No, you don’t,” he said. “A healer’s job is to heal, yes, but we are no gods. We have our own limits. Sometimes, the only thing we can do is alleviate someone’s pain, and that’s alright.”

He finished stirring, then took out the spoon. He lifted his beaker to the meager light above his desk which swayed ever so slightly in a non-existent wind. Under the light, the potion shone silver like sparkling diamonds.

“We do not save people, Tarja. We can close their wounds, mend their broken bones, help their bodies recover with proper food, drugs, and rest. But what if they have reached their limit? What if their bodies scream enough?”

A particularly agonizing wail pierced the tent then. Tarja looked over her shoulder to see her fellow physickers restraining a soldier to his bed as the petrification creeped toward his heart. Her mentor poured Elysia into an empty vial then stood from his chair.

“Remember, Tarja: do not let them suffer anymore than they already have. Sometimes, that is the greatest kindness we can offer.”

***

ii.

Tarja rapped on the door thrice before the response to “come in” came from inside. Cid was leaning against his desk as usual, nursing his left arm in a way that informed Tarja he might have overdone himself. Again. As she entered, Cid made a feeble attempt to hide it, though the stiffness of his movement and subtle flinch of his eye were enough to give it away.

“Let me see your arm,” she said as a way of greeting.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered, straightening his arm only to wince at the pain.

Tarja set her herbal tea down on the low-lying table. She whirled on him with hands on her hip. “I’m your resident physicker, Cid. It is my job to see you in top shape.”

“It is your job to make sure the hideaway is taken care of.” He deflected with a wry grin, fishing one-handedly for a cigarette in his pocket then the match on his desk. He puffed out a smoke, then sighed. When he noticed Tarja’s glare, he barked a laugh. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. You know as well as I do there’s no going around the curse.”

She knew, but she would not break her stare. “The least you could do is sparingly use your powers.”

“I have done that. How did you think I managed to live this long?”

Another insufferable wry grin. Tarja had to swallow a sigh before crossing her arms. “So? Why did you call for me if not to heal your wounds?”

“The tea, for one,” he said with a grateful dip of his head. He pushed himself off the desk then stumbled to the worn couch across the room. He reached for the cup, breathed in the warm turmeric scent, then took a sip. “Thank you. It dulls the pain somewhat.”

Tarja ignored the pang in her chest. “One of my teacher’s recipes.”

“That explains it then.”

Willow bark and turmeric, with a dash of lavender. A tea recipe her mentor had created for the sole purpose of relieving pain from the crystal’s curse. Just as there was no going around it — the pain ever present and even more so after successive use of magick — her mentor had sought ways to ease a Bearer’s burden, even if he couldn’t completely erase it.

Tarja watched Cid take another sip of his tea. It wasn’t so potent, but she could see the tension slowly leave his face.

“You know I’m here to help, right, Cid?” she said.

Cid exhaled another sigh then finally leaned back on his seat. His left arm lay unmoving on his lap.

“You’re already plenty of help, Tarja, with the Bearers and everyone else.”

“Not to you.”

He lifted his tea as if for emphasis. “The tea helps, and whatever medicine you like to slip in my pocket.” Despite her aggravation at his nonchalance, that drew a quick, tiny smile from her lips. Cid set his cup down. “I am keenly aware of my own mortality. One of these days, the curse will catch up and naught will remain of me but dust. But I’ll not let that happen ‘til my dream is fulfilled and every Bearer can die a man.”

As painful as it looked, Cid attempted to raise his petrified arm, and like a defiance to fate and propelled by sheer determination, it lifted.

***

vi.

Lithification, or commonly known as the crystals’ curse, was the nightmare of every Bearer. Her own nightmare once — still was — but Tarja had learned how not to rely on magick, and it’d helped her wonders. She couldn’t say the same for the slaves or soldiers, who were under the beck and call of their masters.

Tarja saw how far the curse had progressed the moment she examined the new girl. Shiva, she heard Cid say. Poor girl. The imperial soldier pacing outside her infirmary had begun to grate on her nerves, but thankfully, he was gone now, away with Cid on one of his many missions. And he’d only just returned. From the way Cid was hiding his arm from her, she knew his curse had to have spread again. After she’d told him to be more careful, too.

That evening, as Tarja was returning from Harpocrates with an old medical journal she hoped would contain information about the curse, Otto spotted her about to ascend to her infirmary and called her over to Charon’s stall.

“How are they?” he asked.

“They’ve only arrived this morning, Otto. There’s nothing much to report except that they’re sound asleep.”

“That they could sleep is enough cause for joy, I’d say,” Charon said with a huff.

True, Tarja had to concede, even if that sleep was induced by the sedative drug she had administered. The girl Otto had brought wouldn’t stop squirming while Shiva — Jill — had looked like she was at death’s door. It was all Tarja could do to steady her pulse and breathing. And once her condition had stabilized enough, she’d begun to mutter, tossing and turning and reopening the wounds Tarja had only finished stitching. At least now they could sleep peacefully to let their bodies heal.

“Your girl is coming along well,” Tarja decided to say. “Her wounds aren’t too deep. A few days’ rest, and she’ll be as chipper as a morning bird, though her limp may remain. Jill, however…”

“Are her wounds grave?” Charon asked.

“I don’t know what those Ironbloods subjected her to, but judging from how far her curse had progressed, I can imagine how many times she had to prime. Possibly under duress too. Not to mention the wounds she retained from her fight with Titan.”

She’d need time to properly heal. They had brought her in, covered in blood and grime. After Tarja had finished washing her face, it had surprised her how young Jill had looked. She could be younger than her.

“Cid tells me Clive — the new guy — seems promising.” Otto huffed a long, suffering breath. “I hope he’s right. I’m all for his creed, but this crusade comes with a high price, and I’d rather see it done before any of them crumbles to dust.”

Tarja said nothing to that. She’d done her fair share of scolding. It seemed Otto and Charon had done the same.

She bid them farewell then went up to her infirmary just in time to see Jill break into sweats. She squirmed in her sleep. Tarja quickly administered another dose of calming medicine before dabbing a wet cloth across Jill’s face. She waited until the girl’s breathing evened out and the crease between her brows disappeared.

***

iv.

“For gods’ sake, Gav, if you force your way out of this cave in your bloodied state, I swear to Greagor I will strap you to a bed and you’ll not leave until I say otherwise!”

Her voice rose above the cacophony. Kupka had raided the hideaway not half a bell ago and now they were displaced at a cave system Cid had designated as their meeting point should things go awry. It was hidden enough, the entrance shrouded in shadows even in daylight. But if the cover of darkness didn’t hide them, she hoped the storm would, which, now that she thought about it, only intensified the chaos raging inside. Anguished cries and moans all around. It reminded her of the southern isles, being in her tent with her mentor. But her mentor wasn’t here; the entire hideaway only had her and Rodrigue to depend on.

Gav blinked his good eye at her. Good; she’d have preferred fear, but surprise was a fair alternative. She pushed him down to the makeshift bed and told him to lay down his head. How he wasn’t wailing in agony was beyond her. The blade had cut right through his eye.

“I need to stop the bleeding so you won’t bleed to death,” she said as she sat on the ground and dabbed his left eye with a gauze.

“An eye wound won’t kill me,” he countered with a laugh. Tarja pressed the gauze harder and made him yelp.

All at once, the din hushed into background noise. Quietly, she cleaned Gav’s wound and inspected the deep cut within. She stifled a sigh.

“You think Cid is alright?” Gav asked then.

“He has Clive and Jill with him. I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Yeah, but what if…”

Tarja pressed the gauze harder again, cutting his doubt short. She knew his concerns well — she’d lived with it all her life. Her role was to heal — to see the people who came to her infirmary leave in a better, healthier state. But what if that meant those same people would go running back to battle with swords and magick in hand? Living most of her life among soldiers and fighters, she’d grown to accept that the best thing she could hope for was that they would return with more wounds for her stitch.

“I can’t salvage your eye, Gav,” she said quietly.

She noted his stillness, his clenched jaws. His good eye stared straight ahead at the stone ceiling lit by dim torches. “Close it then.” He sounded unusually even, but his voice trembled right at the tail end. He cleared his throat. “Even without an eye, I’m still Cid’s best scout. Just you wait, once I’m out of bed, I’ll find the three of them and drag them back here.”

Tarja chuckled at that. She set the gauze down then picked up her surgery kit. “This’ll sting.”

“As if it could hurt more than it already does.”

Gav cracking jokes meant he still had vigor left in him. If only she could have his kind of positivity.

With a silent prayer to Great Greagor, Tarja applied anesthetics to him, then pushed her needle into his eye after the drugs kicked in.

***

The young lord of Rosaria lay prone on his bed, as well as the imperial prince if one could believe it. Tarja certainly hadn’t, but the moment Clive landed on the hideaway with two heavily wounded, barely conscious men, logic had gone out the window and she’d instructed every available man to help carry them to her chambers. The only reason she’d known it was the long-lost lord at all was because she’d spotted Phoenix in the distance carrying two distinct people on its claws. Now both of them lay still, quiet, the only signs of life being the steady rise and fall of their chests. “Bad state” was oversimplifying it, as she’d pointed to Clive the last time he came for a visit. His Imperial Highness was on the brink of losing his life; it’d be a miracle if he woke up at all. Joshua, however…

A pulsing purplish wound lay within a deep gash on his chest. Jote hadn’t been forthcoming when Tarja asked. Now the girl tended to her lord with as much dedication as was expected of an aide, but the tenderness with which she dabbed his face and cleaned his wounds seemed to speak of a hidden sentiment.

“How long have you been with his lordship?” she asked the girl.

Jote looked up, then stood from the bed. “Eighteen years, milady.”

“Since Phoenix Gate then?”

Jote nodded. The girl was not much of a talker ever since she arrived a few days ago. Tarja never pressed her, thought she’d return to her duty when neither of them said anything, but the flickering light from Joshua’s bedside table illuminated her contorted expression: a pursed lip and clenched jaw, her hands fisting on her robe.

“If I may, Lady Tarja,” she spoke, hesitant. “I have been by his lordship’s side for all my life, helped him achieve what others deemed impossible. I know what his lordship wants, what he dreams of. And yet this road he treads… its destination…”

Her voice drifted into silence. She cast her gaze to Joshua, and for the briefest of moments, Tarja caught a flicker of emotion crossed her features. It disappeared before she could fully grasp it but Tarja knew what she had seen: compassion.

She rose from her chair and strode to the bed. Joshua was sound asleep.

“He is always in pain,” Jote went on. “Wouldn’t take his medicine even under threat of his life.” Her voice was soft, strained. “Is it wrong of me to wish he would live?”

Tarja touched her shoulder gently. “Get some rest, Jote. I’ll watch them.”

“No, I—”

Tarja fixed her a stare; Jote couldn’t do anything but relent. After she left, Tarja moved her attention back to the young lord and drawled out a sigh. “You’re just as stubborn as your brother, you know that?”

Of course he knew; and of course Clive knew. If only they would listen to their physickers, take their medicines, and get the rest they needed. Her fingers twitched at the familiar words. Oh, how many times had they crossed her lips only to fall on deaf ears? Cid was one; and now Clive.

Could she save them from dying this time?

From the shadows of memory, her mentor’s words jabbed her mind like thorns: you can’t save everyone, Tarja.

She knew that, but it still left a bitter taste in her mouth.

***

vi.

A knock rapped on her door and Jill entered her premises.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Tarja said with a smile, warm, as warm as the pale sun outside she hoped, because that’s what Jill needed these days. Clive and the others had just departed. If there was anything more broken than the look she had the moment they turned their backs… Tarja couldn’t think what it was.

Now, at the very least, Jill looked chipper enough to offer a joke. “Can I not visit you without a cause?”

“The only time anyone visits the infirmary is when they have a stomach ache or a broken bone. Or when they need someone to give Torgal a bath.” That prompted a quick chuckle from her. Good, Tarja thought, but still it didn’t shake the shadow lingering within Jill’s eyes.

She closed her book and waved Jill over. Jill did so, shutting the door and moving to the cabinet beside Tarja’s desk. She looked at each and every jar, from herbs to flowers to scorpion stings and miteling eyes. She examined them, fiddled with them. Then she moved to the vials containing Tarja’s potions: cures for fever, allergies, stomach cramps, headaches. She found the tears of mercy Rodrigue had concocted a while ago and the vial Tarja had helped Jote make for Joshua’s escalating pain. When Tarja told her about it, Jill’s lips pulled taut.

“Have you ever thought about it, Tarja—” she began, “—whether there was anything more you could’ve done?”

Tarja stared at her. If there was one thing she’d learned in the past five years, it was noticing when Jill’s graceful, steadfast mask was one step away from shattering. She set her book down, fingers lingering on the fraying rim.

“I think about it a lot — about what I can do, how I can help. What with you lot going out and getting hurt every damn time.” She glanced at Jill; the girl was smiling. “But the thing about my occupation, Jill, is that there is nothing I can do if my patient decides they want to run off and save the world. So I do what I can, hoping it is enough for them to return to me so I can patch them up again.”

Jill was quiet for a moment. She placed the jar she’d been holding back on the cabinet. She hovered, then stepped back. “I—”

That was when Tarja noticed the tremble, first in her voice then in her hands. Jill’s breath shuddered and her knees gave out. She stumbled onto the bed. Tarja caught her the moment she hit the mattress.

“Tell me what to do, Tarja.” Her harsh whisper seared Tarja’s ear. She clung to her, shoulders quaking, fingers digging deep and refusing to let go. “I wish I’d gone with him. I wanted to go with him. But—”

Her hand reflexively covered her belly. Tarja hadn’t quite noticed it until then, but Jill’s stomach had subtly grown. She whipped her head up, seeking Jill’s eyes; but Jill was too far gone. Tears streamed her face. Her features twisted in anguish.

“I told myself everything would be fine as long as I had him. But now he’s gone, and I don’t know what to do.”

***

vii.

Jill was with child. She made Tarja promise not to tell anyone. And Tarja didn’t. Not even when a commotion broke outside. Or when Gav barged into her infirmary, hauling a body between two men, badly beaten and cut with the entire left arm almost completely lithified and crumbling.

They’d found Clive somewhere on the shores of Ash. Everyone had thought him dead, but a moon of tireless search finally bore them fruit, even if it wasn’t what they had hoped for.

“He’s still alive! He’s breathing,” Gav said.

Indeed, but his skin was too cold, too pale, his pulse too shallow. Had it been any other time, Tarja would have pronounced him lost. There was nothing she could do. Clive was already at death’s door.

“Can you save him?” Mid asked.

She was no god. She had limits to her abilities.

But it didn’t stop her from ordering everyone to clear the room, make a fire, and bring all the blankets and water they could spare.

Another moon of dogged perseverance — that’s what it boiled down to: stubborn tenacity. Tarja spent a lot of her time with Harpocrates, scouring tomes and medical journals for anything that could hint on what ailed Clive and how to heal him. She spent her time in the backyard where Nigel grew more and more medicinal herbs. With the mothercrystals gone and aetherfloods receding, new life had begun to crop up in places where the Blight had taken over the land.

And yet, even through all that, Tarja couldn’t shake the words her mentor once uttered to her: We are no gods, Tarja. We do not save people.

Tarja stood in her infirmary alone. She had just managed to pry Jill away from Clive’s bed, telling her to rest. It wouldn’t do well for the baby if the mother was worn out. Her belly had begun to show. Soon, everyone would know.

The sun was setting, casting a strange orange glow on her chambers. Before Clive left for Origin, he had come to her and promised her that it would be the last time he’d leave on an impossible mission. She knew he had pretty much meant it; except, she and everyone else had also known that he might not come back at all, the buffoon.

Tomes lay scattered over her desk along with mortars and vials and grounded herbs. The medicines she’d administered had managed to stabilize him, which, in another case, would’ve been enough to ease her mind. But in the days that followed where she would only need to wait for the patient to regain consciousness, Clive remained asleep.

“Have you had enough, Clive? Is that it?” she quietly asked. Jill had said that she was ready — that if there was nothing more that Tarja could do, perhaps it was time to call it enough.

Tarja returned to her workstation to gather his afternoon medicines. Sitting beside his bed, she touched his wrist. Warm. His pulse drummed — shallow but steady. Countless times had her eyes wandered to the glimmering substance of Elysia sitting on the shelf above her desk. While she had the authority to announce when a case was lost, how could she do it when the man was still breathing, his body receptive to food and drugs? Was that not sign enough that Clive was still holding on?

Setting the vials, spoons, and bowls on the bedside table, Tarja slowly trickled a dose of each medicine down his mouth then washed them away with spoonfuls of water. Sometimes, the only thing she could do was alleviate someone’s pain, and perhaps that was all she was doing now. But if there were still gods who could answer her prayers, she would wish that they’d be merciful. That they’d let this man — this poor man who’d done so much, who’d lost and regained and sacrificed everything in order for them to live — live, and, perhaps, see the birth of his own child.

That, she prayed with her heart.

~ END ~

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robo-writing · 1 year ago

Note

hi, can I request headcanons for boys from ff16 when they are jealous of their lovers? I really like your headcanons so much, thanks for it!!❤️

This took me so long to do, I don’t have access to a computer rn so I had to type this on my phone, super weird experience. Anyway, hope you enjoy and I hope mobile doesn’t screw up the formatting! 🙏

Clive Rosfield

He tries to keep it inside but he’s not subtle at all. He’s in a foul mood, doesn’t respond like he normally would and gives you one word answers. He never takes his anger out on you, but watching strangers hit on you just makes him upset. (He’s NOT jealous, he’s just protective.) Trusts you but not other men.

You’re an attractive woman, he tells you as such every day, but to see men flock to you is a different story.

“What’s your name? I haven’t seen a pretty lass like you around here.”

You’re far too kind for your own good, entertaining their questions while Clive stands aside and brews in his annoyance. An ugly feeling rises through him as he watches the scene unfold, and his legs carry him without warning when one of them asks you if you have a man waiting for you at home.

Before you can answer Clive stands behind you, chest puffed out. “Yes, she does.”

The mans face contorts from laid-back to frightful, taking his leave at the sight of the much larger man at your side. You can’t help but laugh when you turn to meet his gaze, his eyes softening at the sight of you.

“Someone’s jealous.” You tease, smiling as you do. He doesn’t answer right away, leaning over you and placing his hands at your sides.

A smirk graces his features as he speaks.

“Jealous? You must be mistaken.” He rumbles. “That would imply he had a chance to begin with.”

Joshua Rosfield

He gets pouty, makes it known that he doesn’t approve but you make sure to calm him down, hold him close and reassure him that you’re not leaving his side, not now and not ever.

Perhaps a bit insecure, he can’t help but get upset at the latest man to try and vie for your affection. You shoo him away, but the amount of times you’ve had to do so makes him worried. What if one day you don’t send them away?

You walk over and see Joshua deep in thought, following his eyes they’re trained on the young man who was just talking to you.

You know him far better than anyone else, so when your eyes follow his line of sight it’s no surprise to you what your boyfriend is thinking.

You take his hand in your own as reassurance. “Joshua, you know you don’t have to worry, right?”

Your voice drags him from his thoughts. “I know love.”

His words and his body convey a different message, still staring off at the fleeting visage of the young man.

Sighing, with a shake of your head you open your arms, inviting him in for a gentle hug that he gladly takes. It’s as if the stress leaves his body the moment you hold him tight.

“I’m not going anywhere baby, that’s a promise.”

Cidolfus Telamon

Rarely gets jealous, but on the off chance he does it’s very obvious, and he doesn’t try to hide it either.

You and your fellow bearers are celebrating a job well done at Martha’s Keep, with Cid close by you, sharing in the merriment. When his glass runs empty he leaves you to go ask for a refill, in which time a young man takes his place next to you.

You two chat about nothing really, idle conversation, but you do talk for a while, which was enough for Cid to bring himself close to you as you spoke.

“Darling, you didn’t tell me you made a new friend while I was gone.” He says in a deep voice before turning his attention towards the young man.

A hand at your hips pulls you closer into his warm body, suddenly very aware that you are in public and Cid is currently pressing himself against your back.

The two men make idle chatter, none of which you register, too focused on the small circles he draws against your skin, and the low rumble of his voice beside your ear.

Deep in conversation, he pulls up a seat, and then pulls you into his lap in a smooth motion. You squeal in shock, and the young man seems more and more uncomfortable with each passing moment. After a while he excuses himself, leaving as Cid waves him away.

“Gone so soon? Such a shame, he was nice to talk to.” He says to you, not apologetic in the slightest.

You roll your eyes and lean your head on his shoulder with a sigh. “I never took you for the jealous type.”

He presses a kiss to your cheek in response. “You bring out the worst in me darling. Take it as a compliment.”

Barnabas Tharmr

Lord help anyone who even so much as looks at you, much less tries to talk to you. He is very possessive, and if you’re in a relationship with him know that he will protect you from anyone and anything.

You’ve enjoyed the ball so far, indulging in the tasteful wines and elegant music. Your husband is not with you, but he is close by. Even though he is not one for celebration, he enjoys the sight of you happy.

Your mood is then soured by an older man, flushed and slightly swaying. It’s clear that he’s had far too much to drink.

There’s a crooked smile on his face as he makes his way to you, introducing himself as Lord…something or other. You don’t bother to pay attention as he rambles, most of it unrecognizable under his liquor-borne accent. You try to tell him kindly that you have a husband, that he wouldn’t like you talking to him, but he’s far too deep in his glass to pay your warnings any mind.

Barnabas catches a glimpse from the corner of his eye, ever watchful of his most prized possession, and the sight irritates him. But a drunk fool is little cause for concern, so he does nothing.

It’s only when the man gets bold enough to place a hand on your shoulder do you see, or rather feel Barnabas’s reaction, almost as if the room has grown several degrees colder. He slowly steps towards you, a welcome sight to your sore eyes. Immediately the other man backs away, looks between the two of you and slowly pieces together why the king is suddenly doting on you.

He apologizes, bows his head and runs away with his tail between his legs. Barnabas only smiles at his retreating figure, and makes no move to follow.

The moment he leaves the air is somewhat calm again, but you know your husband far better than to assume he would forgive and forget.

You kiss his cheek tenderly before speaking. “He was drunk. I’m fine.”

There's a rumble of appreciation from the warden of darkness before he replies. “He dared touch you.”

His hand moves over your shoulder, the same spot where the nobleman's hand formerly laid and his eyes darken. “Dared to lay his hands on my queen, my wife.”

His tone becomes more and more sinister the longer he speaks about the man, eerily calm. “What kind of husband would I be to let him walk away freely?”

“I am fine.” you reiterate. A hand at his chest and the anger leaves his face in an instant. “You will not hurt him. Are we clear?”

As much as you loved his possessive nature, you’d rather not make a scene tonight.

A sigh, his eyes fall to you as he relents. “Only because you asked nicely.”

Gav

Almost confrontational in a way, if he sees you getting flirted with he doesn’t hesitate to pull you close and tell the guy to fuck off. He’s very proud that you’re in a relationship with him, and isn’t afraid to show that in the slightest. He’s also a bit of a drama queen.

You’re in the markets buying some supplies for the hideaway when a salesman whistles for your attention. You resist the urge to roll your eyes at his behavior before turning around, the man gesturing to his wares.

“All exclusive, very rare herbs and essentials darling.” He says, and the nickname makes your stomach turn. Only one man is allowed to call you that.

Ignoring him, you notice that he actually has a few items you need, albeit a bit overpriced. When you ask, he gives you a smirk and leans closer, and you instinctively lean farther back.

“For a pretty lady such as yourself, I’d be willing to give you a discount,” he drawls, taking the time to look you up and down.

Your eye twitches. You get ready to leave but a familiar head of blonde quickly moves between you and the salesman.

“Piss off!” Gav yells, giving him a nasty look as he pulls you away. “She’s not interested, yeah? Go find some other poor sod to harass.”

They throw various insults between each other, each one worse than the one before. You have to sit back and admire the display, Gav sure can be creative when it comes to cursing. At one point he called the salesman a “morbol-breathed wanker” and you nearly lost it.

Eventually you manage to pull him away before the guards are called, and only when you two are far enough away does he show his concern.

“He didn’t try anything did he?” He asks in a thick accent. “ ‘m sorry lovie, I was gone for a second—”

A smile spreads across your face, kissing him into silence. He reciprocates instantly, still holding onto your waist when you pull away.

“Don’t be sorry for defending me, okay? But I think maybe we should get going now before the guards come looking.”

He nods in agreement, holding your hand as the two of you make your way to the docks. “I’d fight him for you, y��know that?”

“Of course darling, I know,” you laugh, his own mixing with yours. “But let’s try not to get arrested, okay?”

#robo writes #ask #final fantasy xvi #Clive Rosfield #clive rosfield fluff #Joshua Rosfield #joshua rosfield fluff #Cidolfus Telamon #cidolfus telamon fluff #barnabas tharmr #barnabas tharmr fluff #gav #ffxvi gav #hoping praying this shows up well on desktop because tumblr mobile is well #hell

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