#i am incredibly soft for aly and uri's friendship

[roguelioness]

in this land of broken stars

Fandom: FFXIV Pairing: Alyzen Kaide & Urianger Augurelt Rating: T Words: 1672

(Read on ao3)

Even now, weeks after the defeat of Lakeland's Lightwarden, the people of the Crystarium still celebrate the return of the night sky. Fewer in number than that first day perhaps, but the looks of awe and wonder on their faces is a sight Alyzen will never tire of.

She stares at the sky herself, at the myriad constellations, so similar, yet so different to the sky that covers the place she calls home. The stars, as Urianger had described it, gleam like diamonds scattered across a rich velvet robe. Their light is gentle and kind, so unalike the harsh, relentless brutality of the Light that scoured the rest of the land; it’s incredible to think that this was hidden behind that nigh-impenetrable veil of lucence. 

At her next inhale, claws of acid rake her insides. Her vision blurs and she stumbles, hand pressed desperately hard to her chest. Whatever is within her presses against her nerves, attempts to gnaw on her bones, and it is only her stubborn refusal to give into it that drives it back.

When the pain recedes, she exhales, and fear rushes in, panic fuelling the rapidity of her pulse. Something is happening to her, she knows it, and yet no one will give her answers. Worse, she cannot even talk about it with her companions, for they would worry and fret. What they have to accomplish is too important for them to stop and search for answers.

She scoffs, frustrated and despairing. What else is new? This is how it has always been; her nature as a weapon far more valuable than her status as a person.

But this new kind of pain – whatever it is – in this new, unknown place frightens her enough to seek out answers. 

She finds Urianger in the Cabinet of Curiosity, seated at ones of the tables furthest away from the main entrance. As she’d expected, a plethora of tomes are stacked neatly atop the wooden surface, the man himself poring over a particularly thick, leather-bound volume. Alyzen smiles at the sight of his pale hair, no longer hidden by a hood. Norvrandt has changed him, and she is pleased for it, gladdened at how he’s grown in both confidence and self-assuredness.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you?” she asks, a hand resting on the back of an empty chair.

Urianger looks up at her and smiles. “Thine company is ever welcome,” he leans over to adjust the chair so she can sit. “Should thee not retire and partake of slumber? Thine struggle with Rak’tika’s Lightwarden was most arduous.” 

“I could not sleep,” she murmurs, her eyes taking in the book titles but not really registering them. “Too many thoughts in my head, I suppose.”

“Wouldst thou share them with me, so I may attempt to lessen thy burden?”

She gives a wan little half-smile and shrugs. “What Emet-Selch said, about those murals… do you think he was telling the truth?”

Urianger carefully marks his place in the book with a thin strap of leather before shutting it close and setting it aside. “I knoweth not what to believe,” he clasps his fingers together. “To hearken such a somber tale doth disquieten me indeed. Never would I perpend mineself of harboring any sympathy for mine enemy, and yet I find myself pondering over the Ascian’s words. Nevertheless, I balk at the veritable discord his kind hath sown, and the countless deaths they hath contributed to. Certain am I that our path is true.”

“You’re right,” she murmurs. “If the Ascians are truly tempered to Zodiark, I suppose it makes sense that they are driven to act as they are. Still, I am surprised that he’s aware that he is tempered, and yet chooses to act the way he does instead of finding a way to break the tempering.”

“He hath made his choice. ‘Tis most futile to scout for the reasoning behind it.”

They fall into an easy silence. Aly idly thumbs through the book nearest to her while Urianger returns to his perusal of his tome. The question is on the tip of her tongue – what is happening to me? – and yet she can’t seem to find the courage to push it out. 

It’s only when a bladed ribbon of pain curls around her rib that she’s able to blurt it out, though not as elegantly as she’d hoped. “I overheard you and Y’shtola talking.” When he stiffens but doesn’t look at her, she continues in a ramble, “About me. About the aether I have been absorbing. That’s why she thought I was a sineater at first, isn’t it? There’s something wrong with me, Urianger, and we both know it.”

“I–”

“Don’t try to pretend it isn’t there,” she hates that her voice is cracking, hates even more that she can feel the tears build up behind her eyes. “She told me about it. Is that why it– why it hurt after I killed Rak’tika’s Lightwarden? Why it sometimes feels as though there’s something inside me that wants to devour me? Please, Urianger,” she places a hand on his arm, her fingers gripping onto him as though he were a lifeline, “will you not tell me what’s happening to me?”

His gaze, when it meets hers, is deeply troubled. Urianger hesitates a moment before placing his hand atop hers. “It grieveth me most deeply to deny thine request,” his voice holds within in a plea for her to understand, “Know that I doth not refuse thee for malice. There are forces at play that need must be navigated with the utmost of caution–” he trails off, breaking away from her eyes.

Aly wants to cry. Her fingers curl into her palm, nails biting into the skin, and the bite of pain holds her steady. She has to clear her throat and take in a deep breath before she can continue; it’s a challenge, but she’s pleased with how she’s able to keep her voice low and calm and even. “You will not tell me, even when it’s affecting my life? When there’s a chance I might die? There are two more Lightwardens I must slay, Urianger,” she beseeches, “at least allow me the comfort of knowing what is happening to my own body so I might prepare for it.”

His head droops to hang between his shoulders. “Forgive me, my friend, but I cannot grant thee thine request, though thou art deserving of elucidation.” There’s anguish in the depths of his eyes when he’s able to look at her again. “Pray, do not quit thy faith in me. Upon mine honor, I vow that I will do naught to misplace thine trust.”

She wants to be mad at him. She wants to rage at him, to scream and pour out the entirety of her fear and her stress and her anger at being used this way, at constantly being used as a weapon, at how little of a person she’s become ever since the mantle of Warrior of Light was laid across her shoulders, but… what is the point? He is not to blame for all that has befallen her. It’s not his fault that her life is the way it is. In all the years she’s known him, her trust in him has never faltered, not even when she knew him to be working with the Warriors of Darkness.

Even if she dislikes his secrecy, she still trusts him.

Even if it means his lack of answers might lead to her death.

“I trust you,” she says, very quietly, her unshed tears clogging her throat. He looks so distressed she has half a mind to reassure him, but her own fear and anxiety have left her jittery and shaky. Still, she’s unable to keep herself from being just a little spiteful, just a little petty. “I trust you.” She pauses a second, then adds, “Like Minfilia trusted you.”

Alyzen takes no pleasure in the way he flinches.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs again, his head bowed so low his forehead nearly meets the table.

Her heart aches at his hurt, at the way he seems to have resigned himself to being painted a villain, and she regrets her pointed barb. None of this is his fault; he is as much a mummer in this play as she is. Has he not always watched out for her, aided her in ways she did not know she needed help? He has never failed her in her moments of need. Though she might not know the reason for his secrecy, she cannot deny that his schemes, elaborate as they are, have been for the greater good. Placing a hand on his shoulder, Aly gives it a gentle squeeze as an apology for her unwarranted cruelty. “I already have,” she says softly. “I do trust you, Urianger. I always have. I always will.”

“All shall be laid bare with time,” he says, grave and somber. “Know that I dislike this concealment as keenly as you. For the sake of this world, and our own, must I keep mine own confidence, even should it inspire mine allies to displace their belief.” 

She knows he’s referring to Y’shtola, and she doesn’t know what to say, for she knows as well as he does that Y’shtola is deeply suspicious of both the Exarch and Urianger’s silence. “We’ll figure it out,” she says, in an attempt to console him. “You are not alone.”

He tilts his head to press his cheek against her hand, his shoulders rising and falling with the force of his sigh. Aly awkwardly strokes his hair with her free hand, half-expecting him to pull away, but he does not; instead, he takes the hand on his shoulder between his own, clasping it like he’s attempting to shield it – shield her – from all she is yet to face.

There's no need for words – they stay there in silence, the warrior of light and her friend, each offering the other comfort in the way they know best.