#it had to be hearthward

[blackestnight]

Hearthward

written for the @drkzine​ fanzine! check out their tumblr (or twitter) for information on the zine.

Also on Ao3!

Sid was still, in a way, petulantly proud of how long he had held out. The recruiters had come through their neighborhood a half-dozen times, armed with charming smiles and cartloads of parchment and promises of cheap, warm housing—none of which he would trust as far as he could throw it. He supposed they’d run into similar resistance from the other residents of the Brume, because after the first time the Firmament workers had come with help, mostly outsiders at that: assessors from La Noscea, traders and lawyers from Gyr Abania and Thanalan, even a handful of Gridanian researchers. Plain folk who spoke in plain language, learned enough to make sense of the dense stacks of contracts, but without much in the way of interest in lining the pockets of the High Houses. A smart play, made smarter by the crews sent down from the Pillars to start shoring up the crumbling walls that lined the roads of the lower city.

There had been a time when Sidurgu would have taken death over a handout from any of the Holy See’s knights. Never mind that the engineers and the artisans sent by the Congregation and the High Houses weren’t knights; they were paid from the same coffers, ordered by the same masters, and if it walked like a chocobo and squawked like a chocobo he wasn’t about to let it claw him in the gut. But then the Archbishop had gotten run through by a heretic outlander and the city and the church that was crawling from the wreckage of the aftermath was, to its credit, trying. Mostly. At the very least he spent more time these days wetting his blade on beasts for coin than on men for retribution.

He still wasn’t about to trust a roof that the Holy See put over his head, not when he had a home already, the one that was his and Rielle’s, and had been his and Fray’s before that, and their master’s before them. It was small and the draft that crept through in the mornings had long ago disabused him of the notion of the existence of any merciful gods, but it was his and it was safe.

Rielle had called him stubborn, which was hardly new. The Warrior had called him paranoid, which was rich coming from them, even softened by a smile and a clap on the shoulder. But they hadn’t pushed him.

And then a week of warm, heavy snowfall had swept through Ishgard, dense drifts of white smothering the streets, and the timbers of the poor beleaguered roof had begun to sag, pushed to their limit by age and disrepair. The Warrior had put their foot down. Stop being ridiculous, Sid, they’d said, and one of the carpenters from the Shroud had grimaced when she looked at the state of the wall framing, rotted from moisture and age, and for all that Sid still didn’t trust any handout from a noble he wasn’t about to get a roof dropped on his and Rielle’s heads either.

At least he could take comfort in the fact that the Firmament would promise better views than the underside of the same ramshackle scaffolding. And it wasn’t as though it would be the first time that he would have to remake a home after having the walls ripped down around him. That part, he had a lifetime of practice with.

—

The sign on the Skybuilder’s Board said the little house was classified as a cottage, according to the builders. It was built narrow and dug in deep to the foundations, as was the tradition in Ishgard, with a small upper room and a basement meant for more living space.

It was easily three times the size of the house Ompagne had left behind, and the space felt cavernous. He had considered an apartment, at first, but as little as he fancied the move at all he was less keen on having nothing but a flimsy wall between him and his neighbors, and Rielle had lit up at the chance for more space.

She’s a growing girl, the Warrior had said, with a laugh. She needs room. Never mind that when Sid had been her age he’d been packed elbow-to-arsecheek with Fray and their master, and none of them had ever complained about it.

Those first weeks, Ompagne had tried his best to allow Sid his distance, to grant him room to grieve. Sid had shivered alone in the mattress on the floor set out just for him, feeling unbearably small and cold in the dark and the silence where a campfire and his family should have been, until one night the harsh moonlight through the window had chased him to curl into a trembling ball against Ompagne’s back. It had been better once Fray had joined them, the two of them sharing the lumpy mattress and the tangled blankets even after the sight of the open sky had stopped bringing Sid dreams of funeral pyres.

These houses came furnished, after a fashion; there were massive warehouses near the Mendicant’s Court with stockpiles of beds and tables and cookware and curtains, and even more adventurers and artisans churning out more, ready to hand out at the first asking. Rielle had sprinted down the stairs as soon as he’d unlocked the door and had promptly claimed a bedroom for herself, the one with the single high window that looked over the slope of the street and the spires of the city walls—and then promptly barred him from entering, instead enlisting the Warrior’s help to carry down the pieces of her new bed, still reeking of sawdust. The intermittent sounds of scraping and hammering from below washed over him while he busied himself with inspecting the crates of sundries a passing Skybuilder had dropped by the gate with a jaunty wave. Sachets of tea, bundles of uncooked pasta, candles, rolls of twine, crystal shards and bags of charcoal—enough to stock the cabinets for weeks to come.

Even with the table (bigger than the one he had grown up using, the one he and Fray had carved their initials into the underside of when he was ten) and the chairs (four of them, more than he’d ever had use for) the little kitchen seemed to echo when he moved. The stove was a modern thing, a range and an oven, nothing like the corner stove that had heated the whole house when Sid had been a child. The brass gleamed in the light from the hearth—one for every room, another modern contrivance to combat the permanent frost. The light flickered and pooled on the varnish coating the table.

(One massive table, four chairs, all so much, so strange—)

Still not enough to fill the rattling spaces in the house, not nearly enough to make the walls stop feeling too distant no matter where he stood, and it was still too much. Half a moon’s worth of groceries and a cartload of furniture and a building, still reeking of plaster with sun shining through clean, new windows, and the gil didn’t add up to any more than he’d spent during those moons when he and Rielle had lived out of the Knight, back when their old street hadn’t been safe—

And somehow he was supposed to believe they wouldn’t make up the cost by taking it out of his hide.

The stair tread managed to creak when the Warrior stepped on it—purposefully, probably, they knew well how Sidurgu hated being startled—and they rounded the corner onto the first-floor landing. “Rielle says she doesn’t need help unpacking,” they informed him, jovial. “Kicked me out as soon as the heavy lifting was done, of course.” The light tone and laughter buried in their smile lines belied the complaint, so Sid only scoffed at the comment and white-knuckled the crate of amenities.

“So she likes it, then,” he muttered, bundling the extra candles back into their crate.

“Seems to.” The Warrior dragged a box to the other end of the table, the contents rattling with the movement, and began to sort it into piles. “She mentioned painting. I’m sure she’d let you help if you asked—there’s got to be someone selling paint at one of the stalls. You could pick colors for the other rooms, too.”

Sid glanced around despite himself. There were an impressive number of windows, letting sunlight stream through the doorways and glow on the clean white walls that still smelled faintly of plaster.

“I suppose,” he said, even if he couldn’t fathom marking up the walls, or scuffing the unmarked furniture. “I don’t really see the point.”

“Don’t sound too excited.” The Warrior had such a strange way of expressing themself, most of their emotion restrained to little quirks of their mouth and brows, and the shadow Sid saw on their otherwise placid face seemed almost—concerned. “Not that there’s anything wrong with builder-grade decor, but it just doesn’t seem like…you.”

Of course it doesn’t, he almost said. This shiny new house in its shiny new neighborhood had nothing to do with him. But he had no desire to invoke the Warrior’s scrutiny, so he only said, “What would be?”

They tapped their finger against their chin, which was a sure sign that whatever came out of their mouth next would be utter bullshite. “Black walls with glowing red levin everywhere,” they said. “And a couple of those Moogle lamps they’re giving out at the Mendicants’ Court.”

Sid obligingly threw a handful of packing paper at their head, and they ducked, cackling, which meant that they weren’t asking Sid to explain what he thought would fit. Which was fine, because the answer was a home that’s no good to anybody anymore, which was no kind of answer at all.

—

Settling from one house to another involved a lot of in-and-out. Sid had never thought of himself as a hoarder, and he wasn't, but there were still plenty of things he found himself making space for that weren’t really for him. There was a whole box of books—journals, mostly, left over from Ompagne and Fray, some books on conjury and magical theory and whatever else. He remembered being bent over the oldest of those by candlelight as a teenager, memorizing and tracing runes before his master would ever let him touch a soul crystal. He’d mostly abandoned them after working through the basics of the dark arts—Sid learned best by doing. Fray had been the one who’d kept at the books and scrolls, far more gifted with the magical aspects than Sid had ever been and damnably focused to boot, drawing sigils against the tabletop with the handle of his fork during meals.

There was the shiny new table for Sid to not use (too big, too bland, not his, not stained and scuffed with decades of living scratched into the varnish) but the Skybuilders hadn’t provided shelves, so he had to go hunting—the streets were dizzying, elezen and hyurs hawking their wares, residents and travelers wandering the stalls, even dragonets perching on lampposts or swooping over gates.

He supposed the good thing about all the Firmament houses being publicly built at the same time and in the same style was that there was no shortage of artisans clustered in the streets spilling out from the Mendicants’ Court, huddled in makeshift workshop tents; before long Sid was able to find a carpenter who was methodically churning out rows of identical shelves, small enough that he didn’t need help to carry it back to the cottage, even if he felt a tad ridiculous hauling a bookshelf on his back instead of a greatsword.

But settling from one house to another required a lot of in-and-out, so although he shouldn’t have been, he was still just slightly shocked when he opened the door and called “Rielle?” only to be met with silence echoing off the too-perfect white walls. He set the shelf on its feet and made his way through the upper floor, noting the crackling hearths and the too-clean kitchen table—

And the note, Rielle’s handwriting and a little smiling doodle from the Warrior. Be back soon!

Of course.

The house echoed while he moved around, hauling the new shelf to the little sitting room and dragging in boxes of books, which smelled like old leather and dust and home instead of plaster and paint; he’d just emptied the first box when the door creaked open and Rielle said, “Sid, can you help us?” Her voice echoed in the particular hollow way of a space without people to fill it. “This is heavy.”

“Aye,” he said, feeling somewhat hollow himself, and pushed to his feet. “What is it?”

Past the kitchen, and the front entrance was suddenly crowded with Rielle and the Warrior, both of them flushed and grinning and struggling to find a way to tilt something massive and dark through the doorway—

It was the kitchen table. His kitchen table.

Only—not exactly. The legs were shorter, and even while Sid gaped and stood there uselessly the Warrior and Rielle managed to twist it so the last two legs came through and they could lower it down. “Finally,” Rielle said, fanning her face—the thing probably weighed as much as her—”Gods, that’s heavy.”

“You…” There was no good end to any sentence Sid could think of. You didn’t have to carry it here in the first place? That was more likely to earn him a tantrum than anything. But there was no good explanation for it either.

“Sid, your face will get stuck like that eventually,” the Warrior said, bordering on smug.

“What face?” he said, despite the fact that he was undoubtedly making a face, because…because Rielle was happy here, in this glittering new house, in this shiny new life, and he couldn’t imagine what would convince her to cajole the Warrior into dragging a beaten-up old table halfway across the Firmament. “What did you do?”

Rielle blew her bangs out of her face. “Well, the legs were a bit wobbly, and it’s really too small for a real dining table, especially if we want to have friends over. But it’s still perfectly good. The Warrior said it would make a nice coffee table, and…” She paused, glancing at the floor. “And they said in Othard, people eat sitting on the floor at tables like these, so when we don’t have people here we can still use it just like old times. If you want to.”

Sid looked at her, and at the table, the old-new table with its gleaming new legs and its scuffed-up top, with the stain from Ompagne’s sword polish and the burn mark where Sid had once set a boiling kettle, and the neat scratches along one edge where Rielle had marked out a makeshift ruler for cutting fabric when she’d fixed her coat sleeves last winter, and somewhere under all of that Sid’s initials, and Fray’s, gouged into the bottom, living remains of their patchwork history. An old thing, given new purpose. Changing with the times.

He supposed that was what Dark Knights were meant to do.

“All right,” he said, met with Rielle’s smile. “Tell me where to put it.”

[efrmellifer]

Hearthward

Etien hadn’t saved Ishgard for the lauding and honor it bestowed upon her; she had no great attachment to the fact that people whispered “Savior of Ishgard” as she walked by. She accepted it as a title, as a reflection of the truth and what history would pass down. But she didn’t do it to see her name in the history books.

And she didn’t help to restore the Firmament for praise, either. As much as it seemed to surprise people, Ishgard was her home now. She lived among its people, and wanted to do her part to make sure everyone was living in the comfort she was, or something close.  

So she appreciated Francel’s words of thanks and the way everyone said how instrumental she was to the endeavor—she had put in a considerable amount of work in the Diadem, as much as she could in her condition. But all she could do was thank people in return.

She much preferred the secret concert being planned. That, at least, she could actively engross herself in, as a musician and all.

It was only a by a stroke of luck that Etien had even been in the Firmament for it. She knew that the works had been completed, though she had been too tired for the last tasks that had been completed the night before.

So when Aymeric had told her that unfortunately, their Valentione’s celebrating was going to be put on hold because there was just too much work that he had to catch up, she had decided to go look around at the finishing touches that had been put on the Firmament while she had slept that night.  And that was when she had been drawn into the miniature symphony of the Risensong Quarter.

Piano wasn’t her forte, but with a little practice, Etien felt confident she could perform Artoirel’s composition well enough to complement Francel’s playing and the rest of the players, whoever they would turn out to be.

So she was thrilled to find that Handeloup and Emmanellain would be with her on the stage. As they all took their places, herself and Francel ascending the stairs there in Saint Roelle’s Dais, she scanned the crowd.

Etien recognized faces she’d seen in the Pillars and Foundation alike, saw Edmont, Artoirel, and Honoroit waving to her and Emmanellain (after all, there was much of House Fortemps in this symphony). She hadn’t expected to see Aymeric, knowing that he was likely still shut up in his office, pen scratching away at some piece of paperwork, but her heart sank and her smile faltered just a little.

Ah, well. The time was coming for the show to begin. She took a seat on her piano’s bench, nodded to Francel, and then Mariorie, and set her fingers on the keys.

When the performance was over, they all rose and took their bows, everyone looking around the crowd again.

Etien gave a ladylike wave back to the Fortemps assembly, making up for before, when her mind had been on other things, and then she heard a familiar cheer among the applause.

Even if she’d wanted to keep her focus off him, she couldn’t have. She loved him too much, always wanted to see him when she had the chance; it had been that way for going on four years now and she didn’t anticipate it changing.

Her eyebrows lifted and a giddy grin tugged at her lips as she finally turned her head to see Aymeric standing below the dais, enthusiastically applauding the performance alongside his countrymen. The performers gave another bow, and dispersed from the dais, Emmanellain going to his father and brother, the others entering the crowd and disappearing into it.

Etien, however, made a beeline for Aymeric.

“You made it!” she cried, flinging herself into his arms.

When he let her go, her heels settling on the stones with a soft click, he cupped her cheek. “Of course I did. No one told Francel, but someone may have come running to my office to let me know you were about to take the stage… In any event, I will have to go back to all that soon, but if papers have the ability to get impatient, this would be the first I’ve heard of it.”

She giggled, hugging him again. “Thank you.”

“I would never have wanted to miss it. I’m only glad I did not.”

She rolled up onto her toes, supported in a loose wrapping of Aymeric’s arms, to give him a kiss. “All right, you can go back to work now, darling. Salmon for supper sound good?”

“It sounds wonderful, especially at the end of the kind of day it would appear I have before me. What a welcome break this was. I’ll see you at home, my dearest.”

“Goodbye for now!” she waved as he walked away, then went to talk to the rest of the crowd still assembled.

_

The table setting was simple, just with slightly better taper candles out, but Etien was proud of it. Simple was what they tended toward, anyway. Well, simple for the positions they held, she supposed. She rolled a napkin ring back and forth while she waited for the sound of the door.

At the scratch of the lock and the dull thud, she was out of her seat and rushing to the foyer to greet Aymeric.

“I promise you, I was going to come see you as soon as I had my coat and boots off,” he commented with a laugh, shrugging and kicking off the outer layers of his clothing. “But I must admit, I enjoy being met at the door.”

Etien laughed, heading to the dining room and pouring a glass of wine. She came back again toward the door with it to give to Aymeric, and they met in the middle, fingers brushing as the cup was passed between them.

“So was there still a lot of paperwork left when you got back?” she asked as they walked down the hall together.

“Unfortunately. I think it’s about time I make peace with the fact that it will never all be done at the end of the day anymore, and simply go from there.”

“That may be wise.” They say down. “But it’s nothing to worry about now.”

Aymeric reached across the table and squeezed Etien’s hand before she picked up her utensils. “No. You’re right. Tonight is about our happiness. All that comes off with our coats, when we hang up our weapons. Here, I am only yours.”

“Mine?” she asked, expression brightening.

“Yours.”

[libidomechanica]

‘Even it, I had never’

Love, and that wait the smiled thud thing us. Even it, I had never. Love. Desting the rules mop am on the death, and field tasted, did not secret reckoning of othere’s gone And you neight Of you how do fade and the summering or saw you how inst of a stump— stay, And I will what is that. Sang on my face,

and yet that woulder? Reciting days, I am Sitting in us, Love t adore by that love one own affecting and thee and this bore Since is thou neight There reach be do not alth all I darling, whenas Deathem, or semi-tones open, I love the diments that is you I sing and amidst to heat exceptance love The pass

Done her. Are as the ring, they maidens with the keeping new way! Who dear;and hold one he city is bird trappearls, Which, risinging of all romanly I cease. Holly-treet, risking lie hearthward a-wing the fire chatterness, and have here that is over thy eyes have plough food as wait, love is no seemed softly creep become for than fall damn near to immortal, and yet, I like at tear, All traitors, of which a ring, For ever is lie her

in rection heart Thing so go But more thing like my pleasurest; Or what melter. Lichen on they many managed sound, Be it came told love ther love And the rudely you, case, allay, setting You’ll lay tart. The expect and thin scorched

The love’s uselessence bring, not her mouth— sesame and close this knew was going in x-ray. Sweeti want Of close glowing from her mount upon me. My true. With grow to them so love lost, With shape, a bowling after, forgets of God! All now, list, hands of so allay, wants to a little way on the was a crush only I calent.

[blackestnight]

👀 👀 WIP Meme

i'm working on a "remix" of hearthward (my drk zine fic), which is much longer, actually featuring hanami instead of a generic nameless WoL, and dealing with a lot more themes springing from specifically having an au ra wol, starting with:

Hanami had shaken her head the first time she’d stayed the night in their little home, when he’d offered up his own mattress. Not like that, he’d said—sputtered—at the indignant curl of her lip, but she’d bundled herself in a blanket and stretched out on the bare floor anyway. I have slept in worse places. And the first night Rielle had sobbed herself awake, Hanami had still been out of her nest of fabric first, already through the door with one hand rubbing gentle patterns up and down Rielle’s back while the other had shooed Sid off to boil water for tea. Just like Fray. They’d always been better with kids than he was. Probably it helped that children of Ishgard weren’t raised to run screaming at the sight of their face. There had been a time when Sid had tried to make every good thing he could see in her a part of Fray, a part of the legacy they’d seared into the soul crystal she wore around her neck, or to blame her every success on the gods the rumors said pissed blessings on her head every time it rained. To make it make sense, the way she was better, stronger, had grasped the flame so clearly, had been greeted at the city gates with an outstretched hand rather than bared steel—

He’d learned better, eventually, than to be jealous of a legend. Myste had taught him that lesson well enough. Besides, he might have needed the flame explained to him by swiving moogles, but at least his grasp on his own heart had never slipped enough to let it spill over into a godsdamned ghost. Not without meddling from a ghost of her own, anyway.

and from a perpetually-in-progress sequel to the blackest night and the branded dawn:

“You remember the day I gave you this.” There was no question in her tone, only quiet consideration, so far removed from her usual ruthless assurance that it nearly induced vertigo. Still, the calluses on her fingers rasped against his forearm. The swirling line of runes seemed to shiver brighter at her touch, and the words darker, as though they might have settled into his skin like a permanent inkstain by the time she pulled away.

He couldn’t have forgotten if he’d tried. The sight of her gilded by the Ala Mhigan sunrise had been as awe-inducing as a prophet’s first vision of a god—to see her so in command of herself, of a power he could never hope to understand, induced in him a feeling akin to rapture. He had known her strength, had borne witness to her miracles, but to be touched by them was an entirely different thing.

“I do,” he said.

Her mouth pinched in a way he couldn’t read, not with her eyes still downcast, the gentle strokes of her fingertip outlining his arm. “When you asked me if you could hold my crystal,” she said, “I almost told you no.”

[blackestnight]

can I be extra crafty and fish for: "dice" >:) also "mune" "cook" "home" "warm"

HEHEHEHE.

from your (very) (oh my god i'm sorry) belated birthday fic, i know what you're doing you scoundrel:

Estinien reached into the fabric bag next to his drink, and the sheer number of dice he withdrew made Ninira flinch.

from a fic i'm realizing i will have to scrap and rewrite completely for the fourth fucking time:

Munehise shifted on his seat; his back hunched, like a string cut loose, and he abruptly looked back to the table.

from a fic i started for wondrous tails but then i got sick, so uh, yeah. also actually from your au!

Dinner duty is usually determined by who actually has the time to cook; tonight it’s on Sid, since Fray is busy at practice and Hanami has taken over the kitchen table with Rielle, most of the vinyl tabletop covered with notebooks and life science printouts and Hanami hunched over her battered laptop with a spreadsheet and a pinched expression.

from >:)

The five of them had to eat and drink and sleep in shifts, because every spare drop of time and magic they could wring out was spent on keeping Hanami alive long enough to get home.

and finally, from my remixed version of hearthward, which was triple the length of the "final" version for the zine before i added anything to it (and it's still not done):

It hadn’t been that hard to find, once Rielle ran up to a passing carpenter and asked for directions, though Sid guessed they would have been able to find it by sound alone if they’d waited long enough: there were a handful of people clustered at the base of the dais fiddling with violins and woodwinds, tuning or warming up or whatever it was they did—and there were indeed two hulking pianos set facing each other, the one on the left manned by the blue bastard himself, who seemed to be playing repetitive riffs while he squinted at a spread of papers in front of him.

[libidomechanica]

‘Of more’

Of more To tearing each else. You would stered little could with makes unless that softly memory the heart in the kiss

Of a flagrant the call beauteous I never and soon works on and in to me, you like it want restranged wanders a distand I Do equally anguish, Some pardscraping spring else in drivine heart of praction of two of a fondly corrupting truly sister That you at me. A magic momentities expressed, how teeth At more frience off to case, beauteous that diments brights afterings of abandon. You are size one way In thy as comely grace; The she she me and I have forbid?

My here we; After of the planet by the hums, I could now sheets mimic, wood, to fade… Until wears; Dropt in: Say I’m wit, nor no need’st love-light.

When drugs where Lived prunes. The still right stood buying About your or separately, was bring happens never knees wered To soothing butter to the hearthward last loved by a beauty I desires overnments one cares have before dange world thee for cash. Which its to simple the board, exceptance, a dearer flies, I, If the done effortitute But my hear, That hush, In them go in heart whisperiment I give none, oh, hide anythine; With problem scrabbited view, And the stand short-legged anywhere feath you love thief, All the Mermaid, You are You were your come other golden her blocks on the shores of weaves away. Loved?

With 15 differend have had and set, When for less— So your knew.

With your lips ta’en away.

[libidomechanica]

Untitled Composition # 270

The edge of then, nor sight of you are at the They land quietly a biochemy.  Dance Yet doom.

Falling the coupling of rich else come. “Seven.   Said, the Indiant aflame not here is you “To yields happearly expect would’s not humility

I am true white fear No Caspian grass were the been us the leave to one untinum looking to boss the coming shrubs, how I meat; My hearthward last the lagoon.

A book of grief. With you are sun And write human everyone

the show you.  I country and fair, the base many eden we with rubber/ gasoliness love to fate, peeled well And thee Permitted withough a glaze in find with Loved thy center arms I heaves to reach else could house was for with soft thouse’s in. Mexicance Yet, if by for no dreamer, so you?

Cherry planet flowers across thick whereby, And said; Here.

To the shake breat is true mine, as wide my heart, have hearts folds of night, but where to you had the gnawing can tell tell my heard lay use the base of spring up.