#it is never not crying about haurchefant hours

[anneapocalypse]

This scene also really does things to me because Haurchefant knows a thing or two about living trapped by other people's expectations and accidents of one's birth. He's just coming at it from a different direction. But he knows about needing to find one's own way, to prove oneself but on one's own terms.

I feel like he's a really good friend for Alphinaud and I like to think of the talks they could have had offscreen.

'Tis all my doing... I believed myself the only one who truly understood Eorzea's woes. And look what that arrogance has wrought. So, Master Alphinaud, are you content to remain a broken blade? Is there no flame hot enough to reforge you?

[yloiseconeillants]

for the cursed ship memery, but based entirely around what potentially boggles the brain trying to imagine the vibes. but. yloise and hw era estinien??

Ok so . before we go any further . a history lesson wrt: my playthrough - I played through the game until just after the vault, when a combination of factors, including:

Discovering That Gpose was an Option in the Game and Not Just Something That The PC Players Had On Hand That Was Forbidden to Me

Developing a More Intricate and Nuanced Understanding of My Own Player Character Who Was Originally Way Too Much Like Ysayle

Being Pissed Off at the Giant FC I Was In Because They Would Not Stop Making Fun of RPers in the Chat Box

Wanting To Play Through the Rest of HW as DRK But Not Making Any Actual Progress on the Leveling Requirements,

led to me restarting my character on another server, complete with a new surname that was not a Silly Joak because I legitimately thought there wasn't going to be a Cid in this game like some kind of fool and decided to change the established Duskwight surname 'Cibleroit' to 'Cidleroit' for a chuckle and then immediately regretted it the second that said Garlean appeared.

What am I about to bring up happened before all that. In the Aether Times. In the Yloise Cidleroit Times.

But originally, I was somehow convinced by the presence of like Exactly Two RPers out there in the Internet Space that Haurchefant/Estinien was like. a bigger ship than it actually was, so I just sort of assumed going in that whatever bullshit my character was going through with Haurchefant, which at this point was a LOT more angsty and a LOT less clown (like. not clown at all, actually. She was a completely different character in many ways) made her metamours with Estinien and the Entire Road Trip Scenario was this incredibly awkward 'get to know the person that your bf is also fucking' with a side of 'also the newer party who isn't even Ishgardian is also Heavily Fucking Around with the Leader of the Heretics on this road trip and their sexual tension is getting on your nerves let alone the political ramifications' thing.

Anyway I did end up Almost Writing like 6 pages of Gutwrenchingly Awkward Yloise/Ysayle/Estinien bath sex on a yellow notepad during work hours (I say almost because I never edited it into anything like. Readable, so it's a combination of sentence fragments, tense-jumping paragraphs, and diagrams). Like, hair getting caught in armor when it's trying to get removed, it being too cold to be comfortable type of shit, someone slips down some stairs, it was bad. I was actively removing any amount of Perceived Sexiness in a smut situation because the vibes were meant to be Completely Rancid. And they were. It was post-Vault, Ysayle has to Dom the Sad Out of These Two Losers and Yloise Won't Stop Crying and Estinien isn't even attracted to either of them but he's mad because he feels abandoned and not being given the space to grieve and doesn't want to be alone and honestly I should just not be allowed to write anything ever-

so yeah i think if we're looking for cursed Yloise/Estinien, i've already written it, i've moved on, I didn't know that aymeric was going to get more than three lines in the entire game at this point, whatever.

[hylfystt]

i think i might've inhaled you

ship: leida valroux (wol) / ardbert hylfyst rating: explicit fandom: ffxiv word count: 3.7k phEW notes: major shadowbringers spoilers. baby's first smut. don't think to hard about the logistics of this, it works because it works. [ao3]

It’s late when she startles from her slumber, a stifled cry on her lips and sweat on her brow. Instinct drives her to throw the covers from her form, to free herself from the confines of her bed and bolt and — 

Leida takes a shuddering breath, burying her face in her hands. She focuses on her breathing, trying to quiet the rush of blood in her ears and the echo of a shattered shield.

The Vault. It’s been a long time since that particular nightmare has come to plague her. She had hoped that she was finally free of it, that the peace she had made with Haurchefant’s death might finally absolve her of her nightly torments.

A vain hope, so it seemed.

“I was beginning to worry you weren’t going to wake up.”

Ardbert’s voice carries easily in the quiet of the room. She isn’t surprised to find him standing before her window, more than accustomed to his near nightly vigil. It’s a small comfort, knowing that he stays. There may be little he can do in the event of something truly disastrous, they both know that, but it is an attempt to ward away the troubles that would seek to plague her regardless. Something stirs within her at the thought. Leida meets his gaze, shuffling to rest against the wall, the cool bricks offering some measure of comfort against her still flushed skin. Ardbert glances away, turning his attention back to the night sky, something like regret flashing in his eyes.

“What time is it?”

“Dunno. Still a few hours before dawn, I reckon.” He casts her a quick glance. “You should go back to sleep. Tomorrow is sure to be a long day.”

Leida smiles thinly. “It always is.” The words sound more cynical to her ears than she intends them, but it doesn’t diminish the truth of them. Her days have been long ever since that quiet grey morning she slipped aboard a ship bound for Limsa Lominsa some five years ago now. At this point she doesn’t much know what she would even do with peace, anyways. “I doubt I’ll find much rest now regardless.”

“You want to talk about it?”

The elezen huffs a laugh. “Not in the slightest.” Leida closes her eyes and lets her head fall back to rest against the wall. “I’ve told you of Haurchefant.”

Ardbert hums in acknowledgement. He understands then. “Aye, that you have.” Silence settles between them, heavy as they contemplate the weight of their respective ghosts. Leida frowns, cracking an eye to gaze at the gentle glow that radiates from Ardbert. The figurative kind, she supposes.

She has seen ghosts before, spirits that cling to this world by sheer force of will or by magicks beyond her purview. Her expertise lies in living aether, in arcanima and the egi. The more spiritual studies of aetherflow have always lain in Y’Shtola and Urianger’s domains, and she’s been more than content to leave it with them in the past, despite her fascination. Run so ragged as she’s been these past years, she’s had little time to dedicate herself to new areas of study. 

Looking at Ardbert now, not at all like the specters she has battled in the past and yet not quite living, she wishes she had never given up that particular thread of curiosity.

“Well,” Ardbert says suddenly, snapping Leida out of her quiet contemplations. “If you’re going to be stubborn about it, might as well make yourself useful.” He crosses the room and settles on the edge of her bed, raising an expecting brow. “Go on, then. You promised me another one of those tales of yours.”

“Useful?” Leida sputters, unable to help the grin that blossoms under his teasing gaze. “Arse.”

Ardbert returns her grin, eyes softening. Leida knows what he is doing, and she is grateful for it—grateful for him and this easy comfort that has grown between them since her arrival on the First. They’ve come a long way from their meeting on the Source, from the cynical jabs and mistrust that marked their meetings after. She’s not entirely sure when the shift happened, but she has come to care for him, and she knows that she is not alone in her sentiments.

Sitting here close to him, a small part of her, quiet and longing and foolish, wonders what it would be like to touch him.

“Let’s see,” Leida starts, shaking the thought from her head and scooting to sit beside Ardbert. She has much she can tell him, much she wants to, good and bad and much somewhere in the middle. But tonight is a night for good, she thinks. “Have I told you of the Churning Mists?”

“In passing, I think.”

Leida smiles fondly. “There are a particular inhabitants there, a rather funny people called moogles—”

Ardbert casts her a flat look. “The First has them too, you know.”

“Shush, you. You wanted a story, I’m giving you a story. Now, as I said, moogles…”

Ardbert listens intently as she tells her tale, of the restoration of Zenith and the misadventures along the way. It’s almost a relief to talk about something that, in the grand scheme of all that she has done since shouldering the mantle of Warrior of Light, seems relatively mundane. Not that she herself would call it so. Her work with Mogzin, Ohl Deeh and Tarresson is something she is proud of and holds dearly to her heart. 

She is glad to share this with him, too.

“I should visit them again when we get home,” Leida says, laying back so that she is stretched across the bed, legs left dangling over the side. She doesn’t catch the brief flash of sorrow her words bring.

I would have liked to have seen it with you. “I would have thought you’d be sick of the creatures after all that,” Ardbert says instead. He shakes his head, forcing a smile. “Honestly. Drunk moogles…”

Leida laughs. “Yes, well, I find them quite endearing.”

“You would.”

Leida rises quickly, casting a look of mock incredulity at the man. She reaches out, shoving him lightly. “Now just what do you mean by that?”

Something shifts in the aether.

Ardbert sits frozen, eyes blown wide. Leida stills, too, when the realization dawns. She looks at her hand, still resting on the pauldron of his armor, cold and rough and so incredibly tangible under her fingers. Her mouth drops open, a small oh slipping past her lips as she stares at the point of contact.

“So it wasn’t my imagination, then.” Ardbert’s voice is more fragile than she has ever heard it before. He can’t seem to look away from her hand. “You can feel me.”

Leida swallows. “Before,” she starts, moving her hand from his shoulder to trail down his arm. She is careful with her movements, as if he might fade once again under her touch if she moves too quickly. She’s not sure she could bear it if he did. “When the Light…”

Ardbert nods, almost imperceptibly. “I thought I had felt something…I thought I had felt you.”

He watches her hand intently, brow pinched as it comes to rest at his wrist. Were it not for his very nature, he would have wondered if this was somehow a dream. He’s still not sure he believes it at all, that he won’t blink his eyes and she will still be lying back on the mattress, ready to expound on the virtues of moogles. 

Instead Leida’s fingers brush the clasps of his bracers and he swallows hard. “May I?” she asks.

Ardbert nods again, not daring to trust his voice.

With careful consideration, she sets upon freeing his forearm, undoing clasps and buckles with a quiet reverence. She sets the gauntlet aside, hesitating only just before she reaches to remove his glove, careful not to touch the expanse of skin now exposed to his eyes for the first time in a century. He feels nearly faint with this simple intimacy. She reaches for his other hand, divesting his other hand with the same tender care until both his hands are left bare to her and the night.

“Leida…” He watches her, intensity burning in those blue eyes of his despite the way that he trembles. After an achingly long moment she moves, brushes her fingers ever so gently across his palm and marvels at the way he feels so solid under her touch.

Ardbert exhales sharply at the contact, trembling still. He feels hot—her touch a searing warmth with every careful brush of her fingers against his. Ardbert flexes his hand, a vain attempt to steady himself. Leida meets his eye, apology ready on her lips, when he surges forward, entwining their hands and slanting his lips against hers.

The result is blinding.

All at once Ardbert is everywhere. Her senses are overwhelmed by him and the impossibility of his touch, of his breath – gods, his breath! – entwining with hers. Ardbert squeezes her hand, near hard enough to bruise and to ground him in this impossible moment.

“How is this possible?” Leida gasps in the desperate break for air, chasing his lips nevertheless.

“Don’t know,” Ardbert grunts as he pulls her into his lap. Closer — he needs her closer. Leida shudders delightedly as his hand tangles in her hair, the other dipping into her shirt as he holds her flush against him. “I don’t care.”

There will be time for questions later, time to puzzle over why her and why him, but right now—

Right now, the only thing that matters is that he is kissing her and she is kissing him back and nothing else in this world or hers has ever made more sense.

Lost in the feel of his mouth on hers, lips parting to deepen the kiss, Leida is inclined to agree; for if this a dream, or a construct of her own longing, she isn’t inclined to be woken.

He has long lost himself in the feel of her when he feels her hands move to his shoulders and the straps of his armor. It’s a clumsy thing, one that has them both huffing a quiet laugh as he moves to help her when it becomes clear that she is close to just burning the damn straps away if it meant divesting him of his armor that much faster. The cuirass falls away, followed closely by his shirt, clumsy hands moving to cast them aside somewhere, and Ardbert pulls her in again.

Her hands explore the expanse of his back, tracing the lines and valleys of whatever scars she comes across. 

Her hands are nearly his undoing. How long has he been without the simple comfort of another’s touch? How long has he been left aching and wanting for her? To touch her now, to feel her warmth and warrior’s strength…

It’s too much, and not enough at all.

“Gods,” he breathes as she pulls a trembling sigh from him. He trails his lips against the line of her jaw, stopping at the base of her ear, the low timbre of his voice causing an eruption of gooseflesh down her spine. “Tell me you want this. Tell me that you ache for me just as badly as I ache for you.”

Leida brings his face back to hers and looks at him through half lidded eyes, desire and affection read plain. Her look only serves to kindle the fire that erupted in his belly the moment he first kissed her.

“I want this,” she says, bringing her forehead to rest against his. “I want you.”

Never before has he heard words so beautiful.

His mouth meets hers hungrily and her pulse quickens, fire racing in her veins as he draws from her a desire she’d thought long since locked away. His hands find her waist, fingers hooking on the bottom of her shirt and she smiles, breaking apart just long enough for him to pull it over her head. He casts it aside, leaving hungry hands to explore her skin freely. Calloused fingers trace every scar and every line, and he pulls away to marvel at her freely.

He wants to ask her about every mark and know every story behind them. He thumbs a particularly egregious mark, the taught pull of new skin indicating it’s newness in comparison to other scars. Leida takes one of his hands and brings it to her mouth, kissing his palm.

“Later,” she tells him with a small smile. “I will tell you everything.”

“Later,” he agrees. He keeps her eye for a moment, caressing her cheek softly as his other hand slides up the expanse of her stomach. He can’t help the self satisfied smile at the shiver the action draws from her. He grins fully at her gasp when his hand finds her breast, thumb swiping teasingly at a hardened nipple. His mouth is soon to follow, drawing a contented sigh from Leida.

“Ardbert…”

She has always been beautiful. From the first time he saw her on the Source—a radiant storm of fury and fierce protectiveness of her world, of her family—to their meeting here on the First, she has been radiant. He thinks she has never looked more beautiful than like this, however, in the way she unfurls for him as he tips them back, rolling to dip her into the mattress. 

All his long years cursing Minfilia for leaving him to wander as a shade has surely been worth it for this sight alone.

Ardbert’s hands continue their exploration, strong hands gliding down the length of her sides until they stop at the waistband of her sleep-shorts. He keeps her eye, noting the high color in her cheeks and the hitch in her breathing as his thumbs dip teasingly below the hem.

“Gods, but you are beautiful.”

Then he is tugging the fabric away, down her legs until he can toss them aside, and Leida can’t be sure if the way her skin prickles with gooseflesh is from the exposure to the chill night air or his hungry look.

He kisses his way down the expanse of her stomach, lips finding every scar, every errant freckle, until he presses a kiss to her hip bone and Leida can’t help the longing sigh he pulls from her. Her breathing kicks higher in anticipation when he lowers himself further and kisses the inside of her thigh as he hooks her knees over his shoulders. He meets her eye, a silent question raised. She nods, almost imperceptibly and his eyes dance. 

She nearly lurches off the bed at the first swipe of his tongue over her folds, a soft moan falling sweetly from her lips. Ardbert’s hands grip at her hips to keep her steady as he repeats the motion, eager to draw out the sound again. He is slow in his ministrations, almost painfully so, as he takes his time to discover what makes her tick. It’s near enough to drive her to insanity, the way he so pointedly avoids her clit. She wiggles her hips, chasing the friction she so desperately longs for and yet he denies, having half a mind to tell him to stop with his teasing her and just get on with it—

As if hearing her thoughts, Ardbert takes the bundle of nerves into his mouth and sucks and it is as if every nerve in her body is alight with lightning. Her hand shoots down, finding purchase in his hair as she is suddenly desperate for an anchor. “Fuck,” she gasps, head falling back against the mattress as she loses herself in the feel of his mouth on her. One of his hands slides from its place on her hips and he teases a finger at her entrance, drawing another moan from her. He feels his cock twitch in response.

He sets upon her with earnest then, dipping another finger into her aching cunt as his mouth and tongue drink from her greedily like a man possessed; like a ghost who has felt nothing, tasted nothing for a hundred long, lonely years. To be seen, felt, loved…

He would do anything for her.

“Please,” comes the strangled gasp as his mouth and fingers work her higher and higher towards the precipice. “Ardbert,” she whines.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, withdrawing from her folds to meet her eye. Want burns bright through her at the sight of him looking at her with such reverence, the evidence of her desire slick on his lips.

“I need you,” she breathes. “Please.”

Ardbert holds her eye as he kisses the inside of her thigh before turning over the length of her body, mouth and tongue tasting every ilm of her until he reaches her mouth. Leida moans at the taste of herself on his lips.

“Tell me.”

“I need you inside me,” she pants, fingers scraping lightly against his scalp as she holds his gaze. “Ardbert…”

He kisses her deep, settling between her legs with a shaky sigh. He feels her hand reach between them, wrapping around his cock and giving it several slow, teasing strokes.

“Easy there, sweetheart,” he groans, nipping at her jaw. “I won’t last long if you do that.”

“Mercy, then.” Leida gives a breathy laugh, kissing his temple as she relents, moving her hand to guide him to her entrance. Ardbert rests a hand against her cheek, thumb brushing her cheek affectionately. Gods, but he loves her.

The first push of him inside her has both their breaths catching. She clings to him, forehead resting against his as he takes his time entering her fully. He wants to savor this, wants to sear the memory of her open mouthed gasps and the feel of her into his memory forever so that not even another century could take this from him.

Ardbert shudders as he sheathes himself fully inside her, marveling at the way she feels so right, like she was made for him and he for her. Leida takes a moment to catch her breath, for she feels nearly faint with the way her very aether seems to respond to him. When she kisses him, silently begging for his movement, she nearly weeps at the first slow roll of his hips.

“‘s been so long,” he groans, head dropping to the crook of her neck as he drags long and slow within her. Leida gasps at the scrape of teeth at her pulse point. “You’re so perfect. So perfect for me.”

“I am yours,” she sighs, legs shifting upward to take him deeper. “From the first, I have been yours.”

She rises to meet him for every movement as he sets his pace faster, deeper, chasing a bliss she never thought possible before. Their union feels somehow sacred, inevitable, like something that should have been long ago has finally shifted into place and now the worlds are in alignment. Later, she will ponder what this means, what the tug of her aether towards him and his towards her means but right now—right now, nothing matters outside of the feel of his skin against hers.

Their shared gasps and moans fill the night, the sound of skin moving against skin a melody sweeter than any orchestrion could capture. Leida feels all at once too hot, the steady drive of his cock working her back to the precipice. She wants more. She slides her arms around his neck, legs wrapping around his waist as she is desperate to feel him closer, deeper. She can feel his answering groan rumble against her breast as he obliges her, arm looping under her back and holding her impossibly close as he shifts to a near relentless pace.

“Ardbert, I—I’m…” She can barely think through the heady pleasure, all means coherent thought thoroughly chased away with each snap of his hips. “Fuck.”

Ardbert places a sloppy, open mouthed kiss at the base of her ear as he speaks. “Let go for me, sweetheart.” 

The rough timbre of his voice is enough to send her over the edge. Ecstasy crashes around her with his name on her lips in a desperate, repeating prayer. He guides her through it, fingers digging into the soft skin of her back as he holds her close and it isn’t long before Ardbert’s hips stutter, thrusting erratically as he follows with a rough gasp of her name.

They fall together, in the aftermath. A tangle of limbs and languid bliss in the wake of their lovemaking. Leida presses a kiss to the sweat matted hair at his temple, Ardbert’s hold around her tightening. She doesn’t know how long they stay like this, holding each other in the afterglow as they struggle to regain their breaths. Eventually Ardbert pulls away, and for a moment her heart aches at the absence of him. He is quick to pull her back to him as he rolls onto his back, and Leida sighs contentedly as she settles against his chest.

His hands trail lazily along her back, playing with stray lilac locks as they languish in the post-bliss haze.

“What happens now?” Leida asks quietly. Ardbert sighs, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “We keep trying to save our worlds. We find a way to keep you from turning into a sin eater. Everything else can come later.”

Leida props herself up on her elbow, small smile playing on her lips as she looks at him. “We?”

“Aye.” Ardbert reaches up, letting his thumb caress her cheek gently as he gives her a faint smile. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me. For as long as you’ll have me, anyways.”

“I would always have you.” 

“Then will figure it out.”

Ardbert cards his fingers through her hair, sighing in content when Leida leans down to press her lips against his in a slow kiss.

“Together,” she says. 

He knows that this could very well end in heartbreak and failure, that they could fail to save their homes. She could lose herself to the Light when she fells the next Warden, despite his best efforts to keep it contained. He can imagine a hundred and more ways in which it could all go to shit before the week is out, has imagined it time and again.

But with Leida at his side, each horrible scenario seems further and further from being inevitable. 

“Together.”

For the first time in many long years, he dares to hope.

[jefarawol]

Barham stayed with her that night, but she could not sleep. Speaking finally of the events that had occurred and to be so open about the mistakes she made caused sleep to elude her. Knowing that lying idly would do nothing for her she left the room, making for her place of comfort: The music room.

Due to the late hour she had expected everyone to be in bed, she was surprised to see the room already occupied.

“Lord Edmont, forgive me I didn't mean to intrude. I’ll leave-” She turned to leave again, the last she had spoken to him he had been so disappointed in her and her recent admission she knew would only deepen that.

“No.” His voice carried across the room. “Stay.”

She crossed the room towards him, anxiety creeping into her chest.

“Are you angry with me?”

Edmont looked at her, hearing the emptiness in her voice.

“No.” he sighed. “I'm not angry.”

He motioned for her to sit, she carefully perched herself on top of a pile of tomes, curling her arms into her chest..

“It's difficult to explain how I feel about it all.”

There was a pregnant pause in the air between them both. She sucked in a breath.

“I'm sorry about what you saw. It was foolish and irresponsible.” She knew an apology wouldn’t erase her actions, or the sight no doubt burned into Edmont’s mind.

“Irresponsible I agree.” Edmont tapped the desk in front of him “Foolish? Love is love. Assuming you feel the same way about him as he does you.”

She looked at him surprised, had Aymeric said something to the Count about his feelings?

“What did he say?” 

“That's a discussion you should be having with him is it not?” He raised his eyebrow at her.

She nodded and looked down at her lap. Her feelings began eating away at her again. So much had happened in such a short time, no matter how hard she had tried to walk away from it, here she was again caught in the eye of a raging storm.

“How can you love someone when you know there is no future?” She fought down the tears she knew would threaten. She was tired of crying, she wanted, needed, to be strong. She knew Edmont deserved the truth, he had taken her in and cared for her, and she had trespassed on his hospitality with cardinal sins. 

“I’ve loved Aymeric from the start, since before I knew who he was.” She admitted to him. “And even after I knew- I never stopped.”

He listened carefully as she spoke.

“We knew it was doomed but still.. We both fell hard.”

“And what of Ser Estinien?” Edmont asked. “Do you not care for him still?”

She considered his question for a moment. 

“My feelings for him linger, but I’m scared, Lord Edmont. When he called for me, it felt cold and wrong.” 

She thought about Estinien, she knew it was Nidhogg who had called for her but she felt something beneath it, the familiar feeling Estinien had brought to her. Now her feelings felt cold, the more she thought of him, the more twisted they became in her heart.

“I had always been sure about his feelings, he couldn’t hide them from me,” she continued. “But something didn’t feel right this time. I don't know how I feel about him anymore.”

“I know the pain of a lost love.” Edmont looked at her sympathetically. “To lose your entire reason for being in the blink of an eye.” “You speak of Haurchefants mother?” It was the first she had heard anyone speak of Edmont’s past, aside from Artoirel telling her that Haurchefant was not born of the same woman.

“No…” Edmont sighed. “Before I was married to Elise I was engaged to another. We were forced apart by someone else's wrong doings.” Jefara gasped. “Where is she now?”

“Dead no doubt.” Edmont lowered his head with a pained look on his face. “There was no word after she left the City. But then my father married me off to a woman of his choosing, traditions had to be upheld to save our family from scandal.” She could hear the bitterness of regret in his voice. “What happened?” She asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

“A story for another time perhaps…”

She remained silent as he dismissed the question. He looked up at her, seeing her regret at pushing the subject.

 Come here…” He held his hand out towards her. She jumped down from her makeshift chair and took his hand cautiously. He gripped it tightly, reassuringly.

“It may take time, but the people would come around to a union between you and the Lord Commander.” She gasped, eyes going wide for a moment. She had not expected the blunt acceptance from him. As much as the thought of being publicly seen to be with Aymeric but Estinien still gnawed at the back of her mind. “I don't think that would happen.” She said softly. “We agreed to never let ourselves entertain the idea that it could be possible. And with Estinien in the mix too-”

“Things change.” He cut over her. “People change.”

He gripped her hand tighter. “You deserve to find happiness, Jefara and I would do anything to spare you both the same heartache I did.” 

“Lord Edmont…” She fought again against the tears biting in the corner of her eyes.

“I would hope after all this time you would call me Edmont.” He smiled at her gently, his voice softening as he rubbed small soothing circles to the back of her hand. “You are as much a child of mine as Artoirel and Emmanellain are now.”

She took in a shaky breath as he continued.

“I know your own father is here and I am not going to compete for your affections from him. But know this, I consider you a part of this family and would be proud to be able to call you my daughter.”

She leant in and rested her forehead against his.

“I’m sure I have room in my heart for you both. You’ve done so much for me I could never repay you.”

“Repay you? My dear girl, you have done so much already and more.” He brought his other hand to her shoulder keeping her steady as he spoke. “You have brought out many changes in both my sons, Artoirel more than I could ever imagine was possible for him.”

He felt her small hand cover his, returning his gesture.

“You have freed my home from a thousand year war and you brought Halone’s Fury down on those that wronged this house. I could not ask for more.”

“Thank you Ed- Apa.” She smiled at him tenderly.

“You are welcome, Jara.”

[tinygamertris]

I decided I'm finally gonna sit down and write out a bunch of stuff for Theo because I'm this close to the end of 6.0 and I'm gonna be swapping over to him soon. Lots of bullet points and rough ideas below the cut to preserve everyone's dash.

Theo is 22. He's spent about 17 of those years being dangerously sick and decided to go into White Mage/Scholardom to sort of pass on the good that most of the doctors did for him.

Other classes: Monk (Hydaelyn dropped him in Ul'dah with no weapons it was kind of inevitable), Warrior (he can be a tank with a giant axe? fuck yeah!), Mechanist (he's good at putting stuff together and dismantling magitek at alarming speed and spends most of his rare downtime in the Garlond Ironworks), Red Mage (my favourite mage), Black Mage (until he meets X'rhun Tia anyways), and Samurai (he had a crush on Hien OKAY?!).

Yeah Hydaelyn fixed him up. At the same time as she yanked him out of bed, put him in an outfit he'd never seen before, and dumped him in a carriage on the way to Ul'dah.

But he's still pissed at her because CONSENT. He would've said yes if she asked! But she didn't ask and so when he eventually meets Venat she gets socked in the arm as hard as he can. One of his classes is Monk, she totally had it coming though.

He generally tries to be nice to people because he doesn't enjoy fucking up someone's day, but if you annoy him enough he will be the pettiest of bitches for the rest of eternity.

If he likes you, he's early, if he's neutral towards you, he's on time, if he hates you he will be exactly ten minutes late forever. He has a pretty good internal clock, hence his choice for prime pettiness.

Alphinaud and Alisaie are his baby brother and sister now, do not even look at them funny if you want to live a long and healthy life. He is so fucking proud of them, you guys.

Yuyuhase learned this lesson a little too late; Theo went out of his way to track down Ilberd's accomplices. Laurentius got to go to trial in Ala Mhigo. Yuyuhase had put a sword to Alphinaud's neck and that meant he had to die.

The Bloody Banquet sent him into a panic attack that lasted from the moment he sat down in the carriage away from Ul'dah and didn't finish until after he'd spent about an hour crying into Haurechefant's shoulder. To this day he's not entirely sure how he and Alphinaud made it that last stretch on foot from where Cid dropped them off to Camp Dragonhead.

Speaking of Haurchefant... Theo got lost in the North Shroud and wound up in Coerthas, running from monsters too strong for him to handle and getting lost in the snow and he outright collapsed from the beginnings of hypothermia near the stairs leading to the Aetherite. He woke up in the camp's infirmary with the commander (!) helping chafe feeling back into his hands (!!) and he was given hot chocolate and kindness (!!!) and he never stood a chance. He had a great big stonking crush on him long before the search for Cid's Airship brought him back and when he was taken in by the Fortemps family just on his word... He had a ring and he was literally planning to propose the DAY they went into the Vault. It. Did not end well.

Alphinaud genuinely thought he was going to just be an empty shell of himself forever after; there was a period of time there when he just did what he was told and absolutely nothing else, he didn't even seem to notice when he was hungry or thirsty. Tataru and Alphinaud made sure he ate and drank but couldn't even get him to lie down and try to sleep... then about two weeks after Alphinaud woke up to find Theo stoking the fire in his room, fully kitted up with his rifle to hand. He said he had to make sure Alphinaud was safe no matter what. Alphinaud got him to sit in a chair next to his bed and come morning he was asleep with a hand clinging to the sleeve of his (blue, obviously) pyjamas.

He did get better after that but it was slow and sometimes rough and honestly nobody could blame him for his absolute hatred for Ser Zepherin. Even Aymeric's reaction was just 'well I'm not getting between them, Zepherin has had it coming for a long time'.

Eventually (after fighting Nidhogg and saving Estinien) he gave the ring he made to Edmont and told him that even though he never got to make it official, he wanted the family to keep it safe.

He had a decent crush on Hien for a while, enough to make him take up the Samurai soul crystal to understand him and his people more. He never wound up acting on it though, since he knows Hien's people will expect things like heirs and he's definitely not parent material.

Everyone in NOAH knew Theo and G'raha Tia were stupidly into each other... Except Theo and G'raha! Theo was a bit blinded by his feelings for Haurechefant and didn't recognise his feelings towards G'raha for what they were. G'raha thought the Warrior of Light was way too heroic and important to like 'some random nerd who doesn't know when to stop talking' and didn't realise that Theo was genuinely interested in learning about Allaghan history. Idiot boys.

The 'Crystal Exarch' didn't fool Theo for a second. How could he forget G'raha's voice? Or that smile? RUDE.

A fair amount of Shadowbringers goes differently due to the whole 'isekai'd from a non-sundered world' thing, but it does sadly end with Hades and Elidibus fighting the Scions and having to be put down. Their deaths are some of Theo's biggest regrets; surely they could've worked out a way to make things better without killing so many people?

Holy shit G'raha is so adorable in his new clothes. Tataru are you trying to kill him? Oh his ears are doing the thing, help, help, someone help! (Alisaie: Don't anyone tell them, this is hilarious!)

Man FUCK FANDANIEL. Fuck Hermes too, while he's on the subject. Like look, trying to understand your purpose in life, that he gets. But sending an unexamined untested pack of telepathic children out into the universe, alone barring the hive mind, with a question pretty much guaranteed to lead to chaos and destruction? Fucking idiot!

Loporrits. LOPORRITS. Thank you Hydaelyn!

[arcann]

I don't think you rb'd it but if you think you're getting out of this without an ask you're wrong.

Top 5 character moments in 14

And top 5 fave things about dead space gogogog

I did rb it i did i prommy

Ffxiv best moments In no specific order:

- Ardbert's last words to the WoL in shb. "If you had the strength to take another step could you do it? Could you save our worlds?" Death and killing and maiming... Which is what happens right after to certain dramatic ascian bitch >:)

- Haurchefant's death. I still cry like a forlorn widow. Don't look at me.

-Vidofnir saving the kid that gets thrown out the window by the crazy catholic elf and her speech afterwards in front of the awed crowd. Actually all that struggle to find peace between dravania and ishgard and seeing Aymeric try so hard gives me feels.

- The lvl 70 drk mission where Myste (and the WoL) make peace with all the guilt they carry. "In your darkest hour, in the blackest night think of me and I will be with you. For where else could I go? Who else could I love but you?" Insane. Absolutely insane.

- G'raha slowly having to open up to the WoL but especially their talk in Kholusia where he's totally not talking about how much he admires them and how they should go on an adventure together.

Extra: this was cheap af bc its coming from ew and they were totally throwing all their flavor packages in the same instant soup but all the dread you feel as the team slowly gets terminated to open a way in ultima thule. Fuck that but omg if i didn't feel it.

Dead space (and im missing a bunch of stuff i like)

- i love that Isaac is just Some Guy. He's an engineer and he's here bc he needs to do some repairs + he wants to see his girlfriend. Then he gets thrown into space silent hill. Also he's a little heretic who hates the dominant religion. Im not projecting :)

- Actually the huge silent hill inspiration. The monster is in your head. No its not. Yes it is. How about both? It will hurt you anyway just as much as the totally not scientology religion will :) oh, they look like monsters to you?

- i think my favorite part of a monster apocalypse is that it explains how it all went wrong and dead space takes its time to show you how certain scientists figured it out while others vehemently refuse it but Know it did. There's a lot of people that still talk to you in the ishimura and the sprawl. Ship's haunted.

- Isaac and Ellie's relationship. They melt my heart while still being a realistic couple of friends in the middle of hell. Their relationship in 3 is a mixed bag but after the world's (and EA's) dumbest love triangle is dealt with they're still a solid couple. Isaac literally letting the moon be awaken instead of sacrificing Ellie because after all he's been through no way is he going to let her go like that. You as the player know he could never go through that again. Will cause unending suffering to others bc of you <3

- the arms and legs of the necromorphs being completely justified as their weak points because they're deemed useless without them by the marker. Its not just a gimmick but an obvious sign that the source of this plague can make decisions of how each being can serve it now. Even that can be scary.

[chiclet-go-boom]

FFXIV | ENDWALKER

this is kinda long and doesn't contain Endwalker spoilers specifically but does talk about how the story happens in Shadowbringers, so if you haven't played up to and through that expansion, keep going amigo!

__________

So, my playtime during the week for video games is traditionally quite small (ie, time between Get Home and Go To Sleep is only about five-ish hours and I have to squeeze cooking dinner and chores in there) and has shrunk to nearly nothing with the two hour queue times for the Endwalker early access.

So right now once I get in, I've only got about about an hour (two at best) to get anything done which in a cut-scene heavy story like Endwalker isn't going to take me places particularly quickly. So I am now basically churning my wheels in mud until Saturday when I can get back on and like, go to town on the story for the whole day.

So in absence of anything resembling progression, I'm reduced to just having to think about it.

So I've been thinking about it and my god, social media is the best thing ever because now I can post about it too. So a bit of background here:

Like everyone else, by the time I finished Heavensward I was not only hooked by this game, I was filleted and fried. From the Steps of Faith to the Final Steps of Faith, I couldn't put the game down. I consumed the MSQ in great, gulping chunks, desperate to know what was happening.

Was Aymeric stringing us along, on the surface a proponent of peace and reconciliation, or was he just another Teledji Adeledji in a taller, more pleasing Elezen package? What was Thordan going to want from us in exchange for this begruding sanctuary? Could we prevent civil war from breaking out between the downtrodden poor and their High House oppressors even as the dragons were poised for yet another assault in a thousand year series of devastating attacks - better yet, did I even want to try?

Did Ishgard deserve to finally fall?

Then, you know, Aymeric on the ground with a knife in his ribs. Then, you know, the Vault. Then, you know, The Singularity Reactor and as Thordan dies, he asks the burning question that is actually starting to haunt me - what ARE you?

I don't know what I am. I'm starting to worry that nobody does.

After the Vault, I couldn't touch the game for about a week except in the most nominal, casual ways. Chipping some rocks. Running my squadron through a dungeon. Checking the market board in the forlorn hopes of finding something pretty in my price range (0-poor).

I was really, really shaken by... I've spend a minute trying to find a poetic way to say that when Haurchefant died to save me, I know that I lost something because I felt it all the way down to the core of me. And the worst part is, I can't even say what. Just something was gone that I didn't even know I had held so close, some feeling of rightness in the world that he would always be there and always greet me like his most beloved friend and would always, always have my back.

And he was dead and lost in a heartbeat, just like that.

After The Final Steps of Faith, I couldn't play again. I was standing in Castrum Oriens and Raubahn needed my attention and I couldn't give it. I didn't want to be helping anyone else, running hither and yon. I didn't want to move any farther away from the snows of Ishgard and the last glimpse of Haurchefant turning away from me and I didn't need anybody else's problems because my heart missed all my people so much. I wanted so much to be back in Aymeric's room, drinking wine and laughing. I wanted to sit by a grave and cry. I wanted to hear more of Estinien's voice, dryly putting Alphinaud in his place and Alphinaud spluttering in defense.

But Stormblood and Lyse and Arvenvald and Fordola happened. Hien and Yotsuyu and the xaela happened. Zenos gave me somebody to hate unreservedly because at this moment I don't care how he got where he is, he just plain needed to be staked to the ground and his heart torn out so he never got back up again. And oh, wasn't that prophetic.

I don't want to hear about a murdered sister. I don't want to hear about a grief-ravaged brother. I needed something clean and savage and righteous and Stormblood gave me that in spades.

Then it gave me Shadowbringers.

This is where I just flounder, because I've never been hit quite this hard by a fictional anything before. Sure, I've had books that have held me riveted. I've watched movies that made me care. I've even watched the odd television series that kept me tuning in to find out what happened for a few seasons.

But this - this is something I've never really encountered before and because its half movie and half book and half again something else between the two, I'm just kinda emotionally lost.

What you need to understand is that when I realized I was going to have to kill Emet-Selch, that there wasn't going to be any sort of different conclusion or sideways fake, I felt like I felt after The Vault - incredibly heartsick; stricken even. The kind of feeling where you sit there and want to cover your mouth with your hands so nobody can see your lips tremble - that instinctive urge to hide weakness because it hurts.

And it hadn't even happened yet.

And it just became more and more obvious, more and more inevitable that this was going to go down how I really didn't want it to go down at all or quite frankly ever - that both me and my character were locked into this final, wretched resolution.

Because Emet-Selch was right. His loved ones, his world, his people, his paradise - it was shattered but it wasn't truly gone, wasn't completely lost. There could be enough power to fix it, to return things to where they were before it all went so wrong. And for thousands of years, he and his brothers lifted that boulder back up the hill, over and over again.

Seven times they succeeded. Seven times did they piece together the shards. Each time it no doubt got harder and harder because mountains do not become flatter the closer you get to the peak. They were so close to the eighth, with one world stopped on the brink of the collapse by an avatar's last strength and the other all but ripe to receive it.

And Emet-Selch turns to me near the end of things and says, "Do you really think yourselves the only ones worthy? When you could not, would not have done what we did." And Elidibus says, "You fail and you fail and you fail and you learn nothing, let it all fall through your fingers." Their claim to this star was deeper, vaster, more desperate than mine. I want only to preserve the lives of my friends and by that extension save the ones I care nothing about. They want to make the world whole again, one painstaking, screaming piece at a time.

If Emet-Selch grinds the shards under his heel as he does? Well, at the end it will be complete again, will it not? And all the damage caused along the way will no longer matter.

So why does this speak so much to me? Why I am sitting here with an Endwalker bingo card that has a single square that I pin so much into and onto that simply says "Summon Emet-Selch" - which, of course, is the polite way to say he's mine he's mine give him back to me you bastards.

Because the reason is - if I could turn back time and bring Haurchefant back, sundered and alive and smiling, I would. I know I would. I would risk almost everything in service to that, because even if it was meant to be, even if his death was the one necessary thing to pave the way for all else afterwards - the drive for revenge that had us chase Thordan to the ground and kill him there and thereby raise Aymeric into the needed power to be able to call for his peace and make it stick - I would still reject it and reach for something selfish.

And in my real life, which is where all this tangled, half-grieving, hard to quantify feeling is welling up from that I pin to this story, it comes from things also broken and unretrievable and unable to be recovered from long ago graves. This speaks to me so strongly, this one driving urge to just - fix it. Make it so that it never happened at all.

I have a tattoo on my wrist and it stands for greed. I will always, always choose myself and I need to remind myself and others of what that means - what I will risk over and over again in service of that one compulsion to take and sink claws into and consume what I believe I am owed.

Superman turned back the world to save the woman he loved. Emet-Selch crushes them as a rich man crushes grapes between his teeth. I would throw Ishgard back into war to return to me one, singular voice.

I want to know why, looking back, Lahabrea was so adamant on violent confrontation as the only option. I wanted Elidibus not to have failed, for all that I will never let G'raha Tia go. I wanted so much for Emet-Selch to have found a better path that perhaps he and I could have come to consensus on, could have been allies with. I wish that I could have held that Light, that I had been just that little bit stronger to prove I was worthy enough to be able to help find that mythical better way. When instead I gained that strength only at the last and I used it to carve a hole through a man who had survived so much already. Who had brought such unimaginable pain to the person who was my Other life. Who I both loved and hated so strongly that I cannot untangle it at all. 

I guess I just really, really want not to walk out at the end of this story still grieving for having destroyed something that I really should have known to cherish.

[allycryz]

WOL Challenge #1: Tea

Prompt List Here 

(Doing these out of order and likely not every day)

Nerys x Y’shtola, Nerys x Emet-Selch

Immediately post 5.0 in the Crystarium, Hurt/Comfort* (*I plan on him coming back, just not sure how yet)

--

They need this celebration.

She drinks and toasts and smiles and accepts their congratulations. The relief on their faces and their voices–it must hurt. The sharp but gratifying pain of disinfecting a cut.

Nerys stays for a few hours and drinks cup after cup of water. Alcohol might dull the pain but she's too fragile and none of these people need to see her crumble.

The natural flow of a party happens, breaking into small groups for long conversations or dedicated drinking. Everyone will assume she is with another group. That's when she leaves. When they look for her (and they will, especially Thancred and Haurchefant) they will start with her rooms. And she will want that comfort but not now, not yet. 

The Cabinet of Curiosity is never locked. 

"The Exarch believes our wealth of information should be available to all." Moren had said, which seemed ironic even then. She is still a little angry at Urianger, but at least he has never pretended to not be secretive. At least, not in this same bold way.

The single attendant nods to her as she passes to the lower floors. Her feet take her to her favorite spot, even knowing it's twisting the knife. The fairy tale and folklore section is small and the evocative purple binding of the book jumps out at her.

Nerys removes Collected Folk Tales of Lakeland from the shelf. Traces the raised letter of the covers and all at once she can feel his lips against her ear. His teasing her into a reaction while commenting on her reading material.

"I wish the ones I heard as a child were collected somewhere."

"Ah, but they lose magic that way, don't they?" He breathes in her ear. "Some in the telling, but far more when we commit them to the page."

"Stupid, foolish," she mutters to herself, to his ghost, feeling rage and sorrow rise up in her. He had never lied to her, but there were so many stories he had never told. If he had, maybe they could have avoided all of it. If he had stopped to consider that maybe they–sundered beings though they were–could understand loss and hard choices and sacrifice. 

She is so sick of people not telling her things. 

She is so sick of people she loves dying for others to live on. What if there had been a way? To save them all without killing a man she loved?

Nerys puts the book away as her lips and chin start shaking. The dam in her breaks and she can do nothing about it. Not when her body recognizes you are alone and it is quiet and no one is here and you need to break down.

So she breaks down.

Somehow she manages to get to a table and chair, muffling her sobs in her hands. Struggling to keep quiet when she wants to scream and howl. The attendant is far enough away but she takes no chances.

Whatever strength is left in her is gone. Whatever joy she found in the last hours is gone. Just like Ardbert and just like…

She reaches the post-sobbing stage of crying, to where tears run down her face and she sniffles but the worst has passed. Nerys wipes at her eyes with her sleeves. There are no tissues here, she will have to leave or just sniffle for a long time.

Someone walks down the stairs. 

Nerys uncurls herself, scrubbing roughly at her cheeks. It won't fool anyone. Maybe they won’t mention it. She turns in the chair.

Y'shtola reaches the floor and walks towards her. In each hand she carries a large mug with steam wafting from it. 

"We're not supposed to have food or drink in here," Nerys croaks.

"Will you tell Moren?" Y'shtola asks, a bemused expression on her pretty face.

"Not if you don't." Nerys accepts her cup, cradling it in her hands. It's red tea with the perfect amount of cream added to it. When she sips, she finds it's also the strength and sweetness she prefers. 

She would choose black tea over red most times but it is late and she shouldn't have something that will keep her up.

"It's perfect," she says. "Ah...will you sit?"

Y'shtola nods and takes the other chair at the table. A long silence stretches over them as Nerys watches the steam rise. It isn't uncomfortable and they might both be happy to sit in quiet like that the rest of the evening.

But there is a hint of expectation. Y’shtola would like to know what has Nerys so distraught, if she doesn't already.

"I…" Nerys swallows. "It could have been different. It should have been different."

Y'shtola raises her cup to her lips, sampling her own tea before setting it down. "What would you have done differently?"

"I didn't know then what I know now. Or could have guessed but–there must have been a moment I could have reached him. Some way I missed."

Y'shtola's voice is soft. "He could have also chosen differently. I wish he had."

Nerys looks up at that. There is a gentle sadness in Y'shtola's expression. She is not one for regrets, making it all the more jarring. 

"You do?"

"I do not excuse a single thing he did. Nor, do I think do you."

"If he lived, it wouldn't be a matter of 'all is forgiven'," says Nerys. Just as it hasn't been for Yotsuyu or Fordola. And the scale of their crimes are far different compared to Emet’s. There are many who will never forgive them and they are allowed to do so.

Just as...if he had lived; she would not have demanded any of her comrades or allies forgive him. 

"But he might have made some amends. And he might have come to terms with the fact that our cause was as just as his, even if we are sundered." Y'shtola shakes her head. "He liked us, truly. Perhaps we could have changed his mind."

And Nerys, broken down and tired and her guards gone, says it out loud. "I think I was falling in love with him."

And Y'shtola reaches out and clasps her hand. Her fingers are warm and strong and Nerys hasn’t held them since the night they almost lost her in Rhalgr’s Reach. "I had a notion."

Nerys lets out a shaky, choked breath. "It was far too recent to have done anything. Not that...even if it had started when we first met, who was I in the grand scheme of his life? Even if I was someone he knew once before the sundering… I am not them now. None of us are."

She hasn't told them any of Emet's insinuations from the Ladder, what Hythlodaeus said, Emet's shock when Ardbert joined with her.

But Y'shtola doesn't need that to understand. "Mortals and immortals alike find reasons to control others. None of them are valid in my mind."

"No, no you're right. I...guess I am indulging a little much in pity right now."

"You can indulge tonight. I keep thinking similar things about our friend." Y'shtola squeezes her fingers. "In another lifetime, he could have been so much more to us."

Nerys looks at her and feels like she could say anything. Confess anything. Y'shtola's presence gives her strength she thought she had spent. It always has. No wonder Nerys is in love with her.

She could actually tell her that now, in this sacred space of trust and honesty. And how farcical, that now when she thinks she could actually say it, could brave the possibility of Y'shtola turning her down-

-it is not the right time. Y'shtola deserves a confession not tied to grief or other people. She deserves for a time wholly dedicated to her. Even if the response is "thank you but I don't feel the same," Y’shtola deserves that care and kindness as her friend and as the person she is.

It is the type of dramatic irony so present in the comedic plays Emperor Solus commissioned during his reign. All they need are siblings in disguise and a throughline on the fluidity of gender and attraction to make it a true Solus Comedy.

Instead, she says "Y'shtola...will you stay with me a while? We can talk about anything at all, I just...would like your company."

Y'shtola smiles. "I picked the large mugs for a reason."

[chrysalispen]

Prompt #29 - Paternal

set the night before last year’s fill #27, “palaver.”

AO3 Link HERE

=========================

Eighty-nine. Ninety.

The bristles dragged through her hair in a soothing rhythm, marking a routine she'd once kept daily and all but forgotten.

She'd been lulled into a half-dozing state by the sound of the wind as it whistled around the eaves of the manor - it was very cold but there was no snow or ice for once - and every northerly burst made her feel as though she'd stepped back in time a good ten years.

A knot from one of the logs popped in the hearth-fire. She started and exhaled, then raised the brush again.

Ninety-one. Ninety-two.

There were differences, of course. No rattle from a nearby ceruleum space heater, and no worry that her aunt might come knocking for one of her talks. But she was no longer that girl of eighteen summers and this was not the borrowed guest-chamber her aunt and uncle had assigned her in the family compound in Garlemald. This was Ishgard and over a decade had passed since she had been that girl. If anyone in her family spoke her name now it was to curse it for the shame her actions had undoubtedly brought upon them.

But she had no regrets. Things had happened that no reasonable person could have foreseen, and she had done the best she could under the circumstances.

Ninety-three.

When one thought of it in that light, Aurelia supposed she hadn't done so poorly. Granted, hers was something of an extraordinary case, but even Warriors of Light weren't invincible and before all of this had started, she had just been a normal woman no different from any other on the star. If she had known what she-

A rap on the heavy door.

"Mistress Aurelia? Are you awake?"

She set her brush down. "I am," she said. "What do you need, Saulette?"

"The Co-- er, Lord Edmont's asked for you."

"Give me one moment." Aurelia reached for her soft house coat and stepped into her slippers, then made her way to the door. It opened with a creak and the girl on the other side looked distressed to see that she was still fumbling with the belt at her waist.

"Oh, miss, you should have said-"

"It's fine," she said, smiling. "I hardly need assistance to put on a robe, and Lord Edmont will likely have been winding down himself. Where is he?"

"The parlor, miss."

She padded down the hallway and up the stairs at Saulette's heels. The young maid opened the door and bowed, stepping aside to allow Aurelia entry. Edmont de Fortemps sat in his customary chair, warming himself at the hearth and dressed in bedclothes of his own, careworn features drawn and pensive, silver-streaked dark hair perhaps a touch less neat than he might have allowed during daytime hours. It was a rare look at a man who was as controlled and dignified as her own father had been.

"Mistress Aurelia, my lord."

"Thank you, Saulette. Pray excuse us. I would like to speak with her alone."

The girl bowed. "Of course, my lord."

The door clicked softly shut at her back. Lord Edmont was smiling at her in a way her own father had never done, and gesturing at the chair nearest him.

"Well, come in, my dear," he said. "It's too cold to stand in the stairwell, you'll catch a cold from that draft." She smiled in return, drawing closer to the fire and curling up in the plush upholstered chair. "Are you nervous?"

"About tomorrow? A bit, but in that public speaking sort of way, you know."

"I do know, as it happens! Between you and me: that is the one bit about being the official head of the House that I have not missed." He reached for a porcelain teapot sitting on a tray at the nearby end table. "All the heres and wherefores and endless worry about my public image and how it might or might not reflect poorly upon the family as a whole."

"Indeed."

"I wish Artoirel joy of it. He's been chomping at the bit but I suspect reality will set in soon enough."

"I think he'll do well," Aurelia said, watching him pour the cup.

"He will. I love the boy, you know. Very much his mother's child. A bit stuffy at times, but he's a good man with a good head on his shoulders, and he's not mired in Church politics the way some of his peers are. He'll do the Fortemps name justice, I think." Edmont's dark eyes shone with cheer as he lifted the filled teacup and offered it to her. "...You had a great deal of influence there, you know."

"You give me far too much credit that I cannot claim, Lord Edmont. Artoirel is his own man."

"So he is. But you've always led by example, and you taught him some valuable lessons I think he might not otherwise have learned. Cream and sugar?"

"Just a bit of cream. And one lump." She paused, cup halfway to her lips. "...You really don't miss it at all?"

"There are some habits I miss. But it's rather like losing a tooth, you know. Strange at first but then everything falls into place over time and you barely notice that part of the routine was ever missing at all. No," he said, watching her sip, "I think it will be no great effort to make the adjustment. Being a private citizen does have its perks. And I'm still the family patriarch. That hasn't changed."

"No," Aurelia smiled over the rim of the cup. "No, it hasn't."

"Which brings me to the reason why I had Saulette bring you to me."

"What? Oh dear. That sounds rather serious," she said, trying to keep her tone lighthearted as she set the cup aside. "Tataru didn't ring you in the middle of the night for some emergency or other, did she?"

"Fury forbid!" he guffawed. "No, nothing like that. I have something I want to show you, but first I must beg your forgiveness."

"What? Why?" Aurelia was honestly curious. He set his cup aside and reached for a small, varnished spruce box sitting upon his ottoman, grunting softly with the effort. "Why would you need to apologize to me for anything?"

Edmont paused, one hand caressing the grain of the wood. That pensive expression had returned to his face, the one she had caught just before Saulette had announced her presence.

"I've little idea what to do for something like this. I only ever had sons, you see," he said. "I have loved all three of them. Now I don't delude myself into thinking I have been a perfect father, or even a particularly good one, but I like to think I have done well enough by them. ...Two of them, at least. At any rate, I'm told that in Garlemald, the tradition is for the bride to take with her into the ceremony something old, something new-"

"-something borrowed, and something blue," Aurelia finished. "Yes, it's an old wedding custom the Empire never saw fit to dismantle. Just a sort of mnemonic, for good luck. But I would hardly say it's a requirement."

"Be that as it may," he said, his fingers working the catch on the box open, "I would very much like you to wear these tomorrow."

Within the box lay a delicate lace-trimmed handkerchief of sky-blue linen, faded and discolored in places with age, folded into a neat triangle and lying atop what appeared to be a bundle of old letters. Edmont unfolded the corners with as much care as if the cloth was some priceless artifact, and within lay a small, simple pendant, an aquamarine cut into the shape of a teardrop. Firelight reflected upon the individual facets until the jewel sparkled.

"It's stunning and I'm honored that you would trust me with it. Did these pieces belong to the late countess?"

His smile trembled. "No," Edmont said. "They belonged to Haurchefant's mother."

"Oh..."

"My wife would have destroyed all of it, so I concealed this box within my personal effects. I intended to give all of this to him when he married, but-"

Aurelia bowed her head, staring into her cup.

"It bears repeating," his tone was gentle, "that I do not blame you for his death. I have never blamed you."

"But-"

"I grieve him, as does any parent who has had to bury their child, but I have never blamed you. I would give anything to have him back. Yet I cannot deny my pride in having raised a son who would be selfless enough to-" He swallowed, the bob in his throat swift and almost violent in its movement. "...Well, we'll never get through this if I start crying. Take it."

He passed her the box. She stared down at the pendant.

"Lord Edmont, I-"

"No titles necessary, my dear. I think at this point we've moved well beyond formality." He cleared his throat and glanced into the fire. "Well, I'm certain your own parents would be very proud of you."

Oh hells. Her throat felt hot and tight and her vision blurred.

"I very much doubt that," she said, her voice even but only just. "Oh, I doubt that."

"Why so?"

Aurelia's fingers clutched the edges of the box until they dug into her palms.

"...I shouldn't burden you with this-"

"By all means, my dear. Go on."

"It's... my background is much like Haurchefant's, in truth." She sighed. "My mother was a musician and an actress. She had top billing in one of His Radiance's personal favorite troupes, in fact. She enjoyed a good deal of renown when she still toured the imperial playhouses. But fame or no, she came from common stock and my uncle wouldn't have the match. Father broke a betrothal and defied his family to marry her. He even left the capitol at their request."

Edmont had leaned against the armrest of his chair to listen, his expression patient and focused. She glanced into the mirror over the mantelpiece and saw her face, as ever, staring back. Her father's broad nose and high cheekbones and golden hair, her mother's eyes. No matter where she went, she could look in a mirror and always see her mother's eyes. Usually, it was a comfort, in its own way. Tonight-

She chewed on her lower lip.

"They didn't know about her weak heart until I came along. It took so much out of her, and she never recovered from my birth. To say that my father was unable to deal with the loss would be putting things kindly."

"I can well imagine."

"There were so many times over the years I would see him looking at me and the expression he had on his face when he looked away, it- ...I used to think that he hated me. Knowing what I know now, I can see his side of things better than I ever wanted to. He lost himself in his own despair and had no time for anything else. But I think that if he had been given a choice, he would have taken my mother without a shadow of a doubt. I'm certain I'm not the only child to have ever been in this situation, neither the first nor the last. But his greatest sin, his greatest failure as a father, was letting me know it."

Something hot trickled down her cheek but she forced herself to keep talking.

"He wasn't a father to me. How could he possibly have been a good father? The moment she left us he gave up on everything."

Edmont said nothing, and she could see nothing of his face through her tears. But she heard the sound of the chair scraping as he stood, and the tap of his cane upon the floor. A warm hand descended upon her shoulder and squeezed. Gently he plucked the box from her hands, set it on the table, and pulled her to her feet.

"Any parent should be proud to have raised a child like you," he said, "and I doubt your mother would have held any of your choices against you. You are an exceptional woman - not just by your deeds, but by your heart - and even if she had known beforehand what would happen to her I suspect that much like Haurchefant, she would not have changed a thing about her decision. Sometimes our sorrows are so great in scale and so close together we think the world will never be anything else. But there is joy, great joy, in living." He tucked a stray sheaf of her hair behind her ear. "And there is joy in the hope you bring to others and in your presence in their lives. Let that be her enduring gift to you- as you are to us."

Smiling, albeit with a great sadness in his eyes, he opened his free arm and let her come to him.

"Had I ever been fortunate enough to raise a daughter," he said, "I like to think she would have been a great deal like you. If you can ever bring yourself to say it, it would greatly honor this old man to be your father in truth as well as bureaucracy."

Wrapped in his embrace, she smelled cloves, coffee, aged paper, and the earthy sweetness of pipe tobacco. She inhaled on a choked sob and nodded, unable to speak. Tomorrow would be for joy and joy alone. Tonight, she wept for the father she had lost years before he had left her, and for the gift of another.

And before the warmth of the great hearth, basking in the warmth of the parental love she had always wished to know for herself, she let the last ancient tatters of her grief burn away to cinders.

[alvaar-aldaviir]

Wondrous Tails: First “I Love You” (replacement) / Bandaging Wounds

("First "I Love You"" is a replacement for "Going on a Cruise")

Time Frame: Post Canon (years after Shadowbringers(?)), Minimal Spoilers for 5.0 end. Notes got long so they are under the cut.

Notes:

I continue to refer to Alphinaud as a Scholar instead of Academician for no reason but laziness and bad habits.

I understand the ‘time bubble’ issue of MMO’s, but for writing I subscribe to time actually passing between expansions. I don’t keep a hard and fast rule, but sort of lean toward roughly 1 year per expansion if not longer. Otherwise everyone would be mired under so much PTSD I don’t know how the Scions would get anything done, and please let my WoL breathe?

Somehow, someway, Alvaar has gotten the better of me and it’s eventual committed relationship polygamy with the Leveilleurs up in here. After actual months of telling myself no, I give up. If you hate that, pass on my stuff and have a great day.

Just for posterity, there will never be twincest. I don’t have a personal stance on people’s fiction about fictional people, but it just doesn’t make sense for the twins to me.

   The first time Alphinaud hears Alvaar utter those words, he’s seventeen. Seventeen and full of fire and determination to help right the wrongs of a thousand-year war and maybe redeem some of his own foolishness.

Seventeen and half scandalized to catch his Warrior of Light buried against Lord Haurchefant’s chest before they readied to infiltrate the Vault after Ser Aymeric.

It wasn’t as if he’d gone looking of course. Such things would have been kept a better secret behind a closed door and not front and center to whomever strolled into House Fortemps expecting an audience. But romantic subtly wasn’t... exactly Lord Haurchefant’s forte and neither was it Alvaar’s. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t known when it was the talk of Camp Dragonhead and the house servants anyway.

But it is perhaps the first time the Arcanist had seen any hint of the word “love” meaning something beyond dutifully repeated and expected phrases. Spoken as if it’s some personal secret, or more of a promise than just a response. Something alive and wild instead of the light and flippant ways he’d heard it used in Sharlayan and among nobility.

There’s a weight to those words that’s like aether humming in an incantation.

It means something when Alvaar says it and the Lord’s sharp features soften as he nuzzles into blond hair, and it means even more when Haurchefant answers in kind and some of the tension in the Bard’s shoulders ease. There’s a thousand words held in that phrase, like pages and pages of information distilled in a single line of arcane shorthand. History condensed into a lone footnote.

He never had to ask why Alvaar’s wails of pain as he’d held his dead lover mere hours later sounded like a heart breaking in two.

    The next time he hears them, it’s not quite the same.

He’s twenty (or was it twenty-one?) and farther from home than he’d ever dreamed. Fresh from facing off against Emet-Selch as they’d fought to save the First from destruction. Twenty and exhausted and content to doze quietly in the newly returned night alongside the beds two other occupants, arms draped over Alisaie and Alvaar both. He remembers feeling Alvaar’s knuckles brush his cheek, tiredly meeting the Bard’s gaze in the dark and hearing those words again.

They don’t mean the same thing, but it doesn’t overly bother him after the torture Alvaar had endured for the worlds. After the last several months Alphinaud had spent fighting sin eaters, stubborn short-term mindsets, and bitter loneliness in Kholusia.

Being called family, being called ‘home’ had only echoed what he’d felt too. The Scions, his Sister, and Alvaar, were what felt most like home. Not a large but empty feeling manor back in Sharlayan, cut off and indifferent to the world.

It’s a different kind of love but it doesn’t mean any less nor is it remotely insincere.

And even if there’s a faint disappointment in his heart he would never admit to, it’s fine. More than anything he’s simply happy that they’re still together. Still alive. Still able to fight and produce another miracle for the people of the First and the Source.

    He’s twenty-two and he knows Alvaar loves him deeply. He’s said it in every other conceivable way. Let poetry and sweet words fall from his lips or sent the meaning across in those brushes of familiar contact. Had the feeling burned into his body and mind more times than he could ever hope to keep track of...

But Alvaar hadn’t ever said it.

It’s silly and he knows it. He has no reason to doubt Alvaar and truly he knows the way the Bard feels for him isn’t anything less than his previous lover. That there was room enough in that gentle heart for all three of them. Jealousy is a terrible thing after all, so he convinces himself it doesn’t matter. Comforts himself and chides Alisaie gently when she inquires on it herself. Alvaar had been through a great deal of hardship and pain. And as they both didn’t doubt the depth nor truth of his feelings, the specific words should hardly matter.

    He’s twenty-three, and when Alvaar finally says them he barely notices. There’s too much blood, and Alvaar’s laugh is too weak and lilting from it. His mind is too busy on spells and incantations to register it as he works quickly.

Alvaar is fine. He’s always fine. He comes back beaten and bloody and smiling and laughing and visibly delights in being doted upon and taken care of. A routine scouting of the border wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near as deadly as the hopeless situations he’d been sent into before. He’s fine.

The Scholar is internally utterly terrified of course, but he knows from too much firsthand knowledge that there’s no room for panic as a healer. If he panicked, things would quickly turn into ‘not fine’ and neither of them had time for that.

So for right now, spells and aether humming in his veins, it’s fine.

        “Did you get a haircut recently?” Alvaar asks, letting Alphinaud clean, tape, and bandage his wounds. Magic had healed the critical damage and stopped the bleeding, but it would take time to heal the rest and a few more applications of white magic tomorrow. Cleaning and bandaging would ensure a smoother transition through the process, so it’s a step he takes anyway, perched on the edge of the medical bed while the Bard sits propped up against pillows.

“You should be taking this more seriously,” the Scholar returns flatly, pushing Alvaar’s hand away from his hair gently so he can keep working.

“I am. But I’m just so... very happy,” Alvaar murmured, a smile stretching across his exhausted face. “I made it back this time, I’m here, and you’re here, and it will work this time.”

It’s said with such offhanded confidence it makes the Scholar blink. “What? Alvaar you’re delirious, stay still.”

A hum of agreement rings in the Bards throat as he nods. “Okay. Let me know when you’re done and listening. He said I didn’t say it enough... That when I made it back to be sure to tell you something.”

He wants to pay more attention to Alvaar’s curious words but there would be time for it later. Though he was comfortably stabilized and would no doubt make a full recovery in a matter of days with the Warrior of Light’s sometimes obnoxious recovery speed, it’s never something he likes to leave to chance. If he overlooked something now, it could be disastrous later.

“He?” The inquiry slides off his tongue in a distracted manner, during which his moonstone carbuncle chirps with interest where it’s bedded down along Alvaar’s legs.

“Don’t worry about it,” Alvaar replies, glossing over it as his attention shifts back to the carbuncle eyeing him expectantly. “Can I have my hand back now?”

Another deft turn of the roll of bandages, a swift snip of the medical shears, and a tidy tie off had him releasing Alvaar’s arm with a nod. “Sure. Other arm if you would.”

Swapping obediently, Alvaar quickly settled his freed hand into plush white fur, grinning brightly. “Hey Carbi... I missed you too,” he cooed, chuckling at the fond chirp and purr he got in answer. “You’re the best summon ever aren’t you?”

Snorting under his breath, Alphinaud keeps at his work until he’s finished, letting his summon keep up its job of distracting Alvaar’s focus from pawing at him so he can work in peace. Alvaar was always a good patient, but woozy with blood loss he sometimes got sillier than was helpful. It made his moonstone carbuncle an utter lifesaver, and there were few helpers he would rather have working beside him. Though he had long developed more potent summons, Alvaar’s preference and the sheer number of revisions and intricacies of its design had left moonstone as one of his masterpieces. The patient bedside manner and attentive nature had made it a nursemaid second to none, and given the way it was currently cozied into Alvaar’s side and subtly keeping him quiet and still as it soaked up affection like a sponge, it remained a staple of his repertoire for good reason.

Inspecting the last of his work, he gives a satisfied nod before starting to pack things away. After almost seven years of chasing Alvaar’s shadow and tending to his wounds, his first aid is as neat and tidy as an experienced chirurgeon. A far cry from his fumbled and panicked work the Bard had coached him through with grit teeth in Coerthas. It’s only once he sets the supplies back on the shelves that he finally gives himself leave to think about anything but healing.

He’s seated back at Alvaar’s side before he realizes he’s made the steps, a bandaged hand curling warm at his jaw and pulling him closer until they bump foreheads together. It’s a movement that he’s long used to, a familiar gesture that helps to quiet the panic that had boiled over in his chest if not the emotion that threatens its place.

“I would appreciate it if you would refrain from frightening me like that again,” Alphinaud murmured softly, a faint tremor in his voice but refusing to cry. Alvaar was fine! There wasn’t any reason to overreact!

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to. Was the best I could manage,” Alvaar replied in the stilted way he picked up when he was exhausted. Given how much harder he was leaning into the Scholar, none of it surprised him.

Making a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat he leaned the faintest bit back into the Warrior of Light, soaking up the steady warmth that wicked off him and the silent reassurance he was still there. “Just... be more careful next time. For now you should focus on healing.”

“Thank you for saving me Alphi,” Alvaar whispered with a heartfelt gratitude.

It was enough to make the Scholar flush. “I... Any other healer would have done the same.”

“Maybe. But any other healer wouldn’t be worth me dragging myself back to. Sides, Alisaie was too far,” he joked fondly.

Alphinaud tutted under his breath, pulling back to grip Alvaar’s face in his hands and press a featherlight kiss to his brow before burying his nose into soft golden strands. “Jokes aside, thank you for coming back. If scaring me half to death means that you’ll pull through, then I would take that burden every time.”

There’s something about the way Alvaar relaxes into him, the faint breath of a sigh before tension eases out of his neck and jaw, that has always meant the world to him. It was too many emotions to articulate clearly, but it always made his heart feel warm. Reminded him that even if he wasn’t able to command the same fear and awe as the Warrior of Light, to be a brilliant blade that cut through the dark and evil that threatened them, the rallying cry that brought their forces to victory, what he could do was no less important.

All great hero’s needed a home to return to, else they would eventually feel they had nothing left to fight for.

“Alphi?”

“Yes Alvaar?”

Pulling back enough to regard him a moment with scrutiny, the Bard leaned in with a purposeful ease, lips brushing against his chastely for a moment before murmuring something against his skin.

This time he heard them. Felt their movement and the warmth of them against his lips and burning against his skin. Poetry and promise and providence all in one.

“I love you.”

It was no big deal. It was a sentiment he’d always known from 1,001 things Alvaar did all the time. Something he had long convinced himself didn’t matter. A phrase used over and over until it’s meaning was practically lost.

But oh.

Oh...

How those words shook him to the depths of his soul and cut him in two regardless.

    He’s twenty-one again for just a moment. Full of questions and a heart fuller still with longing, listening to Alvaar speak of love he’d known with that easy and sincere air of his. Brutally honest as ever.

Love was ruinous. Love would destroy you in ways you didn’t think were possible. Love was thirst and hunger. And all your days, when you’d known the taste of true love, of something that clutched past your heart and into your soul, you would always want for more of it.

In the present with his face buried against Alvaar’s shoulder, tears welling over and soaking into clean white bandages, he feels like a beast half starved.

“I would really like it if you stayed,” Alvaar murmurs, still running his fingers along the Scholar’s back soothingly. He’s infuriatingly casual for having just reduced his lover to tears. If he hadn’t just spent an hour healing and bandaging him up, Alphinaud would probably have swatted him.

Instead he just nods.

He’d never been very good at refusing that particular request anyway. Even when he was the one chastising Alvaar on why sharing a medical bed was in poor interest of his health.

But it’s late, and he’s tired, and nuzzling into the warm muscle of Alvaar’s shoulder he doesn’t want to leave anyway. So, he pulls himself up onto the bed fully, curling up beside him and keeping his cheek settled against the Bard’s shoulder that’s free of bruises. He knows he won’t sleep well but the situation is unfortunately familiar enough he knows that he’ll still get plenty of rest for tomorrow’s troubles.

“Alvaar?” he asks softly after they’ve both settled into the pillows, sheets, and each other accordingly.

“Yea?”

“You really need a shower.”

It has Alvaar laughing enough to make him wince, “Brat... don’t make me laugh that hurts.”

Alphinaud just smiles softly and hums an amused note as Alvaar settles further against him.

“Alvaar?” he asks again after a few minutes, getting a soft grunt of acknowledgement.

Shifting enough to study the soft and unguarded profile he’s sketched a hundred times before from memory, he presses a brief kiss to the Bard’s jaw and settles in for sleep.

“I love you too.”

[lettersforhaurchefant]

October 16, 2020

My Dearest Haurchefant,

Oh where do I even begin?? It has been quite a mad few days, and I am honestly still quite spent.

As you have known, I’ve established a little Free Company back then, under the flags of the Maelstrom. And... well... we’ve basically made the barracks and the inn our home for the past few months, as shameful as it sounds.

However! Recently, plots of land have been made free for purchase once more! I rounded up my members, and we went about trying to secure a plot of land in La Noscea upon which to build our headquarters. The whole thing was a long, arduous battle in itself!

Eleven hours, we did our rounds... searching, prodding, checking to see if a parcel of land would become available. There were even moments when I had to go into battles of will against other adventurers searching for their own homes. I wanted to give up a few times... I was so tired and I felt hopeless. After all, what can a tiny company like ours possibly have to compete with the larger companies? The ones with more gil, the ones with more members?

Ah, but I shook myself and told myself that I wished to be able to report back to you with good tidings! And so we kept striving.

And Twelve be praised, our hard work and our patience paid off! We have a home in the Mists now! We celebrated and cheered, and we almost could not believe it at first.

(I tried to draw it, but sadly, I do not have Alphinaud’s talents for this...)

We spent a good few days moving in and fixing everything up, and I’m happy to say that our company house is now up and running, and open to welcome new recruits and visitors!

Oh, darling Haurchefant, how I wish you were here!

I want to show you the fruit of our hard work. It’s such a lovely spot with an equally lovely view of the ocean. 

And the beach! We are near a beach! An actual beach! Had you been here, we could take a dip in the ocean everyday, or doze off on the warm La Noscean sands.  (And yes, it is always full of scantily-clad people, hahahaha!)

We have a garden too, and.... you would love this... we have our own chocobo stables now! Yes, I am finally learning the Ishgardian art of raising chocobos! Ah, I am regretting not having asked you more about the subject back then... it was always, “someday, someday...” and what a fool I was for having delayed it for so long until it was too late...

In the meantime, alongside our flowering trees and other blooms, I’m also using the garden to grow my own supply of krakka roots. My loyal Chocomallows has never been happier, finally having his own bed, eating fresh harvests, and mingling with everyone else’s chocobos.

The first time I performed training with my Chocomallows, I think I finally saw what you see, why you were so passionate about the subject. The sight of a joyous, healthy chocobo, skilled and well-trained, frolicking on the sand and illuminated by the sunset is truly a majestic sight. I now understand why this is so close to your heart, and I now also find beauty in this venture.

I saved some feathers that Chocomallows did shed on his first training session (he was so excited!). I will also bring it with me the next time I visit you.

Last but not least, however, is that on clear nights, the sky above is like a blanket of stars, twinkling and unhindered. You would have liked it, I think. We have a little wooden deck in our yard, with seats and a small table. It’s a perfect spot for sharing some tea (or wine, whichever the need might be), under the stars, under the moon, enjoying the scent of the ocean and the cherry trees in our yard.

What I would give to share an evening with you there on that simple wooden platform, just talking, and enjoying a warm mug of your hot cocoa. Since we have moved in, I have found myself just sitting there with a warm drink, thinking of you. 

‘Tis a small thing in the grand scheme of things, but I am so proud of our little company, our little home. And in turn, I like to think that you, too, would have been proud of us.

Once more, your spirit and your memory has kept me going through a difficult situation. I owe this to you, as well.

Before I start crying again, I will close this letter. I am tired, and I think I could use a few days of nothing but slumber, if I would be allowed.

Come visit me in my dreams, my friend. Come see our new home.

Know that I always share my joys with you. 

I miss you so, and as ever, I think of you fondly.

You are always in my heart.

Ever Yours,

A.

[efrmellifer]

The Widow AU, Part One

warning for: unbridled angst, major character death, hypothermia

The click of heels on the stones meant one thing. She was coming. She was coming, ready to be bounced and twirled and lavished with kisses.

Lucia took a deep breath, held it, released it. The appointed hour had come.

She remembered well all the times she’d had to make excursions like this, to break this sort of news, alongside Aymeric.

If only he could help her with this one.

“Lucia!” Etien called, coming to a halt.

“Etien.” Lucia swallowed, trying to put the words together, trying to make what she was about to say make sense. After all, Etien was going to be the last to know what the rest of Ishgard already did. “I’m… sorry. We didn’t know how to send letters to you the way he did.”

She watched Etien’s swaying, curling tail fall limp, still save for the wind pushing it alongside her skirts. “What? Gods, is there something wrong with Aymeric? Take me to him!”

Lucia sighed, her heart sinking. Already the light was shifting in Etien’s eyes. Fading, as it did in all the  widows Lucia had ever had the misfortune of notifying. “I can’t, Etien. He’s already been buried.”

“Buried?”

People turned, shocked at first, but the disapproving hisses turned to sympathetic coos when they saw who it was causing a commotion in Saint Valeroyant’s Forum.

She was too young to be a widow.

“We don’t know what caused it. We checked before he was prepared to be interred, but nothing came up. No illness, no poisons we could detect, nothing like that. He was just… gone.”

Lucia had seen this before, the pained smile that came with the shock and disbelief. Just a peek of Etien’s eyeteeth under her upper lip as it pulled back.

The light was totally gone now, replaced with the glimmer of the midday sun shining on the mass of tears flooding Etien’s eyes. “He’s… gone? No. Lucia, this isn’t—you can’t be serious.”

“I would never lie to you about something like this.”

Etien swallowed. “Where is he?”

Lucia let out another sigh, though it didn’t lessen the weight on her heart. “The overlook in the central highlands. You should be familiar with the spot.” She didn’t need to say more. Etien knew.

The tears were sliding slowly down her cheeks now, wet and hot and at their own plodding pace as she sat down on the fountain. She hadn’t the spirit to climb up, just plopped herself on the first part she saw, pulling her knees to her chest and her forehead to her knees.

_

Etien had made this journey into the Central Highlands before; it was never a happy one. She wasn’t wearing the appropriate mourning clothing this time, though. She hadn’t changed her clothes, hadn’t unpacked, hadn’t even gone home, just left her belongings in the Congregation and called for Nyx.

She had other mounts she could have ridden, ones that might have made the journey faster, but there was some part of her that wanted to feel this whole process as fully as she could. This might be the last time she felt anything, after all.

She was wiping her eyes more than she was holding the reins, so she was glad that Nyx was so good at following pathways and navigating the drifts of snow without her input.

At last, they found the place.  She dismounted, heels sinking into the snow as it crunched under the soles of her boots.

She pulled her coat tighter around her as she stepped up to the graves. On the left, an older one (though not very old at all). On the right, the fresh one. She remembered what Lucia had told her when Etien had said she was heading for the highlands. “You’ll find a gap between the plots. We… we figured you might want to be buried there, eventually.”

The fresh grave was very fresh. Hells, the snow was still slightly gray from being mixed with dirt.

She didn’t even get to be there for the burial, to cast her fistful of dirt. Not that that would have been a fitting goodbye, when their star had still been rising. She’d just told Feo Ul how much there was left to do! And now it would never get done.

The gods were cruel.

She knelt in the snow, not caring even a little about how it soaked through the knees of her tights, chilling her to the depths of her bones, to her very soul. She kissed the stone they’d placed to mark the grave.

Trusted leader, beloved husband, it read. She wept freely. He was, he was so loved. He was a man worth following, a man worth waiting for. She’d have waited her whole life just to see him again. But it wasn’t to be, apparently.

She knelt between the headstones until the sun went down, mostly crying, but doing a lot of thinking as well.

That is, until her thoughts hit a breaking point just after dusk. Then, all she could do was scream.

Her voice—the voice that had goaded on armies, buoyed battalions—left her in a high, howling cry, one that echoed across the highlands before cracking, She sucked in a breath and the scream continued, each new wave sounding more feral and wounded than the last.

When she’d screamed herself past hoarse, over-oxygenated from taking in so much air between wails, she fell to the snow, crumpled unconscious between the graves of the two men she’d most wanted to protect, but wasn’t able to save.

For a blessing, she was found before she really did join Haurchefant and Aymeric at the bosom of Halone, though she was in no good way. Put simply, her lips being close to blue was the least of her problems.

But she was carted somewhere she would be safe, brought to the care of her family—though not to Ishgard. The journey would be too far. She needed to be warmed up now, and the closest place they could guarantee her safety? Camp Dragonhead.

They burst into the office, calling for Emmanellain’s attention, the men carrying her trying not to jostle her too badly.

“My lord, your sister was found out near Providence Point, lying among the gravestones, about to sink into her own grave. Her chocobo was found nearby, as well.”

Emmanellain’s eyes widened as he looked at Etien, deathly pale. He didn’t lift his gaze from her, willing her to breathe, as he thought about what grief it would bring if of the five that Edmont claimed as his children, only he and Artoirel remained.

“Only the true bloods,” he mumbled before looking up. “Uh. She needs to be warmed, pray do so however is safest. When she can be transported, I shall take the old girl and her bird home.”

_

Still unconscious but looking better, she was trundled out later, placed back on Nyx and carefully secured, then Nyx was lashed to Emmanellain’s chocobo to make the journey to Ishgard.

It was as they were crossing to the Arc of the Worthy that Emmanellain chanced a look back at Etien, to check if she was waking up, and to make sure the color was staying in her cheeks.

Blessedly, she looked fine.

When the pair arrived at Fortemps Manor, Etien was carried inside by the house knights, and laid in the bed that was always made up, in case she needed somewhere to stay. Blankets were heaped around her, and Emmanellain stayed close, to ensure she didn’t catch a final chill, or sweat too much.

She stayed asleep for days. But she was only asleep. For this, they thanked the Fury.

[geirskogull]

Steel Reign - Chapter 1: Urth’s Font

tldr gonna be a short series based around Danica and Odin since Urths Font ate five hours of my life once and This is how im getting back at it

Archive Link

Rating: M

Count: 1.7 k

Leaves crunched under heavy, almost metallic, hooves. A sentry, high among the branches, snaps to attention, her white knuckled grip upon her spear tightening. Eyes narrowed, was this just another deer, wandering into the Font? Or some vain adventure not unlike herself seeking death and glory in equal measure? Or was this her target, her quarry, her hunt?

She held her breath, scanning the forest floor. Thinking back to the warm, dry rooms of the waking sand and the events that lead here this deep in the forest, alone save for the occasional squirrel climbing among the branches, curious what exactly the person shaped statue was doing in the trees.

“Pray, Lady Voss, art thee truly sure thee wish to go alone?” Urianger had asked her, not long after the two of them had finished parsing Lieutenant Scarlet’s urgent letter. Detailing the resurcents of the “Dark Divinity” Odin. The Primal so shrouded in myth, it was only fitting that he chose the Black Shroud as his hunting ground.

“What choice do we have?”  She had asked back. “The others are busy with equally as important business, and It’s not like I don’t know how to call for backup.”  Her voice had been sure, when in truth she had been far from the picture of confidence. Primals were group endeavors. Always the lot of them on the field together, not unlike the Company of Heroes. Or what was the group she’d been learning about recently? The Zodiac Braves? The Danica Voss of the present shook the thought from her head and focused back upon the sounds of the shroud.

It mattered not how she came to this situation, only that she was in it. Nestled among the trees, stalking the woods for sightings of the Dark Divinity with full intent to engage and hopefully dispatch him. At least temporarily.

In all honesty, she had very little faith O-App-Pesi’s plan to rid the woods of him forever was going to work. Especially with how little they knew about him. They knew not his origin. They knew not how he got his powers. They knew not who believed in him (though she had a theory on that one.) How were they sure that by killing him here that he’d stay dead? What made this place so special.

If the Padjal hadn’t been so adamant she immediately set out on her hunt, she’d have demanded she be given time to double check his research. She would have laughed, in another situation, even long after she had left the thaumaturges guild, it still had its claws in her in someway.

The forest was silent.

Dead silent.

She could hear herself breath if she focused hard enough. A smirk played at the edge of her lips, fools confidence. The time for waiting was over. The time for action was now.

Entering the clearing, she could see him. Armored from head to toe, atop a fiendish looking steed clad in the same black metal. The Master of the Hunt, perhaps about to be hunted. She watched him for a spell, barely breathing, committing every single movement - even those as simple as a roll of the primals neck - to memory. She found, over time, those same questions peaking into her minds eye, not as distractions, but as useful leads. How could she fight an enemy she did not truly know.

The Horsemen lead his beast towards the center of the clearing, and seemed to stall. Sheathing his sword unexpectedly and merely tilting his helm up in the rain. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think he was just a wandering knight of parts unknown, pausing to let the rain ease the stiffness in his old bones.

But he was a primal. An Unknown, perhaps even unknowable primal.

She, spear in hand, jumped from her perch in the trees to the wet grass of the clearing.

She would find out which it was. Knowable. Unknowable. God. Man.

Odin slowly looked down from the sky, following her path from the trees with obscured eyes. When she did not charge forward, he turned his horse to face her. Sleipnir she believed he was called, closer up he looked almost more voidsent than horse. Fiery red eyes, hair more akin to large feathers than a proper mane. She tore her eyes from the beast back to its rider, whose hand rested patiently upon his sword.

“Doth thou think yourself a worthy foe? Mortal before me.”

His voice echoed in the woods, the only sound for miles if she had to guess. His very presence breeding dread into the forest animals. She could feel that primal urge to flee into the night while she still potentially had a chance. Yet she stood firm. Yet she answered.

“I can’t speak for my “worth”” she started, her voice not betraying her shaken core. . “But I can speak for my curiosity. And if such a thing leads us to clash, so be it then ey?” She removed her spear tip from the ground, and began pacing around the primal. Far enough away she could retreat into the cloud tops if he advanced, close enough that she could watch him like a hungry animal.

If Odin could have, he would have smiled. Worthy prey indeed.

“Speak then, what is your query. Tis’ best to die without questions.” He kept his hand firm on the hilt of his blade. Helm tracking her movement, Sleipnir baying impatient. Part of her was disappointed that it need come to blows, another was surprised she saw any other outcome. She stopped her pacing, holding the primal at spear point.

“Who are you?”

The question rang out into the empty air, and the world itself seemed to come to a standstill. For the first time in their entire encounter thus far, Odin looked away. Odin faltered. With a smile on her face, she did not wait for his answer. Sailing through the skies with dragonfire in her veins, A hunter versus a hunter.

“Every Primal has a Story.” She spoke once more, diving backwards when his shield repelled her initial blow. Landing on her feet initially, she rolled to the side to avoid his mounts angry hooves.

“An Origin” Her strike rang true off the armor of the primal, a burst of aether signified. Yet one blow would not be enough. The primal drew his sword.

“Someone who believes.” She could not roll away, jump away, from his next series of blows. Thrown backwards by the force of Zantetsuken’s blows, all she could do was struggle to recover her footing. The blood trickling down her arm a sign of his own victory.

She stumbled back to her feet, taking a more defensive stance as the primal once again took note of her. The sword, she realized now, was beautiful. A massive curved blade of black metal that seemed almost to glow in the dark shroud.

“So tell me,” She began, as Odin advanced forward, fast. Realistically, he had the advantage on speed, but she had it on height. Jumping towards the edge of the clearing every time he grew close.

“Who are you, who believes in you?”

Those final words muttered, Odin once again faltered. His grip upon his blade less sure, less controlled. Yet, that made him no less Dangerous. What replaced the knights confidence was a feral rage as the Primal screamed at her.

Screamed at her and charged.

And thus, the fight began in earnest.

But thankfully, she was not upon her back foot. Charging as he did, Voss dodged the fell blade with precision and skill, looking for any gap in the black plate that might prove fatal. Rips? No the chest plate was solid. Knees? No the joints were welded with a masters hand. Helm? She couldn’t see his face beyond his...

Eyes, she’d aim for his eyes.

Jumping back, she landed hard upon the ground. The blood pooling at her feet proof of her mortality, proof of her humanity. Proof of where the primals blade had hit its mark. Her breath was coming heavy, apparently, in her search for weaknesses, she hadn’t realized the extent of her damage.

She would not stop now, not with an end so well in sight.

One for either of them. Perhaps even both of them.

The Primal raised his sword, high into the sky. Where it sparkled and gleamed with unholy intent. The Dragoons spear was held much the same, save her eyes were closed. The lights however, that congealed around both were different, antagonistic. Where one was a swirl of black and purple light, choking at her even then, the other was a brilliant blue. Taking the form of a Dragons head, as she leapt high into the sky. Hoping to find her mark.

Praying to find her mark.

When she once more opened her eyes, she was alone in the clearing, and her spear dug heavily into the ground as  a cloud of aether quickly dissipated into the cool night air around her. Victorious.

Dropping the weapon, she let out a mighty cry, and it was as if all the forest cheered with her. Alive once more. Oh they would never believe this. She couldn’t wait to tell them all. The Scions. Haurchefant. Hells, maybe she’d even track down Estinien’s grumpy ass and tell him too.

She fell upon her butt, laying back upon the ground, and let out a content giggle. Gazing through the leaves to the quickly clearing night sky. At least until she heard the wet clatter of another blade than her own hitting the ground.

Jumping defensively, half expecting the primal to be lying in wait with some kind of fell trap, she was greeted by the sight of his blade. Strange, she thought, should have gone away with him.

Then again, most of the primals she’d faced before then hadn’t used weapons. Claws, fists, talons, but no weapons. Perhaps those stayed? Relaxing her pose, she remained curious. Strapping her spear to her back she approached the fallen sword, so much smaller now that the primal that held it was dead.

Should bring this in for study, her tired mind urged her, Urianger would probably have a field day. It glowed still, brighter now under the night sky. It was so beautiful. Waiting for its owner to return.

If only she hadn’t reached out, and taken it.

[ffxiv-ariavitali]

micro story writing prompts #13: ‘too loud’ and #15: ‘trembling hands’ 

or personal writing prompt, ‘burning’ [inspired by Violet Evergarden]

AO3 ver.

-

The pumping within her veins was setting fire to her entire body. She felt the burns too keenly, both the ones that marred her body moons ago as well as the ones imprinted into her soul. It was too much, far too much, for a single individual to handle and yet the gods above decided that this was to be her fate.

Aria chuckled at the prospect of such, laughed at the idea that the cruel machinations of fate decided that she were to undergo a series of pain and torture. The voices of those that she has slain echoed from the deepest part of her heart, from the side of her that she - at first - wished never to see surface again.

The smiles of her friends, blood seeping from the corner of their lips. The anger of the fallen that she had slain as she did what she must.

The hopeful eyes of their loved ones, wondering when the victims would ever return.

It was loud, much too loud, within her head. The last wishes, the curses, the sight, sound and smell of death accompanying her blade. Each added to the throne of bones lying in her wake along a liquid red carpet of the blood offering they have given - whether they were aware of it or not.

How could she end this? How could she make this go away? When will the burning stop?

A cool breeze wrapped around her in a protective bubble, soothing the self-inflicted, imaginary pain as if it was there. The Hyuran woman peered up, without full awareness her cheeks were stricken with tears, and saw the ghost of two figures at her side.

Of the two figures she created, made manifest of her heart.

Fray encircled his arms from behind her, his hands resting atop of hers from where she gripped the handle of her claymore. The trembling she wasn’t aware existed dissipated upon realization, upon the comfort of a kindred spirit that she had forgotten was always looking out for her.

“‘Tis alright,” he said, a rough voice echoing in her mind in a gentle whisper. “Just a little longer. We are with you.”*

Myste, as small as he was, stood in front of Aria with arms outstretched, as if using himself as a shield to protect her. The same protective bubble she had initially felt glowed softly in patterns akin to the starry skies of the heavens above. The light in the dark, the beacons of hope in the blackest night.

“You remember, don’t you?” he asked of her, peering over his shoulder to present her with a kind smile. “Think of us in your darkest hour. We love you. Forever will we love you.”

Tears further spilled from the woman’s amethyst eyes and she felt her body ready to rack with sobs.

Nonetheless, this wasn’t the time. The threat of war loomed before her, here on the front lines of Ghimlyt Dark, and her fellow Scions were left behind, caught unconscious by whatever affliction has banished them to a land of dreams - if that’s what’s even keeping them from returning.

A magitek colossus appeared before the woman and swiped her aside, sending her flying back half a dozen yalms. While the pain was minimized thanks to the blessings given to her by those she holds dear to her heart, it didn’t stop her from coughing up splotches of blood onto the ground.

In the distance, there was a cry, one from a voice she had grown accustomed to hearing in a land of ice and snow. Simply hearing it growing closer and closer fueled the fire within, reignited by the reminder given to her by the deepest part of her soul.

“Aria!” the lord commander shouts. “Aria, are you alright-!”

Before she answered, the Hyuran woman turned with her claymore gripped tightly in her hands and Plunged towards the colossus that had knocked her away. Rejuvenated with energy and using the pain mitigated from her by the memories of those deep within, Aria positioned her body to take down the magitek armory with a Bloodspiller, finishing it off with an Edge of Darkness for good measure. The moment that it crashed to the ground was the moment that Aymeric had finally reached the woman’s side.

“By the Fury!” he exclaimed, his ice blue eyes wild with worry. “Fall back, we will hold the line.”

Aria’s lips curl to a grin — up to the challenge and not without a tinge of madness as one of greatness is wont to have.

“Nay, Aym, I would fight for a bit longer,” she answered in kind.

Aymeric’s eyes widened. “But, Ia, you are injured!”

“And I would fain accept a chirurgeon’s ministrations after this last push!” she responded. The Warrior of Light then turned towards the advancing battalion led by the lord commander, recognizing symbols marking different houses of the Pillars — including her own.

(Truly, the use of a crimson lily outlined in gold by House Lukos could not have been any more ironic for her. A Warrior that has seen and shed rivers of blood borne into a house specializing in conjury and the healing trade, representing the purity and sanctity one's faith in blessed Halone should have, was enough to make the woman feel as if she deserved not her birthright.

Moreover, their blatant renouncement of her father, a lowborn with an unknown name nor a family of his own, was enough to anger her so much that she refused in-depth dealings with them, leaving it to her elder brother.

Not that he would have it any other way, for Stryder would not suffer to have his little sister take on more burdens than she already bears. This is in despite of the fact that his sister’s innate talent for the arcane was not unlike the scion of Lukos, their late mother, which made her the ideal heiress to the name in comparison to her fool of a brother that couldn’t weave aether to save his life.)

At this, the soldiers saw her eyes sparkle — as a stout leader in her own right encouraging them with utmost effectiveness — and felt courage welling within their breast.

“One last push, fighters of freedom and justice!” she rallied, raising her claymore towards the Garlean line before her. “Remember Carteneau! Remember Rhalgr’s Reach and Doma Castle! Remember the pain you have suffered and allow it to be your strength for this assault! I yet stand with you and I will not suffer to have them take what we have reclaimed!”

The soldiers released a roaring battle cry before marching forward, the effect of the Warrior’s words giving them the courage needed to continue on this path. Before she could rejoin the main host, she sensed Aymeric’s watching eyes and he continued watching her worriedly. Overshadowing it, however, was a hint of admiration and a single question slipped his lips — one she has been asked many times before.

“All the pain that you have experienced… how is it that you are still able to stand, unbreaking?”

Aria stared at him for a moment before a helpless smile passed her lips.

“Among the greatest forces on this star, man is wont to fall to fear quite easily. It can act as a cold mistress in the abyss, seeking to freeze you whole before engulfing your very core. Yet, as Haurchefant once told us, is there not a fire hot enough to reforge the broken blades within our hearts? For where there is fear, there is cowardice. Despite this, there is in equal parts courage, Aymeric. The courage to take from this abyss the strength we need to push onward and the wisdom to know that taking more will lead us to oblivion.”

Aria’s gaze darted to the sky, her expression growing forlorn. When she had her fill, she turned to Aymeric once more.

“I believe in our people, Aymeric. As you have always done and as I know you ever will. Have faith and it will carry you farther than you think.”

Before Aria could say a word more or Aymeric could respond in kind, a voice called out to the Warrior of Light — the one belonging to her attendant, Echoes, who was part of her squadron sent to spearhead through enemy lines as an irregular unit.

They nodded towards each other and as she was about to depart, Aria raised an arm and stretched it towards her love. Soon, he was surrounded by an aetherial shield that moved as he did, surrounding him in a blanket of stars and encompassing him in a certain kind of warmth that he feels when it comes to her.

“Have care, Aym,” she urged of him. “And no noble sacrifices — I would like to meet our children, after all.”

With a wink, Aria turned her back on the lord commander and sprinted off, leaving behind a blushing lord commander before the first commander reached him.

“My lord?” Lucia called, baffled he was left on his lonesome on the battlefield.

Aymeric smiled and shook his head. “‘Tis of no issue, Lucia. I must work twice as hard now.”

Though Lucia was confused, she didn’t question her lord and followed his lead. In the meanwhile, he felt the aether sifting around him like a warm hug by a hearth on a cold winter’s night. It was just like Aria to give him a boon, unbeknownst to the others so as to not mark indications of ‘favoritism’. It was just like her…

...this method of saying ‘I love you’ without saying the words outright.

---

notes:

*inspired by this comic

[zenithlux]

EOA 10: Divine Intervention

It’s been a hot minute since I’ve updated this beauty. But now that I’m finally able to write more again, expect more updates on more stories (and more drabbles as always... but maybe not all Devil May Cry xD)

Catch up on the story here!

Carbuncles are small fox-like creatures that can help fulfill various roles depending on which version is summoned. Emerald Carbuncle casts spells, while Topaz Carbuncle can tank. However, there are rumors of much stronger Carbuncles that can be summoned based on the power of the summoner. Only a few of these variations are known…”

-Y’mithra’s Research Journal, “Of Summons and Carbuncles”

---------------

After nearly an hour of little progress, Aymeric accepted that, in this lifetime at least, he may never actually summon a carbuncle.  Y’mithra had tried to be encouraging. “It takes time,” She said. “And you’re showing great promise. Just practice whenever you get the chance.” And while he appreciated the sentiment, Aymeric wasn’t sure where she got that notion from, as nothing had happened since he attuned to the aetheryte. He hadn’t even seen the shimmer of a Carbuncle, something that Y’mithra had called a promising sign. And while she had also claimed to see it herself, Aymeric didn’t believe it. 

It was difficult for Aymeric to not think of his failures as a potential burden. They still didn’t know what effect Aymeric’s sudden “absorption” of Z’iyanna’s power had on her. And if he couldn’t use this newfound magic, then what was the point? Why was he given this power if he wasn’t capable of using it? 

On the bright(?) side, he could still see Moogles, which was good for his new companion. 

Puklia Pachu, or Puklia as she preferred to be called, had been waiting on the airship before Aymeric himself got there. And once she’d announced that “Sir Aymeric said I could come, kupo!” he knew any attempts to dissuade her would be for naught. Now, she was on top of the world, thrilled to be going on an adventure, excited to meet her hero, and mesmerized by the airship itself. Aymeric could feel her enthusiasm as if he were the one about to meet his idol for the first time. And that, at the very least, was a feeling he could relate to. 

“Is she as amazing as the stories say, kupo?” Puklia said. 

“I don’t know which stories you speak of,” Aymeric replied.

“I’ve heard them all, kupo!” Puklia said proudly. “Did you know she even defeated our king? He was big and scary and she fought him and the Moogle guard all by herself! And I heard it was more graceful than our dancers, kupo!”

“Moogle have dancers?” Aymeric said, trying to imagine what such a thing would look like. 

“Is she that amazing?”

“I think so.”

“Is she as beautiful as they say too?”

Aymeric choked, and he swore he heard Cid chuckle somewhere behind him. “Well traditionally speaking…”

Puklia’s arms flayed in irritation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Many would likely refer to her in that way.”

Puklia paused as her paw touched her chin. “But do you, kupo?”

Aymeric’s face felt warmer than a 1000 suns. “I… Yes I… suppose I would,” He was suddenly grateful that Haurchefant had gone elsewhere, as he couldn’t imagine answering such a question in front of a man clearly pining for Z’iyanna’s affections. Of course, Haurchefant would likely be answering these questions himself. In fact, Aymeric was certain the Moogle would be far more entertained with Haurchefant than Aymeric himself. 

“Aymeric,” Cid said as they drifted toward one of the islands. “It seems Haurchefant has beat us here.”

“What?” Aymeric practically flew from his seat as he reached for the railing. On the ground was a Haurchefant, but he was more furious than Aymeric had ever seen him before. His voice practically pierced the heavens, even though Aymeric couldn't quite tell what was being said. The boy in front of him - Emmanellain, Aymeric recalled - was cowering as if Halone himself was standing before him. The page boy next to him was quiet and clearly avoiding Haurchefant’s wrath. 

“Oh no, kupo!” Puklia said as she waved her hands around in a panic. “Z’iyanna’s missing!”

Aymeric’s heart plummeted as Cid brought them in for a landing. “What else has he said, Puklia?”

“She went to save that boy, kupo,” Puklia said. “But the boy came back without her!”

Aymeric didn’t want to believe her, but the pain on Haurchefant’s face when they landed. “Z’iyanna’s missing,” He said, eyes flickering to Puklia for a brief moment before meeting Aymeric’s gaze again. “And the temperature is dropping by the minute.”

“Hypothermia?” Aymeric said. 

“That is my greatest worry, at the moment,” Haurchefant said. “Even if she had access to Ifrit, I fear she would not last the night.”

“My crew and I can scout the area,” Cid said. 

“I wouldn’t recommend that,” The page boy said. “The storms up here are very dangerous for airships.”

“But surely if we know which way to go…”

“My brother cannot recall where they were,” Haurchefant said through gritted teeth. “But we know she rescued him from the Vanu, so she has to be near there.”

“She dropped to a much lower island,” the page boy said. “I couldn’t see which one, but I can try and lead you there.”

Zephyr kwed beside them as he pressed his forehead to Haurchefant’s cheek. “You know where she is?” He said. The bird chirped a second time, more urgently than the first. “I’m so sorry,” Haurchefant murmured. “I should have asked you sooner.” He grabbed a set of blankets from a knight, and filled a backpack with small bits of food. Then, he leapt onto the Chocobo’s back. “Please take the Lord Commander home and return to us in the morning. I swear on my life that I will bring Z’iyanna back.” 

“I can’t abandon…” Aymeric began.

“I will find her,” Haurchefant said. “But we cannot risk the archbishop blaming you for her disappearance, or declaring you missing as well.” And before Aymeric could respond, Haurchefant took off into the skies, Zephyr leading the way. And for the second time that day, Aymeric was left painfully aware of his own weaknesses. 

“Mr. Aymeric?” 

He glanced at Puklia as she slowly hovered up towards his face. “Is Lady Z’iyanna going to be okay?”

Slowly, Aymeric nodded. “Lord Haurchefant will bring her back. Of that I am certain.”

----------------

It is cold.

Oh so very cold

Why did these treacherous mortals try to fight the likes of me? Why did they work so hard, and struggle for so long, to contain me in that failiable prison? They should have known that I am unstoppable. I am inevitable. My rage will consume them all. My fire will scorch the earth. My fury will annihilate all life and hope in its wake. 

But she gives me pause. The goddess among mortals. The fight who has destroyed the lives for hundreds of soldiers, beasts, dragons and primals in her wake. SHe stands before me. Unafraid, Unflinching. And she tells me the words I never wanted- n, never thought I would hear.

“You’re not alone.”

The Warrior of Light they call her, come to save a murderous, ruthless monster like me.

But this doesn’t change anything. My rage only simmers, buried deep within her consciousness. Our power is intertwined- two unstoppable aethers feed off of each other. Growing. Shifting. Changing until neither are recognizable… or until only one is left.

So I wait. I bide my time and watch until one or the other claims this body. My rage may consume her. There are already signs that it is beginning to. Her righteousness may undo me, but I feel nothing. 

She has no idea of the turmoil within her… but she will soon.

That elezen… is more interesting than I thought. I wonder if he realizes the potential he now holds within him. But it is of no consequence to me. If he does not grab what is now rightfully his, then he is of no use to me.

Humans are all the same.

Except for her.

She is the only one to have proven herself to me.

We’ll see how long that lasts. 

For her death, will be my beginning.

----------------

It was cold. 

Oh so very cold. 

Z’iyanna knew she was dying. Her robes could only retain so much heat. Her healing magic couldn’t stop the impending hypothermia. Her shield couldn’t block the frigid winds. And as the sun lay low on the horizon, she was left to wonder if which version of her the search party would find; a proud Warrior of Light or a forgotten corpse adrift in this sea of death. 

At least the whale hadn’t come back. Though she had yet to decide if freezing to death was better than being eaten alive. 

No, she chastised herself. I will not think that way. She had survived far worse than something like this. And while Haurchefant might not have made it back in time, Aymeric surely would have. Which meant Cid and the others had to be close. Zephyr had found her before. He could certainly find her now. But she was painfully aware of the fact that the islands had shifted over the last few hours. Some had risen. Others had lowered. The island where she’d met the Vanu was so far away she had to squint to see it with any amount of clarity. And with the wind picking up.

“You’re right you know,” the voice from before whispered in her ear. “It’s all hopeless.” 

A small piece of Z’iyanna wanted to lash out in a blind rage. This person. This thing that could only exist in her head had no reason to berate her. But the majority of her didn’t, as it was too consumed by shivering behind a rock that offered very little comfort. 

“Pathetic.”

Z’iyanna snorted. “I’ve heard that one before.”

“But you’ve never believed it.”

“And I don’t now.” 

“So you’re a liar too?”

“And you’re not even real.”

The voice sighed. “I am as real as you are, child. And you’re the reason we’re stuck in this bloody mess to begin with.”

“Heaven forbid I try to be a hero.” 

“You’re no hero, Z’iyanna.”

Her head snapped up in protest, but she was alone. Great. She thought. Either the hypothermia was kicking in quicker than she thought, or she had finally lost her mind. Either way, she’ll be making her enemies’ day. 

Haurchefant…

Z’iyanna was not blind, nor was she ignorant of her own feelings. The two had been close companions for over a year now- far closer than she had been to any of the Scions. Haurchefant knew almost everything about her. He’d never judged her or expected anything more than who she was. Not as the Warrior of Light, but as Z’iyanna. His comrade. His friend. Maybe his something more. She wasn’t certain exactly where they were in that regard… but it wouldn't matter much if she died here. 

Then there was Aymeric. What would happen to him if she were to disappear? Would his people blame him for her death? What about the new, unknown aether within him? She had hoped to read the inevitable letter from Y’mithra with all of her theories and findings to ponder over while Z’iyanna tried to figure it out herself. And she wanted to know what was happening to him. She was also terrified that her death could kill him just as quickly.

Then there was Bahamut, Midgar and Twintania. Tataru, Alphinaud, and the other missing Scions… So many lives depending on her survival. So many people expected her to pull through any adversity, death included.  

“Because they are worthless without you,” The voice said again. “And I say good riddance. Maybe you’ll finally get some peace when everyone else isn’t piling the world on your shoulders.”

“Lady Z’iyanna!”

Of all the times she had heard Haurchefant’s voice… it had never brought her such visceral relief. And Zephyr’s panicked “kweh!” almost brought her to tears. “I’m here,” She whispered, her dry throat unable to produce anything louder. But Haurchefant landed by her side anyway, sliding off of Zephyr’s back the second he could. A moment later - when had he ever moved this fast? - a blanket was wrapped around her as Haurchefant pulled her close to his chest. 

“Zephyr,” He said. “Behind her.” The chocobo moved without a sound as he plopped down behind her, pressing his body as close to her back as possible. And Z’iyanna, weary from the day and exhausted by the lingering voice, succumbed to the newfound warmth. 

----------------

Alphinaud was exhausted by the time he returned to Ishgard, and he quickly decided that a nice long nap was in order. 

Unfortunately, he stepped into a manor full of solemn faces and a Count whose first words were “I’m afraid we’ve encountered a problem.”

Alphinaud did his best not to crumble at the thought. “What kind of problem, Count Edmont?”

“Lady Tataru has been arrested for heresy.”

The quote “no rest for the weary” had never felt so real.

[crystalsexarch]

orogenesis

It happened that her return to the Source came ten nights and eleven days later. Eager as she was to spend more time with her new lover, she could not abandon certain responsibilities to wither away one lustful evening at a time.

Last chapter of What We Already Know, but can be read as Heavensward angst, which I know we never get tired of around these parts...post-Shadowbringers.

A Warrior once betrothed to a certain knight returns to Ishgard in search of closure.

More writing here.

She did not stop at the Rising Stones, nor Camp Dragonhead. When she came upon Ishgard proper, the hour was late, but still she traveled past the Forgotten Knight, past the Brume, and into the Pillars anyway.

By that time, stars had blinked into the sky. Each one reminded her of someone she had avoided on her trek to the Last Vigil - Tataru, Emmanellain, others. But she made her way towards one she had avoided far longer. Far too long.

When she could see her destination, she slowed her pace and tried to control her breathing. Sweat pooled beneath her mail, sweat that cooled her a bit too much now that she was going slower. The streets were nigh empty. A few guards meandered from point to point of interest, and one in particular stood where he always had, waiting for her and hers.

She wasn’t trying to catch his attention - quite the opposite - but his head darted to her nonetheless. Even from beneath his helmet, she could see his eyes grow wide with recognition and shock. He couldn’t see her face, but there was only one of that stature and build who donned a Drachen armet like hers.

Her horns also hinted at her identity.

“M-milady!” He stumbled forward, caught between a bow and a salute. He nearly ended up with a kneel.

She waved him down and grimaced, knowing she would enter the manor wet with sweat after all, unannounced and her lungs burning from the cold.

“Ishgard’s savior, and the world’s besides,” the guard said. “Are you come to see - “

“The old lord, if he’s yet awake.”

The guard cocked his head. “You speak of Lord Edmont?”

“Aye.”

He nodded slowly at first, but faster as his lips opened. “Tis like he yet lingers in his study. I can...have you escorted.”

She clicked her helmet off and exhaled, watching her breath dance from her mouth into the atmosphere. “I can find my own way.”

-

Often she had left her helmet in the sitting room, but it didn’t feel right under her current circumstances. An empty spot in the parlor beckoned her sense of nostalgia - you can just set it here, it isn’t a bother - but she hadn’t just returned from the Aery or the Vault or Azys Lla. She would rest her head elsewhere. Sweat on other sheets. Cry into another pillow, if it came to that.

The warmth of the house was the only thing that kept its halls from looking, from feeling empty. Somewhere a fire burned, its buzz suggesting a lord sipping tea and flipping to the next page of a grand old tale. The Warrior swallowed and stepped deeper into the half-lit manor, like she was exploring a liminal space.

The door to Edmont’s study was open. He appeared before her sudden and grand, dark brows framing blue eyes set upon his book. Though she made no effort to conceal herself - indeed, she thought her nerves would have rendered a more silent approach nigh impossible - he never broke his concentration. Whatever he was reading made him smile. She thought it likely he mistook her approaching footsteps for those of a manservant or maid working into the evening.

Once she reached his door, he realized no maid clinks as loud as she.

The smile stayed painted on his face even as he raised his head to see what manner of knight trudged about the Manor Fortemps. The Warrior’s lips shook when surprise forced his mouth open. With the fireplace at his back, a new light colored him, a colder one, but the twinkle in his eye remained.

He spoke her name like it alone could light the manor.

“Lord Edmont,” she said, her cheeks full with a wide-brimmed smile, one she knew the right combination of words could shatter like glass. “I pray you forgive my coming unannounced.”

The Count rose from his seat, arms wide. She nearly expected to embrace him, but soon he raised his hands in a gesture not unlike one she’d seen his late son make many times. Palms upward, face beaming; it was perhaps the most like Haurchefant she had ever seen him. “The Warrior of Light is welcome in my house at any and all hours. That shall ever be as true as night and day.”

She had no desire to tell him how she’d come to know those concepts as a bit less set in stone than he presumed. “I should...come more often.”

“Sit,” he said, gesturing to a second chair not far from the fireplace.

She stepped into the room, but shook her head. “I...I don’t mean to trouble you long.”

“You are no trouble.”

“I know, but - “

Firm hand on her shoulder. “You are no trouble. Sit.”

She pursed her lips and nodded. Finding the chair, she set her helm at her feet and clasped her hands over her knees. Despite Edmont’s warmth and declarations of praise, she had never quite grown close to him, felt comfortable speaking as an equal in his presence. Unlike Emmanellain and even Artoirel, Edmont had an air of deep lineage about him. He was perhaps the only noble whose nobility she had no choice but to respect.

He sat and set his elbows on the armrests, fingers together. “I hear you have made a name for yourself as a liberator.”

She smiled and looked to the flames.

“Doma, Ala Mhigo...but not before you freed Ishgard from a legacy of bloodshed and deceit.”

“None of that would have transpired were it not for your hospitality.”

He chuckled. “Opening our hearts and home to adventurers of your ilk was no difficult task, child.”

Of course, it would have been harder without a certain knight’s endorsement.

The Warrior sat on that thought, listening to the fire. Edmont shifted and tapped a finger at his lips.

“I am no fool,” he said after a while. “You wear a grim countenance beneath your smile. Had sorrow not befallen us, I’d be less surprised to see you come to Ishgard more often.”

Her shoulders drooped. “I love this city well,” she said, halfway hypnotized by the dancing flames. “This house and this family. That is why I…”

A log broke. A flurry of sparks puffed from the fireplace and faded into gray. The Warrior turned to Edmont, lips yet searching for the proper explanation.

“You need make no excuse,” he said, shaking his head. “There are days I question whether I would leave, had I the option. Or at least the proper walking shoes.”

She smiled and wiped her eyes out of habit, though she had yet to shed a single tear.

“I am glad you have come.” He turned to the fire and held his hands together once more. “It does me well to spend time with one whom I know loved my son as much as I.”

The Warrior clenched her eyes shut and bent forward, hoping he couldn’t see her, hoping her pain hadn’t sent a ripple through the aether itself. “There is...something I must tell you. Something he...Haurchefant wanted to tell you...yet I…”

He didn’t respond for a while, but she kept her eyes closed. She wanted to rub her hands together, to curl her legs to her chest, but she couldn’t rely on ticks to get her through this conversation.

So much silence passed - she had no choice but to speak. A gasp broke her eyes open.

“I can’t find the words,” she said. “Words will not do him justice, I...I can only show you what he showed me.”

Edmont’s eyes were heavy. Ready. “Show me, child.”

She held her lips tight to keep them from trembling and reached into her bag. Finding the tiny wooden box was easy. For weeks it had been slipping into her hands when she sought other things. But it remained with her nonetheless. Once she had it, she held it in one palm and set the other at its lid, turning to Edmont before prying it open.

As he saw the ring, she knew it was one he recognized. A familial piece. Perhaps something he’d given Haurchefant upon knighthood and searched his effects for after his passing. That ring, he may have wondered. Had he given it to someone after all? The expression he wore was one of agonized acceptance, not at the choice his son had made, but at the choice on which his son had been unable to follow through.

“I am sorry,” the Warrior said through tears. “I kept this from you. He had wanted to tell you himself, and since he didn’t get - I just kept it to myself, thinking it would - I never thought to - “

“I would have no other,” he started, deep voice bearing the role of his heritage, “wear this ring.”

“I should have returned it, or informed you otherwise.”

“It is yours to keep. And to wear.”

Her arms grew weak. “How can I?”

“My dear child.” His voice betrayed the sorrow he had tried to wield without breaking. “Grief does not diminish best when hidden away in a wooden box. Nay, it grows stronger.”

“Edmont, I - “

He stood and took the box. The flames cast half his towering body in orange. “Your gauntlet.”

She sniffled and worked the metal from her left hand as best she could, feeling like a child. Edmont knelt before her, so close she could see his tears even in shadow. Armor in her lap, he steadied her wrist with his free hand. The ring hugged her calloused finger, but not so much that it hurt.

As soon as the Count had completed the task, they both stared at the bejeweled silver piece on her finger. Instead of questioning whether it looked or felt right, she wondered what Edmont thought of it? If he regretted insisting she put it on? One pain that kept her from Ishgard was the pain that forced her to fear disappointing this man - the one who could have been her father by law.

At the same time, she and Edmont looked up, eyes locked and all water. And then, laughing through tears like fools, they embraced until they could once again wear smiles worthy of Haurchefant’s final words.