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elfyourmother · 2 years ago

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FFXIVWrite 2022 - 1: Cross

“Believest thou this shade to be Nidhogg returned? Is it not merely a manifestation of his vengeance—the shadow cast by thy brood-brother’s rage? I would not command thee, but ponder well thy course lest it lead thee unto greater remorse…”

Midgardsormr’s words hung heavy in the air of Zenith; mayhap for the first moment Gisele could recall in these parleys, a flicker of doubt cast a shadow within great eyes of untold power. But a flicker, and it planted a seed of hope within her anew. If his sire could move even a wounded heart cast in stone, mayhap...

And so she gazed up at Hraesvelgr.

“Though the flame of my life’s span be but a flickering candle before the brilliant incandescence of thy immortal Sun, my lord, I have lost much. So much, my lord,” she said softly. “Grief is my milk tongue.”

Duncan. Niall. Riordan. Alistair. Leliana. Zevran. Loghain. Minfilia. A litany of beloved names, of beloved faces, cruelly stolen from her by the indifferent provenance of fate. The manner of it, the purpose of it, mattered not; whether it be by their deaths or her own, she was bereft in the main of so many she had come to hold so dear, all the same. Tears pooled within her violet eyes once more, all unbidden, when she thought upon them.

But the peculiar, bitter calculus of war was one with which Gisele Surana was intimately, brutally familiar, more than Ser Aymeric could ever comprehend. Twas the very equation by which she came to dwell upon another world entire: the death of one, to purchase salvation for the many. Twas the calculus of all Grey Wardens, who swear it before the Joining chalice:

In Death, Sacrifice.

And Gisele fulfilled her vow gladly; what was one Orlesian elf from the stews of Denerim with magic in her blood, when measured against the scion of a beloved monarch, and the hero who freed Ferelden from the bitter yoke of Orlesian oppression at long last, no matter his deeds since?

But it was a choice she made, by her own will, seizing her fate with all she was, in the profoundest measure of love. She could not make it for another, much less one she loved so well; not then, when Denerim burned, and not now, when the shadow of a fury most ancient was cast long over the Holy See and threatened to consume it. She could not permit such men she loved to die, even to see saved the land they held so dear; she could not lose Alistair or Loghain, and so she took up the burden herself, to perform a Warden’s final duty with the profoundest measure of love.

Would that she could do the same for the Azure Dragoon, a man who had become no less dear to her; that she could take the vengeful wyrm’s rage unto herself, that it claim her flesh and not his, that she might suffer in his place. But for all the eldritch blood which cursed him, it did not flow in her veins as that of the darkspawn once did. She could not suffer it in his place. But she would not sacrifice him to see this land saved, no matter that she came to love it so, for it embraced her when she bore naught but borrowed garb upon her back and a promise from her beloved Haurchefant. Of a surety, did Gisele love Ishgard with all her heart, foibles and all.

She loved Estinien more.

“Gisele…” Alphinaud murmured, reaching for her, but she lifted her tear-stained faced to the great wyrm, the patriarch of the First Brood, in defiance and conviction.

“I love him, my lord—I love Estinien with all my heart, as much as I have ever loved another. And I cannot lose him to this vengeful shade,” Gisele cried. “I refuse to add his name to the litany of those I have so cherished and have had torn from mine arms, not so long as the light of hope be even a distant glimmer, not so long as he can as yet be saved. I cannot! I will not condemn him to die as I once did, consumed body and soul! I shall not—I cannot lose him!

Tears streamed down her bronze cheeks, streaking murky kohl and pigment by turns, but she was undaunted, and stood tall and defiant. Gisele inhaled deeply of the mountain air, crisp and thin, bidding the thunderous pounding of her heart to settle, though it did little to ease the palsy in her hands.

“Of a surety does thy sire speak candidly, great Hraesvelgr, and I shall speak no less plainly. I am not Aymeric, who swore oaths to protect Ishgard at any cost; only bonds of affection and the profoundest gratitude doth bind me to the Holy See. Thus, do I plead the boon of thee that he cannot: pray, my lord, help us save our companion, the man we both love,” Gisele asked.

Alphinaud’s gasp was audible, to her right; precocious though he was, brilliant and perceptive though he was, the lad was unseasoned in the ways of the heart, and it was made plain betimes. These long weeks into months they’d spent in Ishgard, and still he did not take the fullest measure of the bond between the Lord Commander and his Azure Dragoon, though twas plain as day. For all his guileful cunning, betimes the inexperience of youth rang truer. Gisele could not help the silent amusement which tickled her at it, even in so dire a circumstance.

But twas uncommonly soft, when the great wyrm’s words echoed at last through the vaults of Gisele’s mind in response, his gaze gentle when finally it lowered upon her.

“Thou wishest to rescue the dragoon from his fate along with all the rest? I do begin to see why Ysayle entrusted her hope unto thee. So alike you are,” Hraesvelgr said.

“She remains in the care of the Hospitaliers, within the city,” Aymeric said. “Tis not merely my own people I seek to save; I shall not repay her aid, her sacrifice, with faithlessness.”

Again, a flicker of doubt, when the great Eyes drifted between Gisele and Aymeric. “Truly? Thy purpose is pure. But so, too is my brood-brother’s wrath, and tis that which lendeth him his all-surpassing might. Thou doth beg mine aid to save thy people, yet by thine own confession thou art a kinslayer, young knight. The city thou doth hope to save seems divided, and it shall not stand before the singular purpose of mine brood-brother’s fury, so divided, e’en should I lend mine aid. Would it not be spurned?”

Aymeric did not waver.

“I do not deny the wisdom in your words, Lord Hraesvelgr; my people are fractious indeed, and a house divided cannot hope to stand. But in this purpose, the defense of our city, have we ever been of one mind. It remains as such, despite the perfidy of our ancestors being difficult to accept by some,” Aymeric replied. He paused then, his steely blue eyes narrowing before he continued. “Once, long ago, your people and mine made a covenant to protect this star. And though we have done naught to deserve it, I would restore the trust that was broken. Lend us your aid, I beg of you, and let us begin anew.”

“Thou wouldst seek to restore the covenant?”

“Aye,” Aymeric replied simply, with a graceful incline of his head.

“Dost thou sit the throne of Ishgard?”

Gisele’s blood ran cold in her veins, her heart pounding in staccato once more, at the question posed by the great wyrm. Aymeric’s words returned to her then, unbidden; the words he spoke with such anguish and determination before they embarked upon this journey, retracing that long road through Dravania, once more to beg Hraesvelgr’s aid.

Whatever price the dragon asks of me, I shall pay it—such was my oath to defend the people of Ishgard.

She turned her gaze to him; still he did not waver. Surely, he must have marked the greater implication of the dragon’s inquiry, but it did not show upon his person, when he made his response, guileful though he was.

“Nay. That throne has stood vacant nigh unto a thousand years, since the death of King Thordan and the abdication of his only heir. The stewardship of Ishgard was divided, then, between the nobility and the Ishgardian Orthodox Church; I rule as acting Archbishop of the latter, until such time a true successor is chosen,” Aymeric explained, even as Gisele fought back the rising tide of panic within.

“Ysayle spoke oft of thy church—and its falsehoods. Yet thou doth bear its mantle, and seek to begin anew upon such crumbling foundations? Nay. The covenant between our people was made by an Elezen king, then rent asunder by one. So shall it only be restored by one. If thy heart be true and thy purpose pure, Aymeric de Borel, then ask of me as a King.”

Aymeric’s eyes grew wide with alarm, his mouth uncharacteristically agape, and Gisele raised a trembling hand to her own. He had not known, then, what Hraesvelgr would ask of him til it was made plain—for all his chary cunning. Of a surety, the olive color drained from his handsome mien, and his wide eyes filled with abject shock. Mayhap in believing him the consummate politician, Gisele underestimated the Lord Commander’s sense of humility. For surely that was the source of his surprise.

He swallowed hard, his chest rising with the depth of his slow inhalation. It was clear to Gisele then—as clear as the starry heavens above them—that Aymeric did not anticipate such a demand, because he did not deem himself worthy of it.

“Lord Hraesvelgr, with due respect, what you ask of me—tis a steep price to be paid, and with coin not mine own,” Aymeric said gravely. “I can no more compel my people to recognize such a claim than you can compel yours to refuse the siren call of Nidhogg’s dread song.”

“I doth heed the words of my Father; I know the spirit which doth claim the flesh of thy mate to be little but a shade born of rage eternal. Still, what you ask of me is equally grave. Shall I war with mine own brood-brother for aught less than a royal oath?”

Gisele’s heart sunk within her breast, and she felt the thinness of the mountain air most acutely as the breath was stolen from her lungs. For it seemed to her then, in that moment, that she was no longer stood amongst the soaring heights of ancient Dravania, but the palace in Denerim what seemed now a lifetime ago (and was).

Then, a land which teetered upon the precipice of utter annihilation by a wyrm rendered nigh unstoppable by unholy and preternatural corruption stood fractured against itself even in the face of such a dire threat. Then, a misguided ruler stood between those who would save it, and what must needs be done. Then, Gisele stood at the side of a man who did not deem himself worthy of the duty fate and necessity most dire would press upon them both—a man of humble stock who nonetheless held the power to save his people, if he but had the courage to seize it.

A man she loved with all her heart, and knew would be forever lost to her if he did.

Then, she let him go--gave him up in the name of duty, to save their land. The scholars of ancient Nym oft said that time flowed as a river, and history repeats. There upon the heights of Zenith, before the great wyrm, the echoes of the Landsmeet reached across that river to haunt Gisele, across the cosmos. Once more, a choice must needs be made. Once more, her heart bled, and she saw no other way.

She could not help the tears that flowed anew as she turned from Aymeric; she raised a trembling hand to her face, fearing he would see it. But once more she found herself grateful for Alphinaud, his calm demeanor and steady presence at her side.

“Pray, Ser Aymeric: none protested when you took up the Archbishop’s miter, did they?” he asked. Aymeric shook his head.

“Nay; by the laws of succession was it done. Twas the bishops themselves who pressed it upon me, and the High Houses concurred. For the sake of continuity, to avoid a perilous vacuum of power in a time of great upheaval,” Aymeric answered. “But with due respect, Master Alphinaud, tis another matter entirely to restore a throne laid dormant for a millennium. Particularly in light of the truth that vacated it.”

“But the peril has only grown since then, and none would deny it. Not after Falcon’s Nest,” Alphinaud said. “Hraesvelgr spoke truthfully: your people are divided, the faith they once held in stalwart institutions shattered. They need somewhat to unite them, somewhat to shine a light to illuminate the path forward. A new way for a new era, yet one rooted firmly in the traditions of the past. Restoring the throne wouldn’t be the worst way to do it, I think.”

Gisele could not gainsay Alphinaud’s words; the lad had a brilliant mind steeped in politics, and it showed at moments such as these.

Aymeric turned his gaze to Gisele, and she swallowed down the lump which rose within her throat as her heart sank yet deeper to mark a turmoil she had as yet never seen within those beautiful eyes of steel-blue. Nay; she had seen it once before—but once, the night he and Estinien kept Halone’s Vigil with her in the Congregation’s chapel, praying for Haurchefant to awaken after his injury.

Did the anguish that threatened to consume her choke his own heart as vines, as well? Gisele could not help but wonder, and believe it true, when he looked upon her this way.

“What say you, my lady? Forgive me, but I have come to value your counsel,” Aymeric said softly.

It took every onze of discipline she possessed not to run to him, to fall into his arms, to beg him not to do it, for none in Ishgard would countenance a foreign adventurer as the King’s consort, any more than Ferelden would countenance an Elvhen mage as queen.

However, twas not the heartsick woman who yearned for his embrace that answered, but the Antecedent.

“I say that those who believe themselves unworthy of power are those with whom it can be trusted most, for they alone understand the weight of it,” Gisele replied. She lifted her hand to clutch the amethyst pendant about her neck; so tight was her grip, she felt the stone digging sharply into her palm. The pain helped; her mind drew into focus, and she shut her eyes. “I say that I have known many kings, in many lands, and few raised from birth to sit thrones are as suited as you, my lord, who claim you do not come from good stock. You said yourself that no price was too high, to see your people saved—so I say pay it, ser knight, and damn the consequences. Tis a far simpler thing to beg forgiveness of men who yet live because of it, then ask permission of men who can not see the dire peril in refusal. And without Hraesvelgr’s aid, there shall be neither Pillars nor Foundation to protest the boldness of your presumption, for Nidhogg shall not rest till every stone of your city be cast down into the Sea of Clouds. You must know this better than I, Lord Commander.”

Aymeric lowered his gaze, and was silent for an interminably long moment. As he seemed lost within his own tumultuous thoughts, Gisele feared that she may have overstepped her bounds. But when he lifted his eyes once more to meet her own, they were shed of the turmoil they once held, replaced anew with the burning fires of conviction, and then she feared her knees might grow weak.

“Once more, I find myself within your debt, dear lady. You remind me who I am, and I am grateful beyond measure,” Aymeric said, at last, sweeping into a bow of heartstopping grace. When he rose, he turned once more to Hraesvelgr.

“Hast thou made thy choice then, young knight?” the great wyrm asked. Aymeric stood tall before Hraesvelgr, the delicate point of his chin raised high; the very picture of regality and stalwart determination.

“Aye, Lord Hraesvelgr. If a King of Ishgard be required to see it saved, then so be it: I ask once more, as one who would take up the duty my people cast aside so long ago: pray lend us your aid in the coming battle with your brood-brother, that we might save all we hold dear. For you have my most solemn vow, upon the Sacred Hoplon of the Fury and all the heavenly host that should we live to see the morrow, no more shall the fires of war rage on between Ishgard and Dravania!”

“Very well, child of Man. I shall,” Hraesvelgr replied.

Midgardsormr had been silent, content to observe and little else, until that moment; the diminutive wyrmling nodded his assent, to each of them. “I say to thee, it is done, and well. For now, I shalt return to my rest; Daughter of Hydaelyn, thou mayest call upon me, should such witness be required by the children of Men.”

Gisele nodded, and he departed, vanishing in a shimmering burst of aether. She felt the weight of Hraesvelgr’s gaze upon her then; it fell upon them each in turn, she, Aymeric, and Alphinaud.

“Thy conviction tis unwavering, it seems…but hast thou the strength of will to stand against so terrible a shadow, I wonder? Twould seem I must put thee and thy companions to the proof,” Hraesvelgr said. “I shall await thee in the ruins where Ratatoskr once dwelled. Heed well the words of my children, and hasten thee to the place of thy trial!”

With that, Hraesvelgr too departed, the sheer strength of his mighty wings sending a tremendous gust toward them as he took to the night sky.

So it was, amidst ancient ruins, that a new covenant was formed between man and dragon; so it was the Azure Throne came to be; so it was that Aymeric de Borel took up yet another burden for the sake of his people.

But this one would not be his alone to bear, any more than had Haurchefant’s been hers, or Estinien’s his; thus Gisele made her own vow silently, as she drifted to his side, gazing up into the starry skies, reaching for his hand. And Aymeric clasped it tightly within his grasp, in silent acceptance.

#ffxivwrite2022 #gisele surana #aymeric de borel #otp: promises kept #the elfpile #bisho writes #first fic i’ve finished in literal months pls be gentle

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arcann · 2 years ago

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3, 10, and 16 for the wol ask?

thank you sasha my beloved mwah mwah

3. How good are they at saying “no”? Has it gotten better or worse with time?

Very bad. Extremely. Ever since they were a child. Now it's worse! Most of the time when they don't want to do something they procrastinate doing it and give very pathetic excuses for it. Or find ways around it (they feel guilty for looking for them though). It's so bad that sometimes Alisaie their friends come along to say no for them. Embarassing how they celebrate themself when they manage to do it when they're on their own.

10. How do they deal with the pressure of being a or the Warrior of Light? Do they have a ritual to relax and recenter themselves?

They have let pressure overwhelm them and have had breakdowns over it. They tend to isolate themself or run away but they do come back and quickly since deep down they know it's not right. Much later they like to go somewhere close to the sea or just large bodies of water andwatch the sunset like they used to do with their father. And even later, since the sea is not always close, they learn how to sew and cook which they do it for large periods of time until they feel better and gift the results to the people around town when they get actually good at it.

16. Tell us about the two major events from MSQ that left the deepest emotional scars on your WoL.

Discovering how Minfilia was lost crushed them since every other Scion had been found alive. They had very high hopes they would find her well and to be taken away by Hydaelyn left them resentful. All that resent would slowly get redirected towards the ascians, the people that brought the Flood to the First. It became a viscious and ugly sentiment.

And yeah of course Haurchefant. It was so bad their mind and the drk soulstone made a little not-their-child physical manifestation of all their guilt and impotence that killed birds. Because they hate birds. That's messed up.

Bonus from my Werlyt rewrite: Letting Alfonse get recaptured by the 7th Legion and never seeing him again. Maybe. They spend all night running around Mor Dhona knowing it was not possible that he was still there and end up having a breakdown in front of the Agrius wreckage in the Silvertear Lake.

It's meaningful

So yeah just adding that because in context and in their darkest moments they relate romantic love with loss, grief and failure.

#the first batches of taigat's food were chugged by the voidsent blorbo btw #oc: taigat

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miss-tc-nova · 3 years ago

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Inevitable - Thancred Waters x WoL

I really can’t describe just how much I love “The Ballad of Mona Lisa.” Anyway, I’ve had this plot in my pocket for a while and the song on a FFXIV fic playlist for ages and, yay! It’s done! Enjoy.

Theme inspiration from This Post by Dhol Writes

Music Inspiration: The Ballad of Mona Lisa by Panic! At the Disco

~~~~~

Through the night of Mor Dhona, the chocobo carries his passenger towards the Crystal Tower. The man astride his back is lucky the steed already knows the path for his mind treads dangerous territory, falling deeper and deeper with each subsequent thought. But how could Thancred think of anything else?

Thancred was the first Scion mistakenly abducted to The First, and if he was being honest, he probably took it the hardest as well. Not only was he forced to confront his misgivings concerning Minfilia and Ryne, but he had to suffer five long years without the support of the love of his life. So it should go without saying that, when they reunited after the incident at Laxan Loft, Thancred couldn’t have been more relieved.

But when the Scions made their return to The Source, the Warrior of Light did not. Soul Crystals were safely delivered and everyone successfully reawakened in The Rising Stones; even G’raha was given a second chance to live his own life in his own time. As Tataru tells it, however, the beloved warrior stayed long enough to pass on the crystals before setting out to retrieve the Exarch and disappearing, citing unfinished business in The First that needed tending too.

At first, there was disappointment in Thancred, but he couldn’t help thinking of Ryne and Gaia and their work to restore The Empty. Surely, that was a valid reason for his partner to disappear again for a few moons. Then the loneliness began to settle in and he found himself wishing for the adventurer’s immediate return. It was as if he were living in The First all over again with this separation. It made him surly and spiteful and, admittedly, he indulged in activities he probably should not have. It was the only way he knew to dull the pain.

Then came the chocobo. The hero’s ever-noble, unmistakable steed turned up just outside Revenant’s Toll and the Scions were alerted. While there was no sign of the rider, the gunbreaker found a note addressed to him.

His love had returned, asking for his presence alone near the Crystal Tower in only a few bells. Gods, he could hardly wait. His heart craved the company of the warrior and he set to preparing, hoping to make the most of the requested privacy. Shortly before he set out, however, the Scions had a guest: one Aymeric de Borel asking for the whereabouts of the Warrior of Light.

His face was wary and grim, as if he expected the Scions to attack at any moment. Granted, the news he brought did not bode well for anyone.

“The Warrior of Light is a Primal.”

Aymeric had seen it himself in Ala Mhigo, the vaunted hero succumbing to desperation before Zenos and transforming before his very eyes. Somehow the adventurer escaped him, stole away to Norvrandt, and was likely still there only to evade capture. None of the Scions could scarcely believe it, but they all turned to Thancred.

Thancred took his leave without a word, the Lord Commander’s tale playing over and over in his head. Surely he was mistaken; it was war, after all, he could’ve seen a summoner spell or even someone else change into a Primal. His beloved couldn’t possibly be a Primal, not when such beings are so detrimental to the very existence of the star. The Warrior of Light would never turn to a Primal’s power.

They have enough aether for it.

In fact, a Primal-possessed being would explain the behavior displayed shortly before leaving The First. Anxiety, anger, avoidance: several signs of hiding a secret. Even Thancred had been subject to the same explosive treatment as Emet-Selch on a few occasions—over a simple jest.

No. The Warrior of Light could not be a Primal. It has to be a misunderstanding.

The soft “kweh” brings the wary man back to the present. The bird had successfully delivered his patron to the gates of The Crystal Tower. His heart set heavy with worry, Thancred dismounts and rewards his courier with a pat. Really he’s just stalling, desperately trying to convince himself that Aymeric was wrong. He came alone for a reason though, and it’s not the same reason he’d intended to come alone before.

Thancred pushes his way through the gates, coming upon The Eight Sentinels, now merely ornamental. The glittering tower looms above, its dark and terrible secrets locked behind a dazzling façade. All is still beneath its gaze and the man feels as if he might suffocate on the stale air.

Across the way, strolling down the steps, is the very person squeezing down on poor Thancred’s heart. Beautiful would not begin to describe the adventurer, and that smile could bring anyone to their knees. Even the few words of greeting are enough to bring a tear to Thancred’s eyes. It takes everything in him not to abandon his rationale and sprint the gap.

And so he says the words that will destroy his only happiness.

“I spoke with Aymeric.”

That smile is gone, replaced with stoicism that betrays the hint of a snarl. Shoulders tense and a palm hovers over the hero’s favored weapon. Worst of all, there’s not a single trace left of the person he loved. This has been going on for too long.

Pleasantries go out the window as accusations are thrown both ways. Thancred rightfully berates the fallen hero who, in turn, suspects an ambush. They scream and snap at each other, until the crucial question comes from Thancred’s lips: Why?

The monster masquerading as man simpers. “Because the Warrior of Light wasn’t strong enough.”

Years of secrets come flooding out; the Warrior of Light’s greatest feats were committed by a self-summoned Primal feasting on the aether of Eorzea’s champion. The person everyone looked up to was a fake.

Making the tough choices was never something Thancred had been fond of, but time and again he’d done what was needed. He’s made sacrifices, left people behind, and doled out his fair share of tough love. This hurt more than any of that. This was no longer his love, but a Primal needing to be dealt with.

The moment Thancred puts a hand on his sword, a rippling shriek splits the air. He doesn’t have a second to waste; should the warrior attempt to enthrallment, he’ll succumb in an instant. So Thancred charges.

A burst of light threatens to blind him as Thancred swings down on the creature. He makes contact, but when the light subsides, he finds a shield of heavenly wings beneath his blade. In the adventurer’s place stands something more akin to a sin eater. The glory of his opponent cannot be stated. Draped in pristine ivory accented in gold, they stand at the ready. Old scars and blemishes are gone, leaving behind naught but perfection. And he sees it all, for not a single shred of darkness graces the warrior’s presence, not even in the eyes. It’s such a perfect picture of light that his ally is nigh unrecognizable. It makes him sick.

There’s no holding back when the Warrior of Light throws Thancred aside. He hasn’t even a chance to recover before he falls under assault. Eorzea’s hero was a force to be reckoned with before; facing this unbridled power may be the last thing the Scion ever does. Yet, somehow, he scrounges up the ability to keep up. His strength wavers beneath blow after blow—hands trembling and always on the back foot. Even his mind considers letting it all end, but Thancred remains standing. His resolve takes a blow, though, when the angel begins to speak. His faults, his failures, his losses: all of it spills from the monster’s mouth, dragging Thancred closer to the edge.

Perhaps it would be best if he just gave in.

His quaking knee gives, allowing the man to be snatched off the ground. He’s flown higher and higher into the sky before the warrior hurls him back down. There’s definitely a crack, his lungs spasm for air, and the contact his head made is dizzying, but the Warrior of Light hovers overhead, sparing him no mercy.

This is it. The angel dives, heading right for him. His fight and his love end here.

The ground shudders. All is still for a moment as Thancred struggles to comprehend the outcome. Above him remains the Warrior of Light, surprise writ across that ethereal face. While the impacted had been braced by the sextuplet of wings, this did not stop the angel’s impalement by Thancred’s gunblade.

Glittering lights begin to fill the air, taking pieces of the fallen as they go. Thancred lives, having bested the Warrior of Light, a Primal. But this is no victory. He killed Eorzea’s savior—someone so burdened by the hopes of others that they feared failure. Thancred could’ve stopped this; there must’ve been signs he missed or something else he could’ve done. He should’ve paid more attention in The First or found Feo Ul. Maybe one of the other Scions could’ve reversed this. How could he let this happen?

His name brings his focus to the face of his love. There, in that last glimmer of fading life, he can see his beloved. That soft expression of adoration he’d seen many times over is the last straw for Thancred as he begins to break down, but the angel leans closer, pressing gentle kiss to his face.

“I’m sorry.”

~~~~~

Nova’s Final Fantasy Masterlist

#thancred waters #thancred x reader #thancred x wol #gender neutral reader

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atlasmisery · 3 years ago

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one of my absolute favorite scenes in heavensward, and in the entire game itself.

characters being unfair or overtly emotional can make one eye-roll, but i opt to think of these moments as an incredible high for them. it shows them at their core, their performative outer layers shaved off to reveal what’s underneath.

thancred, up until the end of ARR, is known as the flirtatious and joking rogue of the scions. however, his silly, almost dorky moments in arr are sharply contrasted with the man he later becomes. hardened by surviving in the forests by himself, losing his ability to manipulate aether, and becoming distraught about losing his adoptive daughter... many things happen to him, and he takes on a very gritty, rugged appearance and demeanor. it’s a fascinating gap. but what’s even more fascinating is the result of this all.

this cutscene presents two situations.

emmanellain, who is suffering the consequences of his actions, seeing his beloved servant beat up and bruised because of his earlier mistake. he takes his anger out on the people of ishgard, claiming it all fell to pieces because of them

thancred, who is suffering from much loss. the most prominent one being losing minfilia, the girl he felt responsible for and helped raise. he is at a loss, and feels incredible pent-up bitterness about what couldn’t be helped.

emmanellain throws a tantrum, blaming everyone but himself for what happened. it’s a point of frustration, to the point the WOL tried to punch emmanellain himself. but, is stopped by thancred, who seemed to be taking on a more ‘bigger person’ approach. he gives emmanellain honest advice, but is promptly punched. and, worst of all, emmanellain makes a claim that thancred knows nothing about consequences. that he is sure of everything, that every single one of his actions are celebrated.

this clashes terribly with thancred, considering the tragedy that made itself known to him, and he punches emmanellain. he gives him a harsh scolding, clearly alluding to his own struggles due to emmanellain’s unfair claims, and walks away.

the ‘conflict’ here is a point of interest for me. these are two characters who went through separate instances of tragic events, and became emotionally sensitive because of it. they lash out at each other in a fit of anger. the intersection of the separate tragedies of ishgard’s attempts at celebration failing, and minfilia’s ‘death’, falls to a single, amazingly presented argument. it’s an amazing scene that ties together two separate, now inter-mingled, arcs and an incredible character moment for thancred.

#thancred waters #ffxiv

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allycryz · 4 years ago

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Incandesce

Explicit Fic

Thancred x Nerys (WoL) x Emet-Selch / Thancred x Nerys / Emet-Selch x Nerys / Some Thancred x Emet-Selch

When Nerys made the mistake of telling Emet-Selch to surprise her, this is not what she had in mind.

Even more astonishing: that Thancred is interested.

(A lot of other ships mentioned/discussed, primarily Nerys x Haurchefant and Nerys x Estinien x Aymeric)

Shadowbringers Spoilers

[From This Prompt List]

Prompts Used: Hot Springs in Winter / Restraints / Double Penetration Other Tags: Minor Breathplay in the water, Shaping Aether into Extra Hands, Brief Food Mention

Meta Notes:

This is currently not-canon in the general, overarching sense, but everything that happens prior to Nerys entering the hot springs is canon.

Prelude

Beneath the thickest canopy of trees, Nerys can ignore the great and terrible light above. Pretend she is in the Shroud again. There are Duskwight waiting among the Night’s Blessed for her to return with supplies and reports. Never mind that it’s a name they don’t recognize. The elves of the First separate themselves by region and family, not clan.

Many of Night’s Blessed look like the faces she grew up with. It has...been a long time since she was with such a group. Visiting her parents and Uncle Vaquelin had been lovely, but brief. And that was so long ago now. Before Doma, before Gyr Abania, before Minfilia came here with Ardbert and his companions.

The memory of that long-ago visit conjures Haurchefant, who she had brought with her. Her family loved him–how could they not? It makes her miss him all the more. Their too-brief, too-scarce meetings since her arrival are not enough.

She leaves the nostalgia and safety of the trees behind along with her brooding. People are expecting her. A truth no matter what world she lives on, whether they call her Warrior of Darkness or Light. Nerys is thankful this place doesn’t also remind her of Ishgard. Then the homesickness might turn her brooding into outright tears.

Now. Collecting reeds for the girl’s basket. They should be due south from here.

“Far be it from me to meddle…” Emet-Selch materializes beside her, as if picking up a prior conversation. “But my curiosity outweighs my desire to see where ‘the chips do fall’.”

Nerys turns her gaze toward him without breaking her stride. Last time he did this, she was picking berries and near fell over into the dirt. “Saying ‘far be it from me to meddle’ does not cancel out any subsequent meddling, you know.”

One corner of his mouth tilts up. “I expected my company to be polite enough not to mention it. More fool me.”

“What do I know about manners?” She cannot help herself. Maybe it is the pleased, attractive smirk whenever she says something diverting. Maybe she is tired of all the misfortune around them and needs levity. “I am but a simple warrior, a weapon of brute strength raised in the woods.”

“Self-deprecation does you no favors, my dear. Even when it is clear you know it’s all rubbish.” He waves a hand. “You are among the politest of my enemies.”

“Thank you?”

“Mm. I can be generous.” He lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “Now, about my query. Tell me...which suitor do you think will win out?”

That almost makes her stumble. And she can tell from his expression, he is reliving when she almost fell upon her basket of berries. A rare mishap from her that he will never, ever let her forget. “I...beg your pardon?”

“No need to beg for it, this one is free,” says Emet. His tone is insinuating as ever on that point. “You clearly carry torches for both Masters Waters and Matoya. I get the impression he was your lover at one time? The outline I have of your activities before the Exarch summoned you does not include the gritty details. As for her, only the Hrothgar moons after her more than you do.”

Nerys opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “You truly have been watching, haven’t you?”

“Oh not everything. Mortals are not so difficult to read, once you have practice. And your eyes…” He catches her chin, directing his gaze into hers. “They are terribly expressive, once you know what to look for.”

Emet-Selch wants a reaction. She puts her hands on her hips, lifting an eyebrow. Waiting for him to continue. As if his thumb isn’t stroking over her jaw, gentle as a lover. The touch as stirring as when he graces her with a particularly enticing smile.

“Now...” He does not need her permission to continue so she doesn’t give it. Clearly, this is a soliloquy he wants to perform. “I am not sure you know how many carry a torch for you, and I shan’t spoil it by telling you. But it does make things interesting. Not to mention, this Lord Haurchefant your group often mentions. Shall you abandon your noble suitor for a rogue posing as a knight? Or for a scholar of great and terrible power? Will one of the yet undeclared reveal themselves and win the hero’s heart?”

That heart thuds painfully against her chest. The way he shapes his syllables charges each provoking word. And the directness of those wine-gold eyes, a shade paler than her own but no less piercing for it.

He has gotten so much of it wrong. That does not negate how easily he has gotten so much of it right.

Nerys curls her fingers around his wrist and tugs his hand down. Emet-Selch does not resist, though when their hands are navel-level he twists just so, clasping her wrist in return, They remain locked thus, neither one letting go.

“Surely one as ancient as you, as easily bored as you,” she says. “Must know there are other options.”

“I don’t think a vow of chastity would suit you. Your eyes run too hot upon your comrades-”

“Lord Haurchefant,” she continues. “He is my lover and my beloved. Were I the marrying kind, his ring would be on my finger. That would not stop either of us from sharing physical and emotional intimacy with others.”

Emet-Selch says not a word, betrays no emotion. He does not veer into patronizing congratulations or arrogant dismissal. That same thumb begins to stroke again, over her gauntlet.

“There are others in the Source with such arrangements. I’m delighted to know it’s fairly common in the First.” Nerys cannot resist her smirk. Is this how he feels when he lectures her? “For some, it is about a variety of sexual partners. Sometimes it’s like that for us. More often...we are the kind to fall madly for someone or someones, in addition to wanting the physical parts. So whatever may happen...it is not a matter of winning.”

“Well,” he says, looking at her as if for the first time. Considering.

“Well,” he says again, with a slow smile. “You are full of surprises, my dear. I thank you for not being as boring as I expected.”

“Accuse me of many things, but never that.” Nerys takes a step back, breaking the link of their hands. “But I don’t think my expansive heart is my most unique quality.”

“On that, at least, we agree.” His enigmatic smile inflames just the right amount of curiosity in her. She resists best as she can. “Well, that puts to rest one of my little games. No reason to stay and help you...what is it again? Collecting reeds so a girl may make a basket?”

“Yes, that,” she says. “Would you like to join?”

“Oh, I am not so starved for stimulation to partake.” Purple and black aether swirls around his ankles. “Whistle for me, when you’re doing something actually worthy of a hero.”

“No need,” she says. “Somehow, I think you’ll know.”

He smirks as he disappears.

Weeks Later

"Alone at last."

In one motion: she slams the book shut, jumps up, has the knife pointed and ready. The sharp edge gleams in the lamplight, as bright as his gaze as he sighs at her.

"Really," says Emet-Selch. "I thought we were past this stage."

They were. They are. It doesn’t change that Eulmore is an ever looming spectre at their heels. That this pressure on her chest and shoulders is building. For their last few talks, Ardbert has made sure to catch her attention well before speaking.

She keeps thinking Ran’jit is about to appear and cut her down.

Nerys exhales a breath, blade staying poised for the moment. “Do you always startle trained warriors?"

“Only you, hero.” He touches the pad of his gloved finger against the dagger point. “This is not so beautiful a weapon as your lance."

"A lance is a little more difficult to keep close at all times." It is, in fact, leaning against the wall of her room. Just behind him. By the way his eyes flicker to the side and then to her, he knows it.

They are well past when she might run for it, and brandish it at him. The gaze feels so much like a challenge though, she contemplates it. He wouldn’t expect her to start a physical fight after weeks of banter.

Nerys withdraws the blade.

“It is a well-made little knife. A gift? I don't recall seeing it on you before."

"I always keep a dagger on me, one never knows when an ambush is coming." She slides it back in the sheath, touch lingering on the deep-plum leather of the hilt. "...But yes, this is new."

"I thought so. From Thancred no doubt, as he has been lavishing attention on you as of late." He steps away, spreading his arms. "He was the paramour I expected to win. At least until you explained that you don't limit yourself to just one."

His words conjure visceral memories without much effort. Her tender, still-aching reconciliation with Thancred at the start of this week. What they could have had in Ala Mhigo had the Exarch not spirited him away the day they meant to talk.

But also, the day in the Rak’tika Greatwood with Emet-Selch. His teasing about the choice she would “have” to make. Her defiant lecture. His fingers on her chin and on her wrist.

"Over Y'shtola, you mean?" She leans her back against the desk, arms crossed. "Or the other admirers you claim I have? Which are who, exactly?"

"Ah, ah, ah," he says with a wag of a finger. His pale gold eyes and wicked mouth brim with laughter. "You will have to try much harder than that to get my secrets."

“Does that mean you won’t explain what ‘alone at last’ means?”

"That one should be obvious, my dear." He remains apart from her but his gaze feel like a touch. Like a stroke of hand over her arm or cheek.

Attraction is like that. And she is adult enough to admit he is attractive–painfully so–without it needing to be a problem. It doesn’t change who they are or that one day, she may need to face him on the battlefield.

(Nerys had been able to face Estinien and Thancred both after all. Though unlike them, this man’s mind is his own. She is certain Zodiark’s pull is not the same as Lahabrea’s or Nidhogg’s.)

"I have been busy of late,” she says. “But surely there are others you might visit."

"None of your Scions will play with me the way you will," he pouts. "Even your scholarly Elezen friend will only suffer me so long."

Nerys laughs. "Who says I am willing to play with you? Or that is what we do?"

Emet-Selch’s expression reminds her of Aymeric’s cat, affronted over Nerys taking his spot upon the chaise lounge that one time. Unlike Sainte, he does not stomp away with a disgruntled noise. “I have never lied to you. Do me the favor of not lying to me.”

"Never?" She asks without real conviction. Nerys is certain he has not lied to her or anyone in their group. Omitted, yes. Likely a great deal.

“Never.” Emet-Selch crosses the space, moving close to her. The fur of his jacket brushes against the front of her gray linen gown. He leans in, leans in, his breath tickles her face and she tries not to give him the reaction he seeks.

He gets so close his lips graze her cheek and she breaks, breath hitching. And then he leans past her, reaching behind to take up the book she closed. "Collected Folk Tales of Lakeland. I admit, I expected something related to your quest."

His face is hidden but she feels his smirk as keenly as she feels the heat of his body against her. "I needed a little break and stories always cheer me. I wish the ones I heard as a child were collected somewhere."

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

Don't shiver. Don't react. "Why not have the stories both ways?"

His chuckle is low. "Why not indeed. You do not like to make choices, do you?"

"It isn't that." Her arms remain folded against her chest. Still, if someone were to come in they would think something else was happening. And that would not be a full lie.

On impulse, her eyes flicker about to make sure Ardbert isn't there.

"Too many people reduce life to hard, either-or decisions," she says. "And I have found there is almost always a third or fourth or fifth way."

"An optimist. How very…" Emet-Selch pulls back to look at her. Sighs. "Very boring. I expected better, given all the pathos I have seen in your eyes."

"I'm sorry to disappoint." She turns towards the book, straightening her disrupted papers.

His hands come down on either side of her, balancing against the gentle curve of the desk edge. She is caged, with his breath upon her nape and his body a wall of flame grazing her back. Nerys has managed this session to not rise to his bait, but her resolve is weakening and this does not help.

Attraction does not have to mean anything. You have the will, to have it be a simple fact; not a catalyst or excuse.

"Come now,” he murmurs. His nose tickles the back of her neck. The skin there is extra sensitive; hair freshly trimmed to the new, shorter length. “You have a better retort than that."

"You think so? Maybe you're the optimist."

His laugh is a puff of air upon her. "Better, but still sloppy. I expect more from my playmate."

She wants to argue that point but he has already exposed her defense for the lie it is. Call it play or teasing, Nerys does enjoy these times. When she might pretend he is just a handsome man come only for banter; not...whatever they are to each other or will be.

She enjoys him.

Her eyes flicker to the window. Fading sunlight catches the light fall of snow, the first in a long time for Lakeland. It pulls at her heart for another reason: terrible homesickness for Ishgard. And the position of the sun now means-

"I have to cut this ‘play session’ short. I'm expected elsewhere." Nerys turns in the cage of his arms and gives him a gentle push. "And you're not allowed to be in my room when I am gone."

"Spoilsport. Whatever do you expect me to do? Languish in waiting?"

Her way cleared, Nerys moves past him to the bag she packed earlier. Just a small thing with the necessities for this jaunt...and if she doesn’t sleep in her room tonight. "I know you'll think of something. Surprise me."

As soon as she says it, she regrets it. Too late, his smirk is wide, his face lit with enthusiasm. “I can do that.”

He disappears in a swirl of aether. Nerys wonders if she made a fatal error.

---------

Amaros fly them to the Ostall Imperative. From there, she and Thancred walk the forest path. The creatures of the lilac-and-bone-colored forest keep their distance tonight, many hiding from the strange weather. They still need to be alert though, lest they or brigands cross the path.

Even still, she keeps having to look at him. Assure herself he is there, with her. Truly with her. Their hands brush together once, twice, three times before he at last laces their fingers together. Smiles up at her with a look that stills her breath no matter how many times it happens.

She has loved him...a long time. Grieved him in different ways for different reasons for a long time. And now here he is, having asked for another chance and she hopes this week is not a long, wishful dream.

“It’s never snowed while you’ve been here?” Nerys asks, using her free hand to dust the flakes off her shoulders. Five long years here, under the horrible light. She cannot imagine. No wonder he felt like a stranger when first they found each other in Laxan Loft.

"Not that I've seen. You've brought balance back to the place."

"We have, not just I." She squeezes his hand.

Thancred chuckles. "You should take the credit."

"So should you. And-"

He cups her cheek, tugging her down into a kiss. Deep and soft and intoxicating. All week he has caressed her like this, each time overwhelming her with the gentle sensuality of it. She can almost forgive him doing it just to win an argument. Almost, until she pulls back and sees the old familiar gleam, the old familiar smirk.

"You can't...do that every time." Nerys says, a little breathless. Hands still gripping the supple material of his coat like a lifeline.

"I would never. Only some of the time." His smirk grows. Twelve, but she missed that expression on his face. Not that she loves this new, more serious Thancred any less. Every part of him, every facet, she adores. "Though, I think I need to do it once more."

Never mind whoever waits for them. Now that she can touch him like this again, feel him like this again, she never wants to stop. And from the way his hands grip her, run over her sides and hips, he doesn't either. She presses herself close to him, lips tracing the line of his jaw to the shell of his ear.

Thancred pulls himself back, eyes hot. "If we don't start walking again, I'm going to drag you into the bushes."

She doesn't move. "That isn't incentive to walk."

"I should have known better." He holds out a hand and she takes it, surprised when he starts down the path again. “Come along.”

He must want this date to happen as planned. Thinking about it...they have not had many formal engagements like this. They were either comrades or they were lovers. Maybe there would be a trip to the market or a shared drink in Revenant’s Toll between battles and bed.

Nerys wonders if he might be inspired to poetry, like he had once with his other paramours. Not all of his couplets were groanworthy.

Bosta-Bea awaits them at Clearmelt, her smile wide and welcoming. The sign near her declares that the springs closed at sundown. That alone means Thancred put down a lot of coin for this. Bosta-Bea’s excellent humor doubly verifies it.

“I’ll be just inside if anyone tries to bother you,” she says after greetings and pleasantries are exchanged. “I doubt anyone will but just in case…”

“My thanks,” says Thancred. He hasn’t let go of her hand yet and he squeezes it while he speaks. “The changing rooms are just through there?”

“Yes, with towels to use in the bath.” Bosta-Bea ushers them through to the first room. It’s filled with large stalls that each contain shower, changing room, and locker. Everything hums with magic, likely a number of convenience charms throughout to dry hair and keep belongings safe.

In her own stall, Nerys strips away her leathers. The cool air of the new winter prickles over her skin until she can get under the hot water, rinsing the day off. She is still not used to washing shorter hair. Her hands reach for phantom length to lather with shampoo.

Nerys misses her curls. The haircut was necessary. For catharsis: chopping away locks that held memories of the past moons. For symbolism: starting again, refusing to let grief weigh her down.

And she did it in the city she calls home. Jandelaine paid a house call to the Fortemps Manor. Lord Edmont tried not to hover. Artoirel did hover, repeating questions and bringing her cups of tea and plates of orange-cardamom shortbread.

The hole in her heart began to scab over, the patch knit in tandem with her brother and second father; her friend wielding his scissors; and all Aymeric and Estinien did for her and with her the days and nights following her rescue from the Ascian in Zenos’ body.

Nerys is glad she did it.

Even still, she misses the length and the curl. Hasn’t acclimated to the change yet. Everyone has been complimentary. Thancred spent last night and the night before murmuring about her beauty as he took her apart. And Emet-Selch-

She yanks on the knob, turning off the shower and the intrusive thoughts with them.

The charms she expected are present, drawing the moisture from her skin and hair. Most don’t submerge themselves fully in these springs, never mind the new addition of cold wind and snow. Nerys wraps the soft towel around her body, slips her feet into the provided sandals. She takes her pack and lance with her. No offense to the lockers, but trouble never picks a convenient time to find her.

The first thing she sees is his gunblade propped up against one of the walls, just out of range of water but close enough to run for. She laughs and walks over, doing the same with her lance before taking the knife from her bag.

"Knifeplay?" Thancred asks. "I'm not sure I want to introduce that in this setting."

She turns to him with a snappy remark but it dissolves away.

He sprawls against the side of the bath, arms draped over the edge and head tipped back. What she can see of his muscled chest gleams with moisture in the moonlight. The light snow falls on his cheek.

“Nerys? It’s cold out.”

“It’s uncharacteristically cold tonight,” he said, standing outside her room at the Pendants. A pile of blankets in his hand. Two nights ago. Three days after they agreed to begin again, starting a slow and sometimes aching courtship.

Her chest tightened. “You had better come in then.”

“Just to deliver the blankets?” His eyes gleamed.

“Hm…” She pulled him inside. “That’s a start.”

His towel is folded, just within reach outside of the pool. Well then. Nerys lets hers fall, watching his eyes rake over her lush curves to the apex between her thighs. She takes her time walking over. A swell of pleasure rises in her gut. At the water’s edge, she bends at the waist to set towel and knife down within easy reach.

"You should come here," he says, a soft growl beneath his words. She fights the shudder wanting to rip through her.

"Just a minute." She slips out of the sandals. Dips a toe into the water, testing it. He starts to move towards her, but stops all at once when she holds up a hand. "Sit. Stay."

Thancred smirks. "You remember right? That I always repay you when you tease me."

A soft warmth incongruous to the moment floods her chest and she is helpless not to smile at him with soft eyes and a softer voice. "I have never forgotten a single moment, Thancred."

He swallows, his eyes telling the jumble of emotions roiling in him. She can see all the Thancreds she has known–the serious, protective Thancred, the closed-off and grieving Thancred. The teasing, playful Thancred who seduced her all over Mor Dhona. The attentive, caring Thancred who always knew when she needed him to take over and give her release, or when to let her hold the reins.

The loving Thancred, though neither of them have said the word yet.

"Nerys," he says, voice raw. "Come here."

She goes to him, sliding into the water and into his arms, into his lap as he embraces her. His tongue slides over her bottom lip and she opens to him, lets him plunder her mouth as his hands slide over her hips and waist. Traces her new scars, every mark she has earned since the Bloody Banquet. She finds the ones he has gained since, and where the First has failed to duplicate them. His soul is a near-perfect copy of the body in the Source, but there are small differences.

He parts from her after an eternity, gasping as he rests his forehead on her shoulder. "My plan was for a long, slow night of seduction. And yet, here we are."

“We always end up here,” she says with a laugh. Just as they had meant to take things slow, at least a few weeks before they became lovers again. Why had they ever thought that was a good idea? "Didn't you have any company, these five years?"

"Very little," he admits. "Almost none, once I took in Min-...Ryne. I couldn't exactly leave her to wait at a campsite while I lurked in a tavern looking for a companion."

"Very little," she repeats, cupping the side of his neck and the tattoo. Rubbing it gently. "You don't have to tell me details but...anyone I know?"

He smiles; a little sad, a little soft. "Despite having all the time to do so...no, I didn't make a move on either of them. By the time they got here, I was once again wrapped in my anger and grief."

Nerys sighs and kisses his forehead. "At our pace, neither of us will confess to Y'shtola before our sixtieth Nameday." As to when he might speak to Urianger, maybe before his fiftieth.

His laugh is gentle. "I forgot you were an optimist."

The word startles her in a way she can’t disguise and Thancred is alert all at once, ready to ease whatever troubles her. She shakes her head to assuage him. “Nothing. Nothing, just reminded me of a conversation I had with...someone, earlier.”

“Sweetheart.” The old endearment enfolds her in its warmth despite the slight reproof. “I can guess who from the evasion. It won’t bother me.”

"The last thing I want is to cause you more pain."

“He is not Lahabrea.” Thancred squeezes her hip. "Not that I am fond of our 'friend.' But it won't injure me to know you talk to him."

"Alright." She wraps her arms about his neck to better balance herself. The cold air and fall of snow prickle at her shoulders and chest, a sharp contrast to the heat of the water and where their skin presses together.

"And what about you?" He asks, shifting his leg just so between her thighs. No pressure against her center, not yet. "Was there anyone since I saw you? I know it wasn’t five years for you but..."

"Ah...yes." More heat rises in her. "...Estinien and Aymeric."

Thancred’s eyebrows shoot up. "Both? At the same time?"

“Mm.” Nerys finds herself ducking her head, vulnerable. Those stolen nights in Ishgard seem a dream now, all the more because she had thought it would never happen. And had made peace with that. "Estinien walked in on us and...well, they are a couple. It wasn't so odd to invite him…"

"And you’ve wanted him as long as you wanted Aymeric," says Thancred. He has that smug expression he gets sometimes. “Perhaps for longer. I wondered when it would happen.”

She huffs, scowling. "Is this what you do? Figure out who I am in love with and wait for me to say something?"

"I can't help it." He dips his head, kissing her shoulder. "I seem to have an extra sense for this sort of thing with you."

“I’m glad we found each other.” She means it teasing but again, her words come out warm with emotion. How long till she can stop feeling so much relief to have him in her arms? Sometimes she thinks she feels more than she is supposed to, with no way to stem the tide.

“So am I.” That leg moves with purpose now, nudging against her folds. He leans forward, catching her cold-stiffened nipple between his lips. She gasps, a low moan following right after. Thancred smirks and looks up at her. “Your exploits make for stirring tales.”

“Well, that answers that.”

In an instant, Nerys is up with the knife while Thancred rises, his fists raised. Their usual weapons are just far enough that blades and hands make sense for the interim.

Emet-Selch lounges on the opposite side of the bath, chest and below submerged in the water. He chuckles. "This is the second time you've aimed a blade at me today. I'm starting to think you don't like me."

Thancred growls. "You're trespassing, Ascian."

"Oh?" He shrugs. Nerys refuses to note how well-sculpted his shoulders are. "I wasn't aware you owned these natural springs, the night air…"

"You know exactly what I mean."

"Mayhaps. But I was practically invited. Isn't that right, my dear?" Emet-Selch turns his gaze to Nerys, making no secret of how his eyes sweep over her nude body, her erect nipples, the drops of water coursing down her blue-gray skin.

She is already bare and it still feels like he is undressing her with his gaze.

“What? No.” She shakes her head at Thancred’s shocked expression. “No. When I said ‘surprise me’, this is not what I meant.”

“Well, this is why being specific is important." Emet sighs, sinking deeper into the water. “Will you put that knife down? Having two things pointing at my way is rather disconcerting...though stimulating."

At that, Thancred seems to remember he is naked and erect, though the cold air is working to amend the second problem. He sinks back into the water.

Nerys stoops to set the knife down, one arm shielded over her breasts and trying keep her thighs together. It wreaks havoc on her balance and makes Emet look even more amused. She gives up–he has already seen her–and sinks back into the water without further attempts at modesty.

The Emperor was a soldier, in his way. If his immortality hadn’t made him immune to being scandalized, being in the barracks surely had. As soon as she sits, Thancred slides an anchoring arm about her waist.

"Better," says Emet. "No wonder you have been neglecting me to spend all your time with him, hero. He is rather spectacular, beneath all the scowls he sends my way."

Thancred rolls his eyes. “You got your surprise and answered your question. Whatever that was.”

“Oh, that?” Emet-Selch’s smirk unfurls, slow as honey without the sweetness. “Our Warrior told me about Lord Haurchefant, how open they are with each other. I wondered if she was so with her other paramours, talking freely about her conquests."

Thancred glances her way again. There was no reason to volunteer that information, it just...came up. When provoked, to be fair. Every other time she’s spoken about it...no she cannot say it was always to score points against Emet.

The look he gives her isn’t accusatory, she realises. It is...considering.

“And then here I find you two, comparing notes. Well, comparing notes against near celibacy. Either way, it’s very interesting.”

Nerys squeezes Thancred’s knee below the water. Rubs her thumb over the joint. “How long were you there?”

“Oh, long enough to be enjoyable but not so much to have been rude.” He slides a hand through his hair, pushing back locks damp from steam and snow. It...does things for his face, which he likely knows. “I did tell you that I like to watch.”

“Had your fill then?” Thancred asks, squeezing her hip.

"It takes much more to sate me. But it seems you two will be boring and stare at me till I leave." He sighs. "And as you are both submerged, I cannot even have something nice to look at. So, I suppose I'll go…"

No wait- She almost says.

She almost says! Twelve, Fury, whoever was listening, preserve; Nerys had actually thought of asking him to stay. This attraction is more dangerous than she thought. Clearly she is not so cool and objective about his beauty, if she is so on the verge.

Thancred goes very still beside her.

Nerys curses inwardly. Of course he catches on. This is what he does–understand what she wants before she admits it to herself. And that is all fine...until it is this man behind everything they have fought, everything that has hurt them and taken away their loved ones.

Attraction is not harmless and objective if Thancred is beside her, hurting because of it and her.

“Depends,” says Thancred, squeezing her hip again. “Are you going to sit there and make remarks, or are you going to do something useful?"

What?

She turns to Thancred, at a loss. Even at his most reckless, he wouldn’t invite an enemy to...maybe she misunderstands.

Emet-Selch is very still, the self-satisfied expression gone from his face. Thancred has surprised them both.

“Are you…” She swallows and starts again. “Are you saying…”

“You’re attracted to him, and he to you.” Thancred says, pressing lips to her temple. The soft pressure is unlike the rigid way he holds himself, tension all through his body. “And while neither of us trust him, sex doesn't have to require that.”

It doesn’t, but it always has for her. Even one night with a stranger requires someone she feels relatively safe with. More than that–he isn’t telling the whole truth. He isn’t testing her. That isn’t his way. But he has a reason she can’t guess at yet.

She does not trust Emet-Selch. He is not safe.

But. But.

If...when he strikes, it will not be while making love to them. It seems too gauche, too crude for him. There have been other times, more seemly times he might have waited for her to lower her guard. Like hours ago, when she presented her back to him and he had all but molded to it.

And she trusts Thancred.

“Okay,” she says. Not even sure that Emet will agree or if he is about to laugh at their temerity. Two sundered beings, thinking they might bring pleasure to an Ascian. “But if anyone says stop, we stop. No questions asked.”

“Agreed.” Thancred says, keeping her close to him.

Emet begins to rise until Thancred lifts a hand, gesturing for him to stay put. Clearly amused, the other man complies.

Nerys startles when Thancred lifts her into his arms and out of the water, carried like a bride through the chill air. He has always been strong but...he lifts her as if she is nothing. His muscles speak to the strength he has honed these five years but still, she hadn’t grasped the change. Not until now, cradled against his chest with her long legs dangling over his arms.

Thancred crouches, setting her into Emet’s lap with her back against the Ascian’s chest, smoothing his hands over her arms before he lets go. At once, Emet slides his hands around to palm her breasts. She gasps at the electric touch–both too much and not enough.

He is not shy. And he is not going to dismiss them.

His hands feel better than he imagined. And she can admit now: she imagined.

"I've no idea what you're trying to prove, Thancred." Emet says, breath against her ear. "But as it gives me something I want, I will examine it later."

Something in her clenches at that. “When you spoke of play...have you been flirting this whole time? Or was that just to rile me?”

“Yes.” Emet presses his lips to the side of her neck, feather light. Almost imperceptible. His hands are the opposite, purposeful as they knead her breasts, roll her dark purple nipples between his fingers until she squirms on his lap. It’s like he knew how sensitive she would be there.

Thancred’s hand reaches behind her, gripping somewhere on Emet. His shoulder? Digging into his hair? He has to lean in close to do it and Nerys takes advantage. She presses her mouth to his brown nipple, chasing a rivulet of water down his chest. Sweet, just like he can be.

"You don't put anything inside her until I say so," says Thancred. His voice is harsh but he shivers beneath her lips.

"Oh," Emet breathes. "Do you always let him boss you like that, my dear?"

He squeezes her left breast and she gasps against Thancred instead of answering. All at once he stills, waiting for her response. “S-sometimes. It depends.”

That earns her more pressure against her needful flesh, the fingers pinching just so. “Tell me.”

Nerys tries to look back at him. He frees one hand to catch her chin, directing her eyes back to Thancred who kneels before her. It almost doesn’t feel real, without seeing Emet and his smile and his pale-gold eyes. It could be anyone behind her, certainly not him of all people.

Except that voice. She would know it in the haunting light of Kholusia or in the darkest cave of the Night’s Blessed. At some point, he slipped under skin as if he was meant to be there.

Thancred watches them, running one hand up and down the outside of her thigh in slow strokes. The other is underwater, mirroring the touches on himself. He nods, giving her permission to tell their secrets.

“We...switch,” she says. “I often prefer someone to hold my reins. But...sometimes I like telling him what to do. Withholding from him until he is good. Making him beg.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.” Emet purrs, proving just how long he watched them. She frowns and puts her hand on his wrist, giving it a light squeeze.

“That’s his name for me. You need to choose your own.”

He sighs and she can feel his eyes rolling. Dramatically. “Oh, very well. I suppose I could continue calling you my dear.”

At those words, his teeth sink into her earlobe and his hands resume their kneading. His erection presses at her under the water, the thickness apparent just from the feel of him. She resists the urge to grind against it, lest it end things too soon.

"Any other orders, Thancred? Or are you content to watch me tease her until she begs for release?"

Thancred cups her face between his hands and kisses her, unhurried and deep. She grows pliant under the luxurious touch of both men. No reins desired in her hands tonight. And from the glint in his eyes when he parts from her, Thancred can tell.

“Hold her arms behind her,” he says. “And you’ll be nice for us, won’t you sweetheart? He shouldn’t have to worry about holding you back."

"I'll play nice. This time."

“Ha." He nips her jaw. "Say stop, and we stop. And if you can’t speak, go very still and I will too.”

Nerys nods. Strong hands grip her arms, arranging them to cross behind her back before locking tight upon her. Except-

Except, there are still fingers on her breast. Palms anchoring her hips tight against Emet. She looks down and sees black and purple aether in the vague shape of hands, cupping her aching chest.

Emet chuckles, low and dark. His cock twitches against her. "I have my talents."

Twelve. Growing wet is...different in hot water. But there is still a heated, slick pulse between her legs and her hips try to jerk in response to the idea of what he could do with all those hands. The heat filling her has nothing to do with the springs.

Thancred pushes the aether-hands off her chest so he can cup her breasts, drawing them up as he lowers his mouth to suckle at one. Her head tips back and Emet-Selch takes advantage, lips pressing to the side of her neck. The barest hint of teeth whispers with them.

“So sweet, so good,” murmurs Thancred. His large, callused hands slide over her as his tongue traces her nipple. "What do you want tonight?"

Nerys can barely shiver, the hold on her is so tight and strong. Emet’s fingers pulse against her, firm but not harsh on her skin. “I want you. I want you both. However you want me.”

He smiles and she readies to receive another litany of compliments. The words always flow from him when he is amorous, praising every twitch of her muscles, every way she takes him into her. Instead, he rewards her with another dizzying kiss; so intense she forgets herself and tries to throw her arms about him.

Emet tightens his grip, tutting against her neck. "And she was so well behaved until now."

“Sorry,” she murmurs against Thancred’s mouth. “I just-I need to feel you-”

“Shh, it’s alright.” Thancred hushes her, his fingers against her mouth as he moves into her space. She parts her lips and takes the tip of one, swirling her tongue about it. “Ah, I’ll give you what you need.”

He slides a hand onto the back of her neck, nudging her down while she continues lathing his finger. The many hands clutching her accommodate, till she is suspended and bent over, balanced by the arms held taut behind her, barely on Emet’s lap. Her chin dips into the hot water and she stares up through lowered lashes.

Thancred stands, sliding a hand to grip just beneath the swollen head of his cock. Not as thick as what she feels against her rump, but it has grown to its full aroused length. Emet hums appreciatively, likely at the outstanding number of ilms on display. She thinks–it is hard to think, held like this, a slip away from all of her sinking into the water, his cock before her-

She thinks there are more hands on her now, thumbs rubbing subtle, light circles into her arms and legs and ankles. Emet follows the orders; nothing is inside her yet. But oh how she wants there to be, an end to the sweet torture of the many teasing touches.

“Well?” Emet asks. “Are you going to give her what she needs? You certainly have enough of it.”

Thancred smirks over her head, slowing the pace of his stroke as he goes from root to tip. Caressing each bit of the shaft before swirling his thumb over the head, worrying at his lip when he does so. Both she and Emet make pleased sounds at the same time, hers much more needy and inelegant.

At last, Thancred slides one hand into her short locks; keeping her in place as he guides himself into her mouth. Slow at first, then pressing deep as she relaxes her mouth and throat. She cannot take him all the way but she tries, savoring the heady taste of him and spring water until her toes curl.

He fucks into her mouth, his hips jerking in quick thrusts. The water splashes up her face and she closes her eyes, the sensations heightening the moment she does. Over the splashing she hears Thancred say something. In response, two fingers plunge into her folds. In and out, pulling back as soon as she tries to grind against them.

She thinks they are Emet’s flesh hands. She cannot be sure.

Nerys squirms to free herself, needing to touch Thancred. Run her hands over his shaft where her mouth cannot possibly go. The grip on her limbs tightens, a third finger slides into her. She can feel Emet’s body move with a chuckle even though she can only hear the water splashing over her nose and closed eyelids. The threat to her breathing goads her pleasure.

Thancred’s grip in her hair tightens, the other hand joining to burrow in the violet and white strands. His fingers in her scalp send a new wave of feeling through her. She moans around him, the pressure in her building but with no outlet in sight.

His thrusts speed up and she knows what is about to happen, groans in encouragement as his release pours into her. He doesn’t let go, not until he is fully spent and the momentum gives way. She can hear him now, the running litany of praise he must have kept up the whole time. “-so good, so good you did so well…”

He drags her off him and kneels, pressing her to sit again with her back against Emet, lips brushing against hers as she swallows and catches her breath. Nerys opens her mouth to him and he follows her, tasting her more fully. Tasting himself more fully.

“Fuck,” she whispers. “I feel like I’m close but also not at all.”

“I can take care of that.” Thancred says, kissing her forehead. He takes a deep breath and submerges beneath the water. She isn’t sure what he’s about until his mouth latches onto her clit, sucking as much as he can below. The fingers inside her curl

“Fuck,” she hisses again. They’re going to eviscerate her like this.

“Look at you.” Emet says, mouthing along her shoulder. "How easily you come apart. How eager you are to obey, and he is not half so dominating as I would be."

She moans–from his fingers, Thancred’s mouth, the implicit promise in Emet’s words. Nerys answers the challenge in them instead. “I-I know he’ll make it good for me. I d-don’t need that much encouragement.”

“Implying what? You aren’t so assured of me?” He catches her chin between thumb and forefinger, turning her head back towards him until it almost hurts. The edge of pain thrills down her spine, joining the rest of the heightened feelings in her. “I think you can accurately guess the heights I could drive you to.”

His breath tickles the corner of her mouth. At last she sees his eyes and the roaring fire they contain, the undisguised need and want. She gasps, not just from the increased thrusting of his fingers, the pressure and seal of Thancred’s mouth. If he had ever shown her that look before, she would have dragged him to bed and the consequences be damned.

Thancred emerges, taking a breath at the same time he slides his hand over the one Emet has on her face. Presses his mouth over the other man’s fingers before kissing Nerys like she is the oxygen he couldn’t have underwater.

His other hand slips between her thighs, direct and purposeful on her sensitive bud. His words pour into her ears–”yes, let go, let go, I want you to come like this, just like this”–and Emet’s fingers move faster inside her. With his wonderful, knowledgeable hand at her clit and his ragged words against her cheek, it doesn’t take long for her to come with a cry.

Thancred swallows her yell, her shaking prevented by Emet’s grip. For a moment, all she sees are the brilliant stars above them in the inky sky. The snow falling on her hair. The crescent moon, reminiscent of one of Emet’s toothier smiles.

Emet lets her go all at once and she collapses against Thancred, melting into his soothing touch. Her breath is loud in her ears, near as much as her heart slamming against her ribs and his against her ear.

“Good girl.” Thancred kisses the tip of her pointed ear. “Do you know what I would do for you, if we were in a different setting?”

She shivers, feeling the cold air for the first time since he put her in Emet’s lap. “Tell me. Please.”

“I would let you take us both, together, at the same time. Get you so stretched and wet for us, so slick...” The soft growl is back in his voice and she might climax again, just from that. As maple-sugar-sweet and poetic he can be, as worshipful as he may choose to be, this is a part of him too. Hungry and demanding.

“True, we cannot prepare her easily in this setting.” Emet says. “Very well, you’ve convinced me.”

There is a soft snap.

Nerys lies in a bed–her bed, in her room at the Pendants. She is warm and dry, not a drop of water on her. Warmer still from Emet, stretched out and pressed along her side, tracing patterns into her abdomen. (Also, the bed is made. The coverlet is far too expensive to come from the inn. She touches the red material in wonder.)

“Hilarious,” Thancred says from the center of the room. Naked and sopping wet, with all their belongings beside him in a careful pile. Emet would not harm their weapons, even if he might be unkind to Thancred’s person. “You might have dried me off too.”

“Hm…” Emet pushes himself on one elbow, the other hand tapping a finger to his lips. “If you fetch the oil from her bathroom cabinet, I shall dry you off.”

For a long moment, Thancred stares him down. Eyes narrowed. But there is no real ire and with a sigh, he makes for the bathroom. The aether lights flicker on as soon as he steps inside.

“How did you know...Emet-Selch! I said you’re not allowed to be here when I’m gone.”

She starts to sit up. Quick as any hunting animal, he braces his arm on the other side of her and swings a leg across. He leans over her, caging her in on all sides without touching her. Yet. “Yes, but I never agreed to those terms. Underhanded but...my hero did request surprises.”

Nerys puts a hand flat against his shoulder with the intent to push. His skin is warm beneath her palm, the silken feel of him unexpected. It would be so easy to shove him off, storm away from the bed. Except this is the first time truly looking at him since they began and...he has her trapped. Immolating in the pale gold fire of his eyes, mesmerized in the quirk of his brow and tilt of his full lips. The longer she stares, the more neutral his expression becomes and he returns the scrutiny.

There is no buffer. No Thancred to protect her or distract her. And she is afraid-

But not of him, she realises with a start. It’s the intensity I feel when he touches me. I’m scared of how much I want him to touch me again. I’m scared at how right this seems.

She pushes herself up with one hand, the other cups the back of his neck. Pulls him down to her. Emet stills only a moment before his eyes flutter shut and he submits to her, mouth moving soft and slow over hers. His hands curl about her waist, thumbs stroking over her skin. He savors her with the slow drag of his tongue coaxing her more open, more vulnerable to his ministrations.

When they part his eyes are half-lidded, expression utterly relaxed. He’s beautiful. He’s always beautiful. But this pierces her in a new way, so lovely he could rend her heart in two with one look. And he just might.

The hands on her hips pull her forward as he leans back. She ends up in his lap, straddling his waist in one fluid motion. Nerys reaches between them to stroke him. He has been patient this whole time, the least she can do is-

Emet catches her hand and lays the attached arm upon his shoulder, then the other. She opens her mouth to protest and he interrupts her with another kiss. Just as slow and aching, one arm hooked behind her back while the other traces fingertips along her jaw. His hand is gentle as it runs over her throat, down between her breasts, stroking circles into her waist and hip.

Nerys realises it is the longest he has gone in her presence without talking. And she feels the laugh bubbling up her throat, mouth trembling with the strength of holding it back.

“Laughing at me, hero?” He murmurs against her mouth. Nips her lower lip in reprimand.

“N-no I just...felt giddy all of a sudden.” Damn her, ruining the mood like that. Just as his hand was traveling down.

“Liar.” His scolding teeth sink into the side of her neck. She gasps against him, laughter dissolving into a breathy sound. “Better. Let’s see what other preferable sounds we can draw from you.”

“You’re getting close,” she says. Now her smile is irrepressible. “A little lower and to my left…”

“Dear, dear, dear,” he sighs. “And you were so obedient before. Do I bring out the minx in you so much?”

“I thought that was part of why you always came back to talk.”

Instead of a verbal riposte, his hand moves down and to her left. Circling her center, finding the clit and pressing down upon it. As if he has brought her to pleasure a thousand times and knows just where to touch.

Nerys buries her face in his shoulder, shuddering until his strokes are too much and she has to moan against him.

“What delicious noises you make, my dear.” He says, continuing to circle. Continuing to scrape his teeth over her skin. “Thancred was a fool to ever let you go.”

“I was.”

Nerys opens her eyes. (When did she close them?) Thancred stands a few paces from the bed, glass bottle in hand. Both of Emet’s hands splay against her back, pressing her close against him. She feels his fingers snap against her, drying Thancred in an instant.

“At least you admit it,” says Emet.

Nerys has to push a moment before he lets her lean back, getting a better view of Thancred. Shakes her head. “It wasn’t as simple as all that, or one person’s fault.”

As mad as she still is at the Exarch...she might have spoken to Thancred a dozen times before this week. Taken the aetheryte to Mor Dhona to see him, pull him aside when he joined their party in Gyr Abania. Or called him over linkpearl, as she did the night they almost lost Y’shtola.

He pushed her away after they found him in Dravania, even more after Minfilia. But she squandered opportunities, each a bright and alarming memory in hindsight.

Before Thancred can respond, Emet puts a hand to her cheek and makes her look at him. His free hand raises, wagging a finger in her face before tapping her nose. “Ah ah ah, don’t let him off so easy. Not when he is doing his best to make it up to you now…”

Nerys sees the moment a thought takes hold, curling the ends of his mouth upward, drawing his brows down. He flicks a glance over his shoulder. “Oh, is that it? Why you asked me to join?”

Thancred cloaks the soft, warm expression at Nerys with a scowl at Emet. “Don’t pretend to understand my motives.”

Emet clicks his tongue in mock scandalization. “Presumptuous of you, thinking you’re allowed to gift wrap and present me as an apology present.”

Oh.

Nerys extricates herself from his lap, climbing off the bed in a hurry. Walking to Thancred. Searching his closed-off expression for a hint. “Is...is that true?”

Thancred reaches out and takes her hand. Lifts it to his mouth. For all the things these two men have done tonight, for all the things they might still do; these soft touches disarm her the most. And then he removes the facade for her, showing the hope and wariness and the mocking little smile. One she knows is always meant for himself, not anyone else.

He sighs “He’s not wrong, but he’s also not right.” Thancred peers behind her at the bed. “But if Emet-Selch feels used, he is free to leave at any time.”

That last part doesn’t sound angry or annoyed as much as...challenging. She watches him smirk and quirk a brow. Daring the other man.

“Naughty boy,” Emet murmurs. “No, I won’t leave. This has proven to be an interesting night indeed and I am not satisfied yet.”

Nerys touches Thancred’s cheek, drawing his gaze back up to her. Looks him dead in the eye. “You don’t have to do this. Your feelings matter to me and-”

“I could have let him leave, and given you a memorable night without him. I decided I wanted to give you this instead.” The old roguish smirk grows on his lips. “And besides, he has a nice prick.”

She exhales slow, deep, making herself relax. Banishing the anxious tension in her neck and shoulders. “Okay. I believe you.”

“You always can.” Thancred draws her face down and she follows, sinking into his embrace. He still holds the bottle and it’s cool against her back as she presses against the delicious heat of his body and the hard planes of his chest. As he moves, so does she until the backs of her legs hit the mattress. Down, down, she goes until she is sprawled with her head and shoulders in Emet’s lap, Thancred holding himself above her.

“That last part,” Emet says, taking the glass bottle. “You couldn’t see my ‘nice prick’ in the water.”

“But I can see it now.” Thancred shifts his balance to one hand, the other sinking between Emet’s thighs. Sliding a hand over the long-neglected length and this time, Emet doesn’t forestall his own pleasure but lifts his hips. His full lips part and he sighs with relief.

Nerys tilts her head to look up at Thancred, who gives her an expectant look. This old game then. They haven’t played this one since the Spring Festival in Mor Dhona. She meets the challenge with a grin of her own and adjusts her position to better participate.

His fingers return to the root of Emet’s cock and slide upward. She chases them with her tongue along the velvet underside. The scents she associates with him–petrichor and ice and stone–are less here. He could be anyone she might bed.

Emet gasps and slides his hand into her hair. Guiding her as much as Thancred. The steady, near-painful pleasure is unlike many men she has taken to bed for a single night. Who often keep distance and treat her like glass. He is unlike anyone else.

The fingers twist over the swollen head and slip away for her to do the same, mimicking the motion with her swirling tongue. Emet increases pressure on her until he slides between her lips. Nerys bobs up and down without further incentive. That his grip remains insistent only makes this sweeter.

He is nearly as thick as Haurchefant, sure to make her jaw ache.

Another hand–Thancred’s–grips the back of her neck and nudges her down, down, her eyes watering as Emet fucks into her throat. Her nose meets the prickling thatch of auburn curls. Emet lets loose a more desperate sound, the groan raw as he pulls her off of him, fingers still digging into her scalp.

“Good girl,” murmurs Thancred.

“And good boy.” The hands in her hair twists, angling her to watch Emet take hold of Thancred and kiss him with teeth and tongue and heat. Arousal pulses through her at the sight. They’re beautiful. They’re beautiful and tonight they are both hers.

Nerys rises up, sliding into their tangle and they open for her, mouths and hands worshipping at her skin. She wants to be at the center of this. She wants to be selfish and feel them attend to every inch of her before they fuck her. She wants them to burn her until she is naught but ash and pleasure.

“I need you,” she says to them both. “Please don’t stop touching me.”

“Oh, my dear.” Emet catches her chin, sliding his thumb between her lips. “As if I-we could. You are a feast laid out for us and we are but beggars.”

She sucks on it, watching desire flare in his eyes. Emet sighs as if resigned, sliding his hand down so that he can kiss her again. The gentleness of it has her arms and neck prickling with awareness, her breath catching. Everything about him screams danger and yet–yet he coaxes her with lips and tongue, courting her instead of simply taking.

As if sensing her thoughts and needing to disprove her assumption, he turns her about in his arms. Bites down on the juncture between her neck and shoulder. Nerys gasps and Thancred is there to catch her, soothing her even as his own teeth drag over her pulse. Behind her is rustling and the soft pop of a bottle uncorked. She can hear Emet moving his hands together, warming his palms.

Thancred has not forgotten her request. As his mouth travels over her, his hands move in long strokes over arms and waist, hips and legs, neck and cheek. A dizzying perusal of caresses, maintaining the contact she needs.

She startles when Emet squeezes her rear, shivers when one oil slicked hand slides towards the tight ring of muscle. When the first finger begins to circle, Thancred kisses her shoulder. As it slides in to the knuckle, he strokes her sides.

“That’s it,” Thancred murmurs. “You’re doing so good. Look how wet you already are, ready for me to slide deep into you. And I will, as soon as he’s done preparing you.”

“My,” Emet says, kissing behind her ear. “He is a chatty one.”

“He is one to talk.”

“He must feel lost without some narration. Or is the talk for your benefit? Do you need me to tell you how good you’re swallowing me, how tight, how perfectly made for my fingers and my prick you are…”

Nerys means to laugh but a moan comes out instead. Digs her fingers into Thancred’s ivory locks and urges his lips downward. “I-I don’t need it but I like it.” She could have them talk to her like this for hours.

“Impatient,” Thancred mutters at her insistent pushing. He puts up a resistance, sliding his tongue over her stomach all the same.

“I don’t see you stopping me.” Nerys smiles down at him. “Unless you plan on making me pay?”

Teeth sink into her other shoulder as Emet adds a second finger. She wriggles against the sensation, tugging at Thancred’s hair in response. Quick, as if this is a battle–and maybe it is–Thancred grabs her wrists and pins them down on either side of her. Nerys grips at the unfamiliar coverlet, meeting his smirk with a scowl.

She tries to lift herself up, presenting herself for his mouth. He ignores the offering, attending to her breasts instead. Dipping down and then back up as soon as she thinks he might taste her. His grip is iron when she pushes against it, squeezing in warning when she does it again.

“Two strikes…” He says.

Now she has to know. Nerys tries a third time and finds herself dragged to lie on her back, his shoulders shoving under her thighs until they press against her stomach. Emet's slick hands leave her and she moans at the loss.

"You'll have him back in a moment." Thancred says. He glances up, has a wordless conversation with Emet behind her. Takes hold of her arms and lifts them, passing them over. Her wrists are shoved down, captured in the harsh grip of one hand pinning above her head.

It should be worrying that they are cooperating this well to make her writhe. Instead, she feels giddy and like she might dissolve from the force of anticipation..

She tests the restraint and finds no give, not even with her two hands to his one. Emet looks down at her, pitiless and expression bright with desire. And then her eyes shut because Thancred devours her. No mercy, no restraint, his hands gripping her thighs so tight they might bruise. He pushes her higher and higher until he thighs shake and she can see the edge-

And then he pulls back completely.

"Please," she gasps. "That's not fair. I need you-"

Emet’s face is upside-down above her, but he finds a way to slot his mouth against hers. She pours her frustration into the kiss, demanding release with a bite to his lip. He only chuckles against her mouth, his slow reprimand becoming something fierce. Engulfing.

When he parts from her, his lips but an ilm from hers, his eyes are unfocused and his breath ragged. She tastes his blood on her tongue. Licks her lips.

"Not yet," says Emet. "Not after we went through all the trouble of preparing you."

His hand is unyielding against her. Nerys tries to move her hips and legs instead and Thancred presses further, going the small distance needed to bend her in half. "I could come again after-"

“Listen.” Emet nips her shoulder. "We’ve staked a claim upon your pleasure. You’re going to have it...when we’re ready. Yes?”

Fuck. His words, his lowered voice...She would rub her thighs together if she could, if Thancred wasn't between them. Instead, she feels herself growing wetter, hotter. Thancred’s fingers slide over her but for all the lewd noises he draws out, he does not touch anywhere that might bring her release.

"Answer him, sweetheart,” says Thancred. "For once he is making sense."

“Yes,” she murmurs.

“What was that?”

“Yes. Yes, I’ll do what you want me to.”

"Good girl," Emet says, the two of them moving her to sit up between them again. "That deserves a reward."

"Please tell me the reward is your cocks," she says, leaning back against him. "Otherwise, I don't think I'll make it."

"Impatient." Emet mutters but he drips more oil into her cleft, the three fingers returning to open her, stretch her. She braces herself against Thancred, half slumped over and cheek pressed against his heart. If she tries to touch herself, he will stop her but she considers it. Dares one hand down against her stomach. He grabs at it, kissing her as he does.

Nerys groans, rocking back against the fingers stretching her. Grasping for the peak Thancred almost brought her to.

"She's ready," says Emet at last, his voice rough. His hands dig into her cheeks, squeezing as he parts them. "Needy creature. Who knew you had it in you to desire so much?"

"I knew." Thancred kisses her shoulder. "He'll learn, sweetheart."

"That you think you can teach me anything…" Emet mutters. "Mortals. And their arrogance."

"Please," Nerys begs, her voice taut with need. She clutches at Thancred as an anchor against the sweet torture they’re putting her through. "You can lecture us all you want but first give me your-"

At that, his head presses against her. Rocks a moment before sliding into her oil-slicked passage, his hands stroking circles to soothe her as he enters slow and steady. When her breath hitches and the ache is almost too much, he stops and kisses her nape and spine until she relaxes again.

She’s trembling in his arms, overwhelmed at the fullness, the sensation of him deep in her, wrapped around her. His aether seems to sink into her, embracing her as if he has re-manifested all those phantom hands again. But it is just him, just a barrier taken down between them.

When she beds someone with strong aether...those times were just a shade of this. This is beyond anything she has ever experienced.

Emet skims his hands over her muscular thighs, hosting her close until his chin rests on her shoulder. She opens her eyes as he eases them back, watching the view trade Thancred for the ceiling and instinctively reaches out for balance. And then Emet kisses her neck and soothes her skin and she relaxes again.

"Well?" He says, holding her legs open. "She wants you too, Thancred.”

Thancred crouches between her thighs, running a hand over his cock. It has returned to its full aroused length, a tantalizing bead of moisture at the head. His refractory period is always impressive, and they have taken their time since the hot springs. Teasing her until she feels ready to burst.

"I wonder if you'll even physically be able to take it all." Emet says in her ear. "Stuffed as you already are."

He rocks his hips just so and she whimpers at the feel of him. It is true–she is already full to bursting. It is also true–she wants to take as much of them as she can. All of them if she is able.

“If it’s too much…” Thancred leans over her. Presses his cock against her folds as he lines himself up. “Look at me.”

She looks at him, into the warm depths of his eyes. Into the need and heat. Nerys lifts her hips in invitation and Emet is there to slide them back down, groaning softly.

“You know how to stop things, sweetheart. If it gets too much.”

“If it gets too much,” she repeats, licking her lips. “Thancred please fu-”

He slides into her without resistance, slick and ready as she is. It is almost too much and he isn't even half-way seated inside of her. She bites her lip so she doesn't say the word because she wants more, she wants to be utterly lost-

Emet bites the back of her neck and she cries out, but her body relaxes. Thancred slides deeper inside her, bracing his forearms on either side of them. Tension furrows between his brows.

“Alright?” He asks, more breath than sound.

“Yes,” she whimpers. “Please-please-”

"How sweetly you beg." Emet curls one hand around her breast, the other sliding down her stomach. Dragging to where Thancred is buried inside her and her swollen nub waits succor. He traces outside it, slow and taunting. "It almost makes me want to see how long we can keep you just shy of climaxing."

Thancred smirks. Some of the tension eases in his face. "Keep talking like that, it's making her clench around me."

"Bastards," she moans, reaching for Thancred. Resting arms on his shoulders as he begins to move, his slow, vexing strokes in rhythm with the lift of Emet's hips.

"Oh, do be nice," Emet continues as his fingers brush against her core. "I have only ever admired you. And here you are, exceeding all my expectations. You, who shine brighter than most mortals, you're almost radiant now-"

Nerys cannot think enough to string a response together. Sex is often a release for her, a way to center herself. This feels like...being remade. Like the tandem motion of their bodies strips everything away until there is only the pleasure and the ache. Even the growing cramp in her calves cannot compare with the ecstasy coursing through her.

They are both talking, dropping praise upon her but now she cannot hold onto their meaning. Only the feeling of them sliding in and out of her, the ache and stretch of her body, the slap of their skin on hers. Especially as the pace picks up, both men pushing each other to a greater tempo, snapping hips to drive her back and forth between raging fire and raging fire.

The fingers at her clit press down. The edge is in sight and she sobs aloud for them to keep going. To keep moving. Not to stop again, not when she is so close.

Thancred kisses her. Lips press against her nape and she can feel Emet's smile, his breath as he mouths words into her skin that she cannot hear and cannot parse. They move faster inside her, the finger circling, teeth on her flesh-

Nerys screams as her pleasure rips through her, clutching at whatever she can as her mind enters the strange place of release–a mind so focused on one thing as to feel almost blank, a mind so overcome with feeling that there is nothing but relief and pleasure and not a single thought. She gasps and arches and sobs as they work her through it, the frenzied rhythm milking every onze of pleasure from her

Emet gasps and she feels the final, desperate thrusts of his release. And Thancred, Thancred keeps going, keeps moving in her and moving her against Emet until they are both sensitive and depleted and keening and then, and then Thancred lets himself go.

Nerys is nothing but ash and pleasure, smoldering between them.

Emet moves first, lips pressing to her back as his hand traces patterns into her skin. Idle, swirling loops and flourishes that guide her back to the land of the living. She follows their trail without hesitation, her hand sliding over his as she follows.

She opens her eyes just as fingers slides over her cheek. Thancred leans over her, forehead pressed to hers. Studying her as if he has never seen her before. Maybe he hasn't. Maybe she is someone else on the other side of what they shared.

Maybe they all are.

He slides out of her and she whimpers at the loss, both of him and the heady sense of being filled completely. But he returns to her, resting his cheek against her the swell of her chest while the rest of him lies flush against her.

Nerys strokes his hair and finds the energy to speak. “Okay?”

"Okay," says Thancred. Smiles a little. "I don't ever want to move again."

A soft snort behind her. "Your time is short as is."

"Hush," she says. "You're not going anywhere either."

"Oh?" Emet kisses her shoulder. "Bold of you to-"

Despite what he just said, Thancred moves. Slides up and nudges Nerys just so until he is able to press his lips against Emet's. The Ascian hums in response, submitting to the delightful reprimand.

At last Thancred pulls away with a sigh. "Much better."

Emet chuckles. "So, you two plan on keeping me here tonight. Well, I put myself at your mercy...provided you let me lead the figure at some point."

"If you're good," Nerys teases, and then gasps as Emet rolls his hips against her.

“My dear,” says Emet. His hands slide up her stomach, cupping her breasts. She can tell from Thancred’s expression, they’re sharing a conspiratorial look. Anticipation and wonder sing through her. “Let me prove just how good a playmate I can be."

#nerys eluned #emet-selch #thancred waters #thancred x wol x emet-selch #thancred x wol #emet-selch x wol #thancred x emet-selch #ffxiv #duskwight warrior of light #dragoon warrior of light #elezen #water cw #ally writes

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catte-bard · 4 years ago

Note

7. “Hey, it’s snowing!”

December Christmas Prompts

(I’ve been in a Minfilia x Bellona fluff mood lately.)

AO3 Link

Bellona felt the first cold tingle on her nose. Blinking in surprise, she stopped walking and looked up at the clear night sky of Ul’dah. And she felt another tingle on her cheek and another on her forehead. Something cold but softer than a raindrop.

She was familiar with the sensation. But that couldn’t be—not in the middle or arid Ul’dah? Then she saw them. The little white flakes slowly drifting down on the air. Snow.

Snow in Ul’dah of all places!

It brought a giddy laugh from the woman. “Minfilia! Hey, it's snowing!” She exclaimed, turning to beam at her girlfriend.

The snowfall was now beginning to come down faster. Drifting down at a more steady pace. And she was not the only person mystified by the spectacle. Several passerbyers also paused in their day to observe the snowfall. Couples whispering and smiling. Children pulling at their parents’ sleeves and excitedly pointing.

It was snow. Real snow. Bellona laughed with delight as she held her hands out to catch the little flakes on her fingertips. What an odd little wonder.

“Still think I was foolish for bringing scarves along? Now come here before you catch a cold.” Minfilia gently said, holding a scarf out before her.

“Ul’dah never gets that cold for scarves.” Bellona countered but didn’t protest. “You knew about this?”

“I did. I wanted it to be a surprise. This being your first Starlight with us.” Minfilia captured the awed adventurer in a fluffy pink scarf that matched her own, lovingly wrapping it around her as Bellona gawked at the sky. “Though honestly, you’re like a child who has never seen snow before.” She laughed.

“Not in Ul’dah.” Bellona pointed out. She looked back down at her in wonder. “How?”

The child-like delight in her beloved Warrior of Light was almost infectious. And she could not hold back the smile coming to her lips. After all they’ve been through of late, it was nice to see happiness on the other’s face.

It had been her idea to come out here. A quiet romantic stroll through the city was what she suggested. So rarely did the two of them have time for such simple intimacy. Hardly even able to steal a hand-hold without duty always stealing all the moments they wanted alone with each other.

Since the storming of Castrum Meriandum, the Waking Sands had been rather quiet the last few days and the realm seemed at peace. So it seemed proper to take advantage of such a respite. The Starlight festivities offered them a chance to take advantage of this break. Minfilia had been absolutely delighted to hear that some of the revelry had already begun in Ul’dah. Even more so when she had discovered Bellona had never experienced Starlight.

It seemed perfect and even more of a reason for them to go then. Wanting to show Bellona one of Eorzea’s most extravagant holidays—one that had always been close to her heart even as a girl.

And with an excuse made about wanting to go visit a nearby market, the two of them slipped from the Waking Sands, giggling like a pair of mischievous teenagers. Mayhaps, their comrades would have been understanding had they told the truth of the reason for their outing. However, Warrior and Antecedent both wanted the night to themselves. And someone would have tried inviting themselves along if they had mentioned the Starlight festival.

“It’s a relatively new tradition. I believe it has something to do with the thaumaturge guild.” Minfilia told her as she gently tied the scarf. Not too tight that it would be uncomfortable. But not so loose that it would fly off with a gust of wind. “With Starlight comes images of snow and snowmen—and well as you can imagine, Thanalan is a place that sees much snowfall…

“And well, many children of Ul’dah were rather disappointed to never experience snow in their home. So the guild decided to step in and assist with spreading some holiday cheer. Every year they gather up ice crystals before the Starlight festivities and use them to make it snow within the city.

“Though...that’s the boring logical version.” Minfilia winked and pressed a finger to her lips. “For the children it’s a Blessing from the Saint of Nymeia for their good behavior.”

”That sounds wonderful.” Bellona laughed.

“Starlight always brings out the kindest sides of people. That’s what I’ve always loved about it.” Minfilia told her. “Well...that and it being celebrated as a time to spend with loved ones.”

And she smiled that special smile, she always had for Bellona. Gods, that look she gave her. It always made her heart feel like mush. Minfilia always looked at her so softly. So warmly. In a world where people either looked at her with awe or fear, it was nice to have one person who looked at her so tenderly.

“You always surprise me with what a romantic you can be, Minfilia Warde.” She quietly said.

“Am I really that romantic?” The other blinked.

“The romantic walk underneath the Starlight lights. The snow surprise. Talk of a whole evening spent together.” Bellona smirked. “And you’re trying to tell me that amount of debonair is unintentional?”

Such suave would make most men jealous.

However, Minfilia merely shrugged innocently. “Perhaps, such things just come naturally to me without having to force them?”

“Perhaps…” She replied softly.

And she stood on her tiptoes to kiss her silly girlfriend. Her lips warm and inviting under the chill of the Ul’dahn air. She heard a muffled sound of pleasant surprise from Minfilia, and felt her hands drifting up to cup her face.

“Your hands are cold.” Bellona murmured against her lips.

Minfilia smiled back against her lips. “Really? I don’t think they’re that cold.” And she mischievously let her hands drift down to Bellona’s neck.

The Miqo’te let out a yelp at the feeling of freezing digits touching her neck. She attempted to flee however, her lover would not let her get away. Instead pulled her closer to deepen the kiss.

Their giggles muffled between their lips, they playfully wrestled against each other. Their shenanigans of course didn’t go unnoticed. Earning sighs and eye-rolls from other passerbyers having to dodge around them on the street.

Oh how it felt good to be trapped in that lovely embrace. And under any other circumstance Bellona might have indulged in it. Lingered within her arms until she had to break to breathe. But not right now—not when her beloved’s hands felt like blocks of ice!

“Stop! Stop!” Bellona guffawed, leaning away from Minfilia to keep her from stealing anymore kisses. What an awful imp she was! “I mean it, your hands are freezing! You’re making me cold!”

“Oh alright.” Minfilia hummed. “Then I suppose we should find something to warm them up?” She pulled away, letting her hands linger briefly on Bellona’s face before letting them fall to her waist. “I thought I saw a vendor selling hot chocolate outside the Adventurer’s Guild. Does that sound good?”

A sudden shiver through her body made Bellona aware of just how cold it was. Suddenly regretting teasing Minfilia before they left for coming to Ul’dah in a jacket and scarf. The thaumaturge guild’s ice crystals did a fine job of simulating the winter weather. And the thought of steaming hot chocolate under the snowfall sounded incredibly pleasant right now.

She draped her arms around Minfilia’s shoulders, snuggling close to her warmth. “Mmm that would be wonderful. You can tell me more about Starlight over it.” She hummed thoughtfully. “Honestly...there is just this one tradition that I’m very curious about still.”

“Of course, I’d be happy to explain anything, my love.” Minfilia beamed. “What is it?”

“Mistletoe.” She innocently said.

At once Minfilia’s cheeks flushed red. “Oh.” And then laughter bubbled up within her. “Oh. I would certainly love to teach you all about that particular tradition.”

“I’ve heard a lot about it and it sounds like a nice tradition.” Bellona smirked, not even bothering to keep the mischievous tone out of her voice. “Though I’d think I need help understanding it a bit more.”

“Mm it’s one of my favourites actually.” Minfilia drew a gentle knuckle down her cheek. “One best enjoyed with another party.”

“Is that so? Well you can enlighten me on it even more over hot chocolate.”

Yes indeed, Starlight seemed like such a wonderful holiday.

#final fantasy xiv #ffxiv #minfilia warde #minfilia x wol #writing #yuki-yukichan #(Her Pillar of Strength)

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blackestnight · 5 years ago

Text

22: nightbloom

Prompt: Free day!

Word count: 1088

Follows up from Wayward Daughter, or: the missing brother. I cleansed my palate yesterday and am therefore back on my angsty bullshit.

(A stack of letters, the envelopes opened but the contents unread:)

Hanami,

Alisaie told us what happened in the Enclave. Don’t be mad at her, all right? We were all worried when you didn’t come back with her, and we made her tell us why you stayed.

I’m not very good at the whole comforting thing. Or the whole mourning thing. Remember what a mess I was after Moen died? I just sat around and sulked for weeks. And that’s ignoring the whole...Yda thing. Not that there’s anything wrong with sulking! I’m not saying you have to come back and cry on my shoulder, or anything like that.

I won’t lie and say I know exactly how you feel. I don’t, obviously. But I just want you to know, after Papalymo died and I had to take off Yda’s old mask, I pretty much spent a week in Shtola’s room crying my eyes out. The silly thing was, I wasn’t even crying over Papalymo, I was crying over Yda. And she’d been gone for more than a decade by then, did you know? But I’d been using her name for so long, it was like I hadn’t ever really taken the time to say goodbye to her.

Sorry, I’m talking about me too much. This is old news. I’m trying to channel my inner Thancred here--don’t tell him I said that!--and offer some tidy, bard-ly advice.

Okay, here’s what I think I’ve been trying to say: grief doesn’t have any rhyme or reason, and it doesn’t stick to a nice schedule. Take your time, but remember it only gets better when you let it, yeah?

I really am sorry to hear about your brother. I just realized I hadn’t said so. I never met him, but if he was anything like you I bet he was amazing.

When you need us, Rhalgr’s Reach will always be open to you. We can get Naago to bring some of her mom’s cooking and talk, if you want. We can work on the whole mourning thing together.

Your friend, Lyse

---

To my most esteemed friend,

Mistress Alisaie hath borne word of thine loss to us. While it is mine fear that it shall prove poor comfort, nevertheless I wish to offer mine condolences.

As thou well knowest, I did not have the privilege to meet the late master Akinaga in person, and I dare not presume to speak for the dead, regardless. However, allow me to impart to thee my most fervent belief, that which hath guided me through the loss of both my beloved teacher and my closest friend: to give one’s life in service to one’s family, and to one’s nation, would be both the highest honor and the greatest of comforts. I pray, then, that thy kin finds rest in the Lifestream, knowing that he hath left such a legacy of heroic deeds.

While doubtless Thancred shall include the sentiment in his own missive, it would be remiss of me not to say then upon thy return, we may gather to drink to the memory of those who hath marked the road before us, that we may follow blessed with clarity of purpose.

Ever thy humble servant,

Urianger Augurelt

---

My friend,

At the risk of sounding like the cookpot remarking on the kettle, let me start by saying that no matter what you might be thinking, you are not at fault. Such insidious thoughts are strong in the wake of loss, and I would hate for them to be your undoing as they were mine. Had you not journeyed to Eorzea when you had, the tragedy of Monzen may well have been repeated.

The Scions’ greatest calling has always been to protect those who cannot protect themselves. Though it has come at a great cost, for all of us, remember that you have saved hundreds of innocent lives. From the sound of it, Akinaga did the same. As did Papalymo. As did Minfilia. In the coming days, try to be a person worthy of their gift, even when you feel like you can’t be.

Y’shtola asked me to transcribe a line for her, given her difficulty with a pen at the moment. As dictated:

The Lifestream is warm, and riding its current feels like falling asleep. Wherever he is now, he is there in comfort.

Poetic enough I did not feel tempted to editorialize, even.

When you come back, we’ll raise a glass to the future we’ve been entrusted.

Thancred

---

My most beloved daughter,

Word has reached us in Ishgard of your brother’s passing. I wish to begin by conveying my sorrow to you and your family, and my prayers for young master Akinaga’s peace in the life beyond ours. Though I know the Twelve hold little sway in your homeland, I hope that Halone will recognize the soul of a steadfast warrior, and guide him to his well-earned rest.

In times of loss such as these, perhaps the greatest comfort is to be surrounded by the love of family still living, and so it gladdens me to know that you have been reunited with your relatives. You have freed Ishgard and allowed us peace, and I hope that you will take this time to find comfort in the peace you have brought to Doma, as well.

Though I will not make demands of your time, know that your home in Ishgard is here for you. Tonight House Fortemps will sit vigil for a knight who has answered the highest calling.

With deepest sympathies,

Edmont de Fortemps

---

I can imagine that a letter is the last thing you wish to deal with at the moment, so I will keep this brief, though I pray the sentiments within do not suffer for it.

I would come to you, if I could. I cannot, so I will instead promise to greet you with open arms when you come home, should you desire them. My home is yours, always, as are the scant comforts I can give.

I love you. I am only ever a linkpearl away, should you desire my company, in one form or another, regardless of the hour or purpose.

Aymeric

---

(A crumpled note, stuffed into an envelope traditionally used for bereavement offerings, clearly repurposed, placed behind a grave marker:)

I’m sorry I called you a coward. I didn’t mean it. Forgive me. Even if I was too slow to apologize this time.

I’m leaving again. Please watch over them while I’m gone.

Your dutiful sister.

#ffxivwrite2019 #lyse hext #urianger augurelt #thancred waters #edmont de fortemps #aymeric de borel #oc: hanami hagane #final fantasy xiv #PHEW. let's play a game called 'can you spot the point where i ran out of steam'#because i sure can #why do i keep doing epistolary writing? the world may never know #writing - mine

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efrmellifer · 5 years ago

Text

Extant Ache

The ache of it was going to kill her. In her head, in her belly, down to the tips of her fingers. It hurt. It hurt. Y’shtola was right, Etien had cried as much to her out in the Exedra.

Hot, speedy tears sailing down her cheeks as she warbled out, “’Shtola, I’m scared. Minifilia—our Minfilia—called me a hero, but I’m sick with light. You saw it and Ryne saw it. I’m sick and I’m scared.”

Y’shtola beckoned Etien close, hugged her, and eventually stroked her hair, starting at the spot between the backs of her ears. “Shh, shh. You have made it this far. We can watch over you for this last Lightwarden, and then, all of us can return home. We must and will find a way to extinguish, to expunge, that light, and we can return you to Ishgard just the way you were.”

Etien sniffled, and Y’shtola released her.

“All right?”

Now Etien nodded, swallowing thickly. “All right.”

“Good. Go get some more rest. You worked hard out there.”

So she’d done that, getting in less of a conversation, and slightly less reassuring than she’d hoped, with Ardbert, and then he was gone.

“There’s only one hero in this room,” he’d said, “and it is not me.”

Etien’s eyes welled and overflowed again as she wanted to sink back to the floor, tears wetting her arm dressings.

If he meant her, which of course he did, then there was no hero here. There was just a sick, sad little kit prone to waterworks and hurting herself. Alphinaud and Urianger healed her faithfully, but eventually they would tire of bailing her out of her own foolhardiness.

A knock came at the door, and Etien sighed, pushing up and groaning as her joints protested, taxed in the days prior.

She wiped her eyes and went to the door, opening it for the Exarch.

“Exarch,” she said, hoping her voice wasn’t too tear-soggy. “Can I help you?”

“Forgive the intrusion, but Minfilia—that is, Ryne and the others were asking after you. Is everything all right?”

Etien shrugged. “It’s going to be a long night, I think. I had that pain again; I’m sure Y’shtola’s told you about it.”

“That pain again? Did it pass?”

She nodded, tiredly.

“Thank goodness for that. I would not wish to see you suffer.” He paused, head dipping. “...though, I know only too well how much you have suffered on our behalf in recent days. Indeed, I have no right to impose upon you further. Nevertheless, I must ask one thing of you.”

“And what would that be?” Etien asked, leaning against the door. She wanted to help, if she could, but… with this ache? She might crumble to dust, become Forgiven Foolishness, before she got anything done.

“That you survive this, no matter what.”

She sighed in relief. At least that was one of her goals, too.

“When the dust settles, you must return to your world. For the battles to come and the wars yet unwon.”

...ah, yes. Her eternally lengthening list of tasks. It was never ‘go home, that you might be safe and warm and happy in the manor.’ But… Etien hadn’t been chosen to live in comfort.

“The final Lightwarden is all that stands between us and victory. There is still much we must do to prepare, but for now, I will see if there is aught that may remedy the strange affliction which plagues you.”

Etien nodded her thanks. “I’ll see it through.” She punctuated it with a spirited crack of her knuckles.

“Of that I have no doubt. Even if I had my pick of every reflection’s heroes, I could not have asked for a finer champion.”

She smiled.

“I’ll not keep you from your rest any longer. Take as much time as you like.”

She sighed (but tried to keep it light and yawn-y), said goodbye, and watched him go.

She wouldn’t be sleeping yet.

Sat down on the bed, digging in her bag for paper and something to write with.

Then, Etien settled in to write.

My darling Aymeric,

I’m feeling introspective tonight. I was called a hero a few times over and I don’t know if I believe it. I know you do, and you never hesitate to tell me. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m going to be, or at least feel like, this confused little kit for the rest of my life.

Though I suppose… well. Some things never change? It was so easy to get lost, among all those trees.

…I don’t think I ever told you of the day I left the Shroud, did I?

May I? I wish I could tell you in person, and I suppose I could just wait until I’m in your arms again– we only have one Warden left, after all– but tonight, the story is burning within me.

Deep in the Black Shroud, there lived a small clot of Miqo’te. They were M tribe. Ellifer, his parents, his beloved, and their three kits.

The oldest was called M’etien whenever she went out.

I wonder if my siblings miss me. I still don’t know how the Delivery Moogles managed to get that letter from them to me. To Ishgard. I guess the news traveled and they made a guess?

Anyroad. When I was about 19, I was getting entirely fed up with the way things were going in my life. I was being trained up as a homemaker, despite my incapacity to do it ‘correctly’ and the outside taunts that that degree of relevance was never in my future. On top of that, I was spending a lot of time with T’ahn, and we were spinning plans to split off one night. Just us, no other females from other nearby tribes, even though that’s not how it’s supposed to be.

A couple years of that passed, and I could feel something slipping away inside me. I was never sure if I could regain it, but I refused to let what little stores of it I still possessed be taken from me any longer.

So I packed everything I felt like I could take. It was perhaps one change of clothes, a few mementos and a sundry or two. And my bow and quiver, of course. I hiked for days, trying to stay to paths I had walked thousands of times before, telling myself not to turn around.

I had to try to avoid detection along the roads, because I knew if I was seen, I would lose my resolve. Blessedly, I knew that I was on a trade route, and I climbed into the first wagon headed for Gridania. The rest is very much real history, documented and reported.

But you have the full truth: the Warrior of Light entered Gridania halfway to naked, dispirited, gil-less, and lonely, carrying only sparse memories of her first two decades of life.

I will say, as much as I wanted to discard all the trails of memories that came with calling myself M’etien, it is odd that now everyone speaks to me as if we’re very close. I don’t need to say that to you, though. You would always have been welcome to call me Etien, no matter how I introduced myself.

I did, however, permanently fuse that M to my surname. I’m not Ellifer’s kit, not T’ahn Tia’s breeding queen. I’m the only Mellifer there is.

I won’t lie and say I prefer sleeping in sand and coming to within an ilm of my life so often, but it’s a life where I have my friends, and most of all, I have you. And I would gladly go toe-to-toe with more Primals and nasty foreign generals in exchange for so sweet a life as that.

All my love, Etien.

She sealed it, scented it, and then did something she hadn’t done for what felt like far too long.

“Feo Ul! Feo Ul? My darling little branch?” She sighed. “Pixies. Feo UL!”

Finally, the mass of orange-red, the shard of the Faerie King, appeared before Etien.

“Here I am, my sapling!”

“You chide me for never calling, and then don’t come when I do,” she giggled, ruffling Feo Ul’s hair as best she could.

“What do ye have for me?”

“A letter. Get it to Ishgard, please? Also, you can have one of these apples when you come back.”

At that, Feo Ul licked their lips in anticipation and sailed off with the letter.

Etien sighed. Now she could sleep easy.

#fic #Aytien... kinda?

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starswornoaths · 5 years ago

Text

Stay.

Over the years, Serella has found herself with many, many members in her little chosen family. Many of whom have already left, whisked away in slumber. There are only a few left to whom she hasn’t said goodbye. On her last night on this star, that changes.

Or:

Absolutely do not, under any circumstances, read this while listening to “Goodbye may seem Forever” from Fox and the Hound 0/10 sobbed while editing.

Word count: 2,836

Ordinarily, Serella loved riding through the Highlands on Ullr’s back. It was liberating, that feeling of the sharp chill of crisp Coerthan air lashing at her face and the howl of the wind in her ears as they raced through the snowy pathways and foothills around Camp Dragonhead. While certainly not so freeing as flying overhead, there was something special about feeling her bird trot against the resistance of several inches of powdery snow that glittered like stardust as he kicked it up in his wake. On another sort of outing on any other picturesque day she would happily hop off to play in the snow with her beloved bird— for how else would they stay young, otherwise?

Today, however, Serella rode from Mor Dhona straight into Camp Dragonhead with a heavy heart and a hard set mask of stoicism. She dismounted and led him to the stables, though yet lingered at her faithful friend’s side: she was waiting for someone, after all. Ullr doubtless sensed her dread, as he trilled in that questioning way that seemed to ask her, Mama, what’s wrong? Her heart squeezed in her chest, even as she forced herself to smile as she gave his side an affectionate pat.

“It’s alright, boy,” she reassured him, even as she knew it was a lie. “It’s alright, this...this shouldn’t take long.”

One of the passing knights recognized her, and reassured her that Lord Emmanelain would be out shortly. She thanked him and busied herself with slowly removing Ullr’s saddlebags one at a time to add to her own backpack. Even as she was mindful of the straps lest they chaffe him as she worked she felt her eyes sting— a stinging that persisted as Ullr reached over and gently nipped at the saddlebag she was now working to fasten to her own pack.

Another softly questioning wark came, as if asking, Mama, what are you doing?

The cold must be drying her eyes, Serella thought, and blinked back her tears as she lifted the second of the saddlebags and strapped it to her own pack as well; they weren’t that much heavier, she had emptied them before they left.

“Hey there, old girl,” she heard a familiar, boyish voice call to her, “good to see you again.”

She straightened, intent on answering Emmanellain in that calm, collected voice she had been practicing for what felt like a lifetime when a happy bark sounded in the camp’s stone walls. She whipped her head around to see her brave little brother standing just outside of the stable looking at her like he was scared to his wits end, her mother beside him with eyes already haunted for her childrens’ absence, and her sweet, excitable canine bounding over like a bolt of lightning.

That she had not been expecting— and the surprise disarmed her of her staunch stoicism.

“Ma— Vardr—?!” She didn’t even care her voice broke or that her eyes swam with tears as she knelt to catch her sprinting companion.

He nearly barreled her over in his enthusiasm but she managed to keep knelt, even as she was bombarded with licks and tail wags and his happy whines. She attempted to soothe him around her own tears: she hadn’t realized just how much she had missed her pets, and felt Rhalgr’s absence more keenly than she had in recent weeks. She hoped her fuzzy cat was napping by her fireplace malms away in Foundation, keeping nice and warm.

“What are you doing here, boy?” She asked as he calmed down enough to sit in front of her and let his thump excitedly.

“Brought him from your house— on orders from a bluebird chirping in my ear.” Myrina said from somewhere above her: she must have stepped inside the stable at some point. She couldn’t bring herself to stand just yet when Vardr was so starved for her affection— and she for his, really. “And lest you worry, I’ll be glad to take him home once we’re done here— needed an excuse to stretch my legs, anyroad.”

Though she was wholly and utterly delighted at being able to see Vardr again, her mother’s words gave her pause: a bluebird— Aymeric? He had been one of a few to know that she was travelling to Camp Dragonhead for personal reasons; she’d had to report it to all of the Alliance leaders lest they need her counsel, and never mind the way her stomach churned at the discovery of that particular requirement for the job and the revelation that this was just how Minfilia had lived; she hadn’t the wherewithal to unpack the emotions she felt with that. Much as she adored the other leaders of the Alliance, she doubted very much any of them save for him could contact her mother— or would even know to— in advance. We’re supposed to be neutral, the sweet fool, she thought with infinite fondness even as her heart twisted in her chest.

In the wake of everything that she was going to have to do and everything that was in front of her, Serella had somehow skipped past feeling overwhelmed by her emotions and had numbed herself enough to stand without fear of crying all over again.

“Pray tell your bluebird that I’m so grateful for this—” she thanked Myrina before turning to her brother, “— and thank you as well, of course,” she amended, trying to smile even as it felt like her skin was being pulled too tight from the already fleeting cheer. Like snow in springtime it rapidly evaporated, and she asked in a quieter voice, “how fare you? Are you sure this isn’t too much trouble?”

“Oh come now, old girl, give me some credit!” Emmanelain dismissed, holding a finger up. “I might not be quite so adept as Haurchefant had been in chocobo husbandry, but I know how to care for a full grown bird— who do you think Artoirel foisted all his stable boy duties on when we were children?”

The thought of Artoirel being the one to shove off work in their youth had Serella snorting in laughter; little wonder Emmanelain had been so quick to shirk off his own duties when they had first met.

“I was more worried about overwhelming you— you have so many other duties now.” Serella explained, even as she had continued to pet Ullr and Vardr in turns.

“If Camp Dragonhead can’t provide for a spare chocobo, then I am already not doing my job.” Emmanellain replied with pursed lips. “And if anything changes to where we cannot, he will be taken care of at the Holy Stables.” He clapped a hand over his heart. “I swear I’ll see to it myself.”

“I never had a doubt in my mind,” Serella reassured him, though with a wince she hesitantly asked the two of them, “...might I finish stabling him? Say my goodbyes?”

“I would have insisted you do regardless,” her younger brother reassured her.

“It’s only right,” Myrina said, a hand coming up to pat at Ullr’s beak. “Poor dear already suspects, most like.”

With a jerk of his head toward the path leading out of Camp Dragonhead, Emmanellain said, “go on, we can wait outside. Need us to take Vardr?”

“Nah, he can stay— he’ll howl otherwise.” Moving back inside Ullr’s pen, she patted her thigh. “Come on, boy.”

Pleased as a goobue in mud, Vardr happily flopped down beside her as Emmanellain and Myrina quietly excused himself. Ullr preened his chest tuft nervously as she worked to remove his saddle and bridle. With her chocobo fully freed of his riding gear and her dog faithfully leaning against her leg she took her time carefully brushing out Ullr’s feathers; she had noticed that he had begun to look a bit lathered as they came into the Highlands.

It was soothing, the back and forth repetition of feeling the brush drift through his feathers. She had always taken great pride in taking care of him herself; even the thought of this being goodbye, even for just a short while, made her insides knot themselves with guilt. Ullr fussed and whined, and he must have realized something was different about this time, she realized with the way he kept turning to look at her, kept trying to nip her hands to stop her from brushing him. To calm him, she began to quietly hum as she often did when brushing him. Though Ullr quieted, he seemed to eye her dubiously as she went about tending to him.

“I won’t be around for a while, boys,” she spoke quietly when her song ended and the brushing stopped. “I have to find all your aunts and uncles— I’ve told you about what happened, haven’t I?”

Vardr made a low, questioning noise and she felt him press his forehead to her thigh to tip his head back and look up at her. She did not meet his stare— she had fallen into a sort of melancholic trance, tending to Ullr as she was.

“They’re all sleeping, and I have to...to wake them up again. So you’ll have to take care for me, alright?” She made to sweep the feathers that had shed naturally off when impulse demanded she take a few of them and carefully tuck them away in her breastplate; Ullr was the only one she could conceivably take a part of with her, she reasoned. “Be on your best behavior, the both of you.” Ullr turned his head and gently bumped his beak against her cheek. She stroked the downy soft feathers between his eyes. “Don’t give Emmanellain a hard time; he’s doing his best. You know the stable hands: they’re good about keeping your hay fresh and your stall clean, so no pecking them if they forget your salt block once or twice, alright?”

Vardr let out a startled snort when she moved to stand in front of Ullr, the poor dog being jarred from leaning against her leg as she shifted. She leaned down to give him an apologetic pat when he came to sit beside her again. She returned her attention to her horsebird when she heard a stable hand discreetly clear his throat.

“Time for me to go now.” She pressed her forehead gently against Ullr’s and gave his head one last scritch. “I love you, Ullr. Be a good boy for me, alright?”

When Serella turned Ullr grabbed the hood of her cloak with his beak. When she turned to free herself, a heat already behind her eyes as she took her hood back, Ullr let out a mournful wark, pleading, Mama, stay?

“Now, now,” her chastisements were warbled through her unshed tears, even as she took a step backward out of his reach. “What did I just say? Be good for me, Ullr. I’ll be back.”

She patted her thigh again, and tried to ignore the way Ullr wailed at being held in his pen. The stable hand tried to calm him, but even as she stepped out into the snow, she could hear him butting his side against the door in protest. She quietly apologized to him: she had always been bad at hiding her upset from him.

Vardr fell into step beside Serella as she walked toward the path leading back through to Mor Dhona, where Emmanellain and Myrina waited for her at the edge of the camp. She felt her already lead filled stomach sink to the floor the closer she neared; three more goodbyes, and that would be all that held her to this star. As she came to a stop in front of them, she tried to claw at what remains of her stoicism she could find within her.

“Well, this is it.” Emmanellain said with a heavy sigh. “Suppose you’re heading straight out, then?”

“To linger would just make it more painful.” Serella reasoned. “They...they need me. And I’m faring little better without them.”

Myrina nodded in understanding. “You’re certain you have all you might need on the road?” She asked with a frown.

“It isn’t far,” she replied distantly, though after a pause, she amended, “...to the tower. I...I can’t take much with me past that, or so I’m told.”

The youngest Fortemps nodded grimly. “And...you’re alright with that?”

“No. But I haven’t a choice.” Serella shrugged. Turning to her mother and giving her the biggest hug she could manage, she whispered, “thank you for bringing Vardr with you for me to say goodbye, Ma— it means more than I can say.”

“Seemed only right.” Myrina sniffed. “Wish your brother was here.”

“He...he didn’t want to say goodbye in person.”

“I know. I got his letter. It’s...enough.” The way Myrina squeezed her daughter until her shoulders popped gave away the lie. “I can’t fathom the pain you two suffered in mourning your father and I. Don’t...don’t put me through that.”

“We’ll be back as soon as we can, Ma.” Serella hoped that what strength she had was enough to hold her mother together for even a few seconds longer.

“You’d damn well better be.” Myrina reached up on her tip toes and kissed her cheek. “I love you, little Ella.”

“I love you, too, Ma.” With a sniffle and a kiss to her forehead, Serella let go. When her mother stepped back, her brother hesitantly came forward.

“Serella.” Emmanellain said in a serious tone, all pretense of his own boyhood gone. She looked at him, then— really looked at him, and saw that he was trying just as hard as she was to hold himself together. “This isn’t...do not call it ‘goodbye,’ alright?” He pointed an accusing finger at her. “You adventurer types like those, but I deny your goodbye!” Tears welled in his eyes— and hers. “You will come home, you hear me? I accept naught less!”

“...I promise.” She said, and all pretense of Ishgardian mannerisms went out the window when he launched himself at her for a hug. She squeezed him tight enough that she felt his ribs creak. He only clung to her tighter. “We’ll come back, just you see.”

“You had better!” He sniffled into her collar. “Ullr will never forgive you otherwise— nor will I!”

“I know, brother mine,” she yessed him through her own tears— she had not realized she had so many of them to shed today. “I know. I love the lot of you too damned much to stay gone, you know that.”

“You had better.” He mumbled, going slack as if in defeat.

He was the first to let go and step away, scrubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. Taking the opportunity for what it was, she knelt down one last time to speak with Vardr.

“You watch over the others for me, yeah?” She asked him, and when he whined, she placed her hand atop his head. “I love you, Vardr.”

It didn’t surprise her when he started to trot along after her when she stood and turned to leave. She had anticipated it, and turned to look down at him over her shoulder. She held out her closed fist— a command she had taught him early.

“Stay.” She ordered him.

Vardr whined, pawing at the snow in front of him. Myrina knelt down and took hold of his collar, nodding at her sternly to go.

Serella left, and did not look back again. She pretended that Vardr’s mournful howling was just the wind of the encroaching snow storm. Eventually, that was all she heard besides.

By the time she had made her way into Mor Dhona, past the settlement, and into the crystal forest surrounding Syrcus Tower, she had managed to take an old hairpin she had found in Eureka and refashion it with Ullr’s feathers. She had pinned it in her hair out of want for having something there— the dramatic in her demanded she leave her Orthodox hairpin with Aymeric in the infirmary before they parted— again— and she had not realized how familiar its slight weight was on her head until she went without.

It felt oddly final, when she walked past the first gate to the tower. There was still yet the disabled wards to walk passed, but something about the heavy thud of the doors closing behind her felt...permanent in a way she did not want to dwell on.

I’ll come back. And I’ll bring everyone with me. She promised herself, and that alone made her legs push her onward. She had someone she needed to meet up ahead, anyroad. No sense in keeping him waiting.

Uthengentle did not comment on the new hairpin when he eyed it upon her arrival to the doors of Syrcus Tower. Instead, he offered her a tired smile and put away his whittling. Not even left home, and it was clear the shadows had already caught up to haunt both their eyes.

“Well, Ellie,” he said in a weary voice, “ready to save the world again?”

“As ever.” She replied, just as exhausted, and felt like she left everything that was home the second they stepped through the doors.

#ffxiv #spoilers for 4.5 #Serella Arcbane #Uthengentle Arcbane #Myrina Arcbane #Emmanellain Fortemps #hi did I mention this is the one that upset me the most?#this is the one that upset me the most #but hey! writing goal met!#\o/#idk why it is but like any story I write about saying goodbye to family and pets hits me harder #ESPECIALLY for pets #;o;#anyway happy Shadowbringers eve y'all!!!

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