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lilbittymonster · 2 years ago

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Extinguishing the Last Light

Word Count: 4122

Rating: Teen

Read on AO3

Estinien came to with a face full of sunlight, painfully bright even filtered through the canopy of the forest above. Immediately pulling himself up into a defensive crouch, lance drawn, he cast about his surroundings. Purple was all he could see for films around him. Purple leaves, purple shrubs, purples grasses, purple flowers. This had to be some sort of illusory magicks. Or perhaps a dream. He had fallen unconscious, that much he remembered, same as Kitali had fallen. Same as all the rest of the Scions, it would seem.

A rush of noise to the south caught his attention and he readied to leap forward. A cloaked figure was running towards him through the underbrush, seemingly unarmed. Physically, at least. Mages were less predictable.

They stopped, panting, and pulled back their hood. A miqo’te with red hair and equally red eyes looked back at him, his expression both pleading and terrified.

“Please,” he began with his hands up apologetically, “I am sorry for the manner of your arrival here. My name is G’raha Tia, and I desperately need your help.”

“Where am I, G’raha Tia?” Estinien asked gruffly. His lance had not lowered an ilm.

“You are on the First. A reflection of the Source, the star from which you hail. The details do not matter right now, but if you do not help us both of our worlds are doomed to end.”

Estinien searched his features for any trace of a lie. He found none, only naked desperation. He lowered his lance to rest the butt on the ground, and G’raha gratefully lowered his arms in response.

“What is it you require of me?”

“I require you that you slay the being known as the Lightwarden. It is what is holding this world in eternal daylight and keeping the aetheric balance in a dangerous stasis of Light.”

Estinien snorted. “Killing yet more foul beasts…” he muttered, mostly to himself. He raised his voice to address the man before him. “This seems like a job for the Warrior of Light, does it not? ‘Twas you who called her here in the first place, I imagine.”

G’raha Tia’s expression grew somehow even more pained. “The Warrior of Light…..the Warrior of Light has failed,” he said, his voice breaking. “As have the Scions who accompanied her.”

His words sent a shiver of dread down his spine. “All of them?”

“All of them,” G’raha repeated.

Estinien closed his eyes. All of the Scions who were brought here….that meant-

“Please,” G’raha pleaded again, softer but no less insistently. “Will you lend us your aid?”

Estinien opened his eyes again, blinking back the tears of grief already beginning to well.

“If I help you, you’ll send me back?” As if the answer mattered. He’d already resolved his vengeance.

“You have my word.”

The grey haired Hyur led him through an elegantly wrought gate and down the spiralling staircase, speaking in a hushed tone all the while. G’raha Tia had pointed Estinien in the direction of the library as the best starting place in his hunt, with the senior librarian Moren being the one to speak with. Not sure why he’d need to go to a library, he only needed to know where the damned thing was, but it couldn’t hurt having a bit of knowledge beforehand.

“We don’t know much about the current Lightwarden’s abilities, but we’ve compiled a list of what observed combat capabilities she had prior to-”

“”She’?” Estinien interrupted. “How do you know it’s a she?”

Moren paused, silent as they continued to walk alongside the looming bookshelves. Estinien inwardly cursed himself for his lack of tact.

“Every Lightwarden there ever was, every single sin eater our fighters put their blades against, was once a person,” Moren said. “A person with thoughts and feelings and bonds and friends and hopes. And this particular Lightwarden used to be someone who I…..who I cared a great deal for.”

The weight of his words hit Estinien like so many stones to the gut, and the description matched a situation that he was all too familiar with. “I’m sorry for your loss,” Estinien said quietly.

“Thank you,” Moren said with a thin smile. He brought them both to a stop behind a small bookshelf with glass doors. Producing a tiny key from a pocket, he unlocked the top tier and withdrew a large leather folio. Inside were all manner of papers, stacked with some semblance of order. “This is an aggregate of any and all official reports, witness accounts, testimonies of colleagues…..I hope that you may find something of use here.” His hands trembled where they rested on the worn cover, as if reluctant to let go. “Come, there is better reading light upstairs.”

They walked back through the silent halls below, Moren clutching the leatherbound papers to his chest like a shield. He seemed lost in thought, and Estinien was plenty content to leave him to it. But as they crested another level in the spiral, Moren broke the silence.

“What do you know of aethercraft, Ser Estinien?”

“Aethercraft?” Estinien blinked. “Do you speak of magic or simply manipulating one’s own aether? I can teleport just fine.”

Moren shook his head. “No, I mean the finer intricacies of aetheric balances of the six elements. Do you have any familiarity with them?”

“Can’t say I do, no.”

“Ah.” Moren fell silent once more, a frown pulling at his brow.

“Why do you ask?”

“Before, back when she-back when we were discussing other Lightwardens and the…..the peculiarity of her aether, she…..” He trailed off absently as he fumbled with the gate door once more.

Moren crossed the floor to one of the softly lit reading tables, tucked away behind stacks of books.

“Before,” he continued, “we had begun to theorise about the effects of Light aether, and whether or not the sin eater process could be reversed. We had not come to anything conclusive when she-when-” He broke off roughly, clutching the folio to his chest once more. “If there is any chance at all to reverse this process I will take it. Please. If you can spare her…”

Estinien removed his gauntlets and set them aside before gently taking the folio from him. “You have my word.”

Moren nodded, finally releasing his grip and turning to head back towards the stairs.

The unceasing light was even brighter reflecting off of the ocean as Estinien walked along the beach. G’raha Tia told him that Kholusia was the place he needed to go next, and seek out the man named Chai Nuzz. The air was heavy around him. Sound carried unnaturally loudly, the crunch of the sand beneath his boots being near the only thing he could hear. Not even a breeze carried off the water. ‘Twas as if the whole world were holding its breath, waiting. Even the creatures ignored him, shambling to and fro without care, without drive.

The large opulent city at the water’s edge seemed to be his destination. The ground beneath his feet shifted from sand to scree as he made his way. A collection of shanties came into view as he rounded the hill, and he could see people standing about. As he approached, though, none of them even so much as twitched. The only signs of anyone still alive were the occasional blink and the movements of breath.

“Excuse me,” he asked a viera sitting hunched on a pile of crates. “Do you know where I can find a man named Chai Nuzz?”

The woman blinked sleepily, and looked at him as though waking from a dream. “Chai Nuzz…..” she repeated softly to herself, then raised a languid arm to point towards the city. “He’s there.”

Could’ve spared myself the effort, he thought to himself. He nodded and kept following the main road, trying to ignore the stillness of the townsfolk he passed. The foot of the massive spire was much the same, covered in shacks with loose crowds sitting about, staring off into the distance. The guards stationed at the gate may as well been statues for all he knew. Or cared. So long as they didn’t hinder him.

The Au Ra stationed at the gate slowly swivelled their head to look at Estinien as he approached. “State your business,” they drawled.

“I’m here to speak to Chai Nuzz.”

The Au Ra nodded. “Top floor,” was all they said before returning to their rigid stance.

The foyer of the castle was decorated in what would have been lush carpets and tapestries, had they not fallen to rot from neglect. The gold decorations had begun to tarnish, and fissures in the walls sported tiny bits of moss. The planter boxes were overflowing with dead and drooping flowers, though some blossoms still held stubbornly onto life.

Right. Top floor. Estinien ducked into the alcove with the ascending staircase, taking the spiraling steps leap by leap until he reached the apex. At his approach, the guard directly across the doorway made a lazy grab for his spear.

“Chai Nuzz,” Estinien said without preamble.

The guard relaxed his grip and pointed into the open plaza to the right. “Inside. At the bar.”

Estinien grunted his thanks and stepped into the dimly lit plaza, a disabled aetheryte in the center covered in long-dead roses taking up most of his vision. A soft murmur of voices rose up at his approach, but beyond that there was almost no reaction. Almost.

A miqo’te man in a worn purple suit stood from his chair, walking slowly towards him. These people within the city walls seemed much more animated than those left outside, though that wasn’t saying much. Behind him, Estinien could see the crowd of onlookers watching through half-lidded eyes.

“State your business, stranger,” the miqo’te said.

“I’m here to speak with Chai Nuzz on behalf of the Exarch,” Estinien said. “Do you know where I can find him?”

“You’re speaking to him,” Chai Nuzz said. “On behalf of the Exarch, is it? I’m going to guess it’s about the Lightwarden.”

“Aye. I was told that you were the one to speak to about getting up the mountain.”

Chai Nuzz shook his head. “Nobody is getting up that mountain anymore. I tore the Ladder down years ago. I’m sorry, but you can tell the Exarch that I won’t be sending anyone else to their deaths.”

“I was under the impression that your world is dying,” Estinien said. “Are you really so content to just languish here, waiting for your end to come?”

“Young man, that is precisely what this city was built for. We had already accepted our fate long before the Scions arrived. And if the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, helmed by the Warrior of Darkness herself, could not defeat the final Light then what chance do you have, a single soldier?” Chai Nuzz shook his head again. “If you’re so eager to go after it then you’ll have to find your own way up. I won’t help you.” And with that he turned and slowly walked back to his seat.

Estinien huffed and turned on his heel. Fine. If he had to make his way, he would. He’s been dealt worse hands.

He stood at the foot of the contraption called the Ladder, and couldn’t stop himself from laughing. Is this truly all that stood between him and his quarry? A paltry metal ladder? He pushed off the cobblestones with barely a flex of muscle, and landed squarely on the scree of the cliffside above. The plains were just as bleak as down below, just as still. Just as silent. The susurrus of dead grass beneath his boots was entirely too loud in his own ears. His hand drifted back towards his lance in a nervous tic, itching for something to happen to break the stillness.

And break it did.

“She did that too,” said a small voice to his left.

Whirling with a snarl, Estinien aimed his lance at the tiny body sitting against a rock off the side of the road. Whatever was covering its face gave it the appearance of flat yellow eyes, and they stared blankly in his direction.

“Who did what?”

“The Warrior,” the tiny figure said again, noticeably slower than the residents of Eulmore down below. “She could jump high enough to reach the heavens. Pulled down Night itself, almost.”

Kitali. They were talking about Kitali, he realised. Another wave of grief and regret and anger surged up like bile at the back of his throat, and he swallowed it down.

The figure tilted its head at him appraisingly. “You’re here to avenge her aren’t you?”

Estinien gave a curt nod. “Aye.”

A thin, bitter laugh followed. “Good luck, sinner. You’ll need it.”

Wholly unnerved by the entire interaction, Estinien gave a brief nod and kept walking. Renewed anger gave weight to his steps again, and he marched resolutely towards the foot of the mountain. The golden spires were visible from all the way down here, the stone bridges mere leaps between him and his target.

Besides the quiet stillness of the air at this altitude, besides the unwavering light that seemed near tangible, his pulse pounded in his ears, every bead of sweat noticeable oh his skin. The malaise that permeated the shore below had tripled, and moving though it felt like trying to walk through wool. By the time he reached the white marbled gates, the tip of his spear was nearly dragging along the stones.

The layers of stairs and trellises that stretched out before him must have, at one point, been beautiful. But now, there were large chunks of stone blasted from the walls and the gilding faded with weathering. As he rounded the bend of the path, he thought he saw movement between the pillars. The first movement he’s seen since beginning his ascent up the cliff face. Forcing his lance arm to lift Nidhogg, he sprung across the empty space to duck behind a pillar. He held his breath in anticipation of an attack. None came. Taking another steadying breath and readying his lance, he leaped out into the final courtyard, and froze.

At the opposite end of the expanse of patterned gold, a creature easily three times his size drifted lazily above the rubble. A long, sinuous tail dragged lightly along through the dust. Estinien could see multiple crisscrossing lines all over the ruined amphitheater much in the same fashion. Its skin was as white as the stone around him, shot through with veins of gold in a mockery of beauty. A large pair of feathered wings beat soundlessly as it moved. And covering most of the creature’s form was a tattered white coat in a sickeningly familiar silhouette.

He must’ve made some noise, or other indication of his presence, because its head whipped around to face him, and he found he couldn’t breathe. Three pairs of horns, all of them familiar in their shapes, framed a face that looked like it was carved from marble. It could have been marble, for all he knew, if it weren’t for the glowing opalescent eyes that pierced his very being and pinned him where he stood. And the expression, the face he would know anywhere, in any universe, was frozen in mild surprise.

“Estinien,” she breathed, the ripples of her voice filling the otherwise deadened air.

He tried to swallow around a suddenly parched throat. He had hoped against hope that the poor soul who had been turned into the beast he hunted simply shared in Kitali’s abilities, but that shred of hope was dashed against the white marble. There was no denying it now; his friend had become the enemy.

“Kit…” he whispered. He cleared his throat before continuing. “Strange, that we should find ourselves here again.”

“Strange indeed,” she echoed. Her words seemed to reverberate inside his skull. She tilted her head at him, considering. Calculating. “They sent you to kill me.”

Estinien’s mouth went dry. “Aye, they did.”

Kitali’s form immediately pivoted with predatory grace to face him fully, and she began drifting towards him across the open platform. Her opalescent eyes had deepened to a familiar red glow and the talons on her hands elongated to ivory spears. Estinien was rooted to the spot. His heart was pounding under his armor as though it were trying to escape his chest altogether as he watched, frozen, as Kitali slowly drew nearer.

“And are you going to?” she asked. Her voice had not changed tone but it was rippling with intensity. An all-too-familiar steel beneath silk.

“No.” His voice rasped against his throat as he gasped out the single syllable. “No, I won’t.” The sound of Nidhogg clattering to the stones was thunderous in the silence. “You didn’t give up on me, and I won’t give up on you, either.”

Kitali’s eyes returned to the pale golden glow and her posture relaxed, and she continued her approach until she was but a yalm before him. With the fluidity of a dropped ribbon she knelt on the marble. Her wings settled with a soft brush though the dust, stirring up small clouds before they drifted to stillness once more.

“The librarian said you’d talked of finding a cure for this…..this aether sickness,” Estinien continued.

Kitali’s head tilted. “Librarian?”

“Moren.”

She closed her eyes.

“Moren,” she sighed, the sound rustling through the broken pillars like wind through so many dead trees. The name sounded uncomfortably close to mourn on her tongue. “Moren was sweet.” Her eyes opened once more, and she reached out for him. “You’re sweet, too.”

Her touch seared against his bare cheek and yet Estinien could not find the motive to pull away. Perhaps the librarian was right, there was still a chance she could be saved from this affliction, she’s still talking to him, she’s still Kitali…

“What happened to the other Scions?” he asked. The question burned on his lips but he had to know. He had to know what had happened to-what had happened to them all.

“They joined me,” was all she said, hand still caressing his cheek. “To stay with me until the end.”

“I-what does that mean, Kitali?”

She tilted her head, her expression morphing into one of mild pity. “This world is dying, Estinien. It’s dying a slow, hard death. Better to spare them the pain, keep them safe with me.”

This did nothing to ease the knot of grief in his heart.

“You could stay, too,” she offered quietly. Hopefully.

Estinien closed his eyes. “The Exarch promised that if…..if I defeated you he’d send me back,” he said weakly, already hearing the decision in his voice.

“The Exarch lied,” Kitali spat, voice suddenly sharp. “There is no way back.” She pulled her hand away, and the loss of the sensation further weakened his resolve.

Estinien rolled the weight of her words, the words of his friend, against those of the strange man who had pulled him from his home. What did he have to leave behind, he mused. What was there left to return to?

“Stay,” Kitali repeated softly. “Please.”

He could feel himself nodding even before she finished speaking. Opening his eyes, he met her golden ones. So devoid of life, and yet so welcoming.

“Okay. I’ll stay.”

Her answering smile was blindingly radiant.

The light beat harshly against the stones as he appeared, same as it always did. The winding path up to the floating sanctum looked about the same, save the figure standing atop one of the outcroppings. He tilted his head, curiosity piqued. Nothing lived here. Not anymore. Not unless…..

What are you playing at, Exarch?

As he grew nearer, the figure disappeared, reappearing before him in a cloud of white shadow. It was an elf, or elezen, or whatever they were called these days. Long white hair, white skin to match, dressed in oddly pointed white armor trimmed in gold. The lance in its hand, however, glowed a deep red, same as the eyes. The only spots of colour in this forsaken wasteland of a world.

“Why are you here?” the man growled. He supposed it was supposed to be intimidating.

“None of your business,” Emet-Selch drawled as he continued up the path.

He found the rather long and rather sharp business end of the lance at his throat, and looked over at the man in indignation.

“Have you come to harm her?”

Emet-Selch moved the lance away from his throat with the flick of a finger. “Put that thing away before you hurt someone, boy. I’m just visiting, if you must know.”

The Cardinal said nothing, but withdrew his weapon before vanishing in the same puff of smoke. Off to warn his mistress, like a good little guard dog, he supposed. Despite being able to simply will himself to the front gates, Emet-Selch decided to keep meandering up the long and winding pathway. Give the impression of courtesy.

Eventually the familiar stone statues came into view, some more damaged than the last time he visited. The likely result of the last band of mercenaries the Exarch had tried to throw at the Warden despite knowing their failure was all but assured. He picked up an errant blade, dropped in battle, and turned it over casually in his hand. The craftsmanship was nothing remarkable but it had been well made. Served its purpose to the very end. As good a death for a blade as any. With a clatter of steel upon stone it was cast aside once more.

With hands clasped behind his back, he strode through the shining white halls, noting the accumulated dust along the pathways and increase of decay in the gardens below. His footsteps on the stairs echoed solemnly in the empty air. Once again, he found his memories drifting back to that final fight. Once again, he found himself wondering what might have happened. What might have been, had she succeeded. With a frustrated shake of his head, he emerged at the top. No use in what-ifs, now.

The hovering shape of what used to be the Warrior of Darkness (or was she the Warrior of Light still? Funny how these things work out, isn’t it.) turned slowly to look down at him. Seems the guard dog did his job after all. Unhurried, Emet-Selch made his way up the final steps to the dias. Her domain and her tomb.

“And to what do I owe this visit, Hades?” she said in that soft cold voice of hers.

“Pleasant as always,” he returned, still unbothered. “I was in the area, thought I’d drop by. I hate to be a bad neighbour.”

“Is that so.”

“It is.” He ran his gloved hand along a faded decal in the stone. “I see you have a new pet,” he remarked.

“He’s mine,” she snarled instantly, eyes going red.

“Relax, I have no interest in taking your plaything away from you. I’m simply interested in where he came from.”

She stared silently at him as he walked around the perimeter of the amphitheater. The only change in her form was the occasional beat of her wings. At her continued silence, Emet-Selch rolled his eyes with a scoff.

“What, now you won’t even answer my questions? Has it truly been so long that you’ve forgotten what a conversation is?”

“Why are you here, Hades?” she asked again, significantly more short.

“I told you-”

“You’re still waiting for her, aren’t you?” the Warden cut him off smoothly. “At the end of the world, you’re still holding out hope.” If he hadn’t known how to look for it, he would’ve missed the gloating beneath.

He set his jaw. “She’s as stubborn as you are. I have every reason to believe in her return.”

“You’re scared to be alone,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken.

“Am not.”

“You’re holding onto scraps of a ghost. Your friend is gone, Hades. She’s not coming back. None of them are coming back.”

Hades scowled, grinding his teeth.

“There's no going back for any of us, now.”

“You don’t know that. I can be patient. I have not waited this long for nothing, all our work cannot be for nothing,” he hissed. “When you are whole, you will understand.”

“You’ve failed once already.”

He tried to ignore the voice in his head saying she was right. He tried to ignore the fact it was his own. For all her assertions that she wasn’t Timoria, she certainly got under his skin the same way.

“I tire of this,” he said dismissively, turning to leave. “Enjoy your solitude.”

Her words rang in his ears all the way back to Amaurot.

#ffxiv #ff14 #ffxiv fanfiction #final fantasy xiv #final fantasy 14 #shadowbringers #shadowbringers spoilers #lightwarden au #estinien #estinien varlineau #crystal exarch #g'raha tia #moren #chai nuzz #emet-selch #my writing

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rosendark · 1 year ago

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My emotional support librarian man during Shadowbringers, bb Moren <3

#ffxiv #ffxiv art #Moren #ffxiv Moren #Shadowbringers #hyur #hume

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rhymingteelookatme · 3 years ago

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Prompt #3: Courtesy

Words: 1521 | Day 3: scale

Sélysette finds herself thinking about Moren... frequently, in the days following the presentation of her gift. The facts of the matter are easily tallied; sorting out her emotions regarding said facts, on the other hand, is far more difficult.

She is proud, of course, that her hard work has received such a positive response. She had understood, in the abstract, that the Cabinet very rarely receives additions to its collection. But that knowledge in no way prepared her for the intensity of the Librarian’s reaction.

It lingers in the theatre of her mind. His joy, his eagerness, his outright reverence toward the tales she had put in his hands- and all without having read a word of them. She does not know when someone last treated something she made with such tenderness.

(She does not know when she last made something like this. Has she ever? She must do it again.)

And that is not all. If she manages even briefly to forget him with her books, then she is dwelling on the sight of him from the top of the stairs. Before he even knew she was there. The way his hand moved over that page, so light, so gentle...

There are the facts of the matter, and then there is her fool head deciding to review particular facts at every spare moment. She is not certain this sort of... preoccupation has ever happened to her before.

She is not certain she likes the implications.

But neither is she certain there are implications in the first place...! Ugh.

Nigh on two weeks following what she now thinks of as the Spectacle, Sély hears her name called out as she is returning to her room midafternoon.

“Yes?” she calls back, turning toward the speaker.

It is Sylgham who called; he waves her over to the Catenaries' entrance station. “Caught you at last, miss! There's a message for you. Now, where did I...? Ah, here it is.”

As he speaks, he has been fishing about among the contents of the table before him; now he plucks up the paper he has been in search of. Scanning it, he continues: “Right. Librarian Moren wished to speak to you at your earliest convenience, regarding the Cabinet’s most recent acquisition. I told him that you were often out and about, and he said that was all right, you’d get the word eventually.”

Most recent acquisition. Well, well.

“...I see,” Sély says after a moment. “I suppose I shall be off, then. Once I have freshened up a bit. My thanks, Sylgham.”

It is not stalling, she tells herself as she proceeds to her quarters. It is simply necessity- courtesy, even. She’s done no few tasks this day, not least of which was hauling fertilizer over to the gardens at Sweetsieve; it simply will not do to answer anyone’s summons while she is thus... perfumed.

Half an hour later, she sets forth again, as clean as she is likely to get.

Out of courtesy, of course.

The trek down to the Cabinet and subsequent climb to the loft seems to take no more than the twinkling of an eye, this time round. Sélysette has made a firm bargain with herself: she will deliberately ignore whatever this fuss is about, with the Spectacle and its central player, for the foreseeable future. She will concentrate purely on the moment before her from now on.

Behold- she has arrived. Top of the staircase, entering the loft. She has been summoned and she is here.

And, of course, so is Librarian Moren.

He is not the same picture of tranquility he was when she last arrived. His standing desk, she now realizes, is not merely a single raised surface. Instead it is a two-tiered affair, with the higher level attached by wood and metal supports to a smaller one a fulm or so down. Today both these surfaces are piled with a great quantity of papers, tomes, quills, and precariously placed inkwells—and the Librarian is leaning over the lot with a look of the deepest concentration, muttering to himself at a rapid clip.

Interesting.

Sélysette will announce herself momentarily, but she must wait for a break in the chatter. Courtesy, you understand.

However, courtesy is doomed to disappointment when no break seems to come. Very well. As there is no door, Sély knocks on the metal banister beside her. “Afternoon, Librarian.”

No response.

She knocks again, more loudly. “Librarian Moren?” Still no response. If anything, he leans a bit closer to his work.

Hmph. Needs must when the voidsent drives; Sély raises her voice: “Moren.”

That gets his attention at last. “Hm?” he says distractedly, turning his head- then, seeing her, straightens up. “Oh! Miss Selysette, hello again.”

She releases a measured breath. “You wished to see me?”

“I did! I had not expected my message to reach you so quickly. Here, come and have a seat. I’ll just be a moment.”

He indicates a nearby table and chairs, one of several placed about the perimeter of the room. It is also the only one that is entirely clear. Sély chooses the seat on the farther side.

When Moren joins her, his demeanor has changed. He is...hesitant. Thankfully he does not wait longer to speak.

“So, er. We- the other librarians and I, we’ve been reviewing those tales you brought in for us. We had some, ah- some queries about them, that we thought you might be able to answer. For the sake of completeness, you know, in the catalogue entry.”

To her great annoyance, Sély’s heart has decided to start quickstepping again. Bah. Let it pass. “What sort of queries?”

“I had prepared a list, let me- oh yes, here we are.” Much like Chantilde on Sély’s first visit, Moren produces a small notepad and pencil from somewhere on his person. Flipping open the former, he wets his lips. “Now, then...”

It is silly how important she feels, having someone asking her questions and writing down the answers. Even things like this. Are the stories her own (no); whose are they then (someone called Madame d’Aulnoy); where did she hear them (from her mother at bedtime, out of a book, as a child).

“I may not have remembered every word,” she adds to that last, “but I did my best to make them as complete as I could.”

Scribble, scribble. “Then these are tales from your homeland?”

“One might say that... but being honest, I think Madame was from another country than mine. Though I could not say which one.”

A short nod. “We shall leave it at your homeland, then.”

Emboldened, she asks a question of her own. “Is there anything about the tales themselves that is unclear? I know some ideas are hard to understand, even in fairy stories.”

The pencil stops. The writer inhales, slowly. “Not about the tales, per se. Er...”

A light flush has risen to Moren’s cheeks. She can almost see sweat threatening to break out over the little dots of his brows. She waits.

“It’s about the hand,” he says at last.

“The hand?”

“The writing, I mean. Did- you said you wrote out these tales yourself, correct?” At her nod, he continues. “Yes, well. It must have taken you great pains to transcribe so many words from memory, and we are most- most grateful. Only...”

If he doesn’t watch out, she’ll shake him. “I assure you I shan’t be upset. Only what?”

“Only- neither I nor any of the others can quite understand your writing,” he says, all in a rush. “It’s lovely, it is, but we’ve never seen its like before. Even the historians couldn’t crack it, and they know more alphabets than the rest of us put together. It’s our failing entirely, of course, but that’s the trouble.”

“...Oh.” Sély sinks back in her chair, embarrassment oozing over her as though someone has cracked an egg on the crown of her head. And here she thought she had been so careful to make it all legible. She’d never considered there might be a difficulty with the letters themselves.

“Drat,” Moren mutters to himself. Then, to her: “That’s the trouble, yes. But! We have also thought of a way these tales might still be made part of our collection.”

She peers across at him. “Go on.”

“We hoped you might translate for us. By reading them aloud, with one of us taking notes- ha, rather like we’ve done today. It will take quite some time, naturally, but then the tales would be readable for all the city. What do you think? You needn’t answer right away.”

What does she think, indeed. She would have to scale this height multiple times, for an unknown number of days, to tell her childhood bedtime stories to a person transcribing every word. To have those stories preserved just as she’d originally intended. Perhaps to understand the strange behavior of her mind and heart along the way.

“I think,” Sélysette says, “we can start as soon as you like.”

She still wants to make this gift. She’ll have the courtesy to see it through.

#FFxivWrite2021 #Sélysette Babiole #Librarian Moren #Que Sély Sély #Sylgham #my writing

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ladyramora · 5 years ago

Text

Familiar faces

[[MORE]]

Moren can feel her gaze on him. An intensity that was very much unnerving. Nonetheless, he stumbles through answering her questions with only minimal stuttering. Wicked white, she was intimidating!

"If... If you should like to hear the story again," Moren stammers with a nervous smile, "I would be happy to tell it."

The woman tilts her head, eyes narrow, and then leans forward into his personal bubble.

Moren dips akwardly backward, heart thudding with nerves.

"Your face," the Exarch's guest says with a twist of her lips. "It vexes me."

Moren feels his face flush in embarrassment. His face...? "I... I beg your pardon?"

"Say something for me, will you?"

It is more of a demand than a question, but Moren finds himself nodding anyway.

"Good," the woman says, and then quotes, "Mark me, savior of the savages. There will be a reckoning."

Moren blinks, but does as she asks. The low, threatening way she had voiced the words far different from the way he himself repeats them.

The woman sits back on her heels, a thoughtful hum on her lips.

"I'll be damned." She mutters, eyeing him thoughtfully.

Moren blinks at her, book clutched to his chest and face still flushed from her proximity. "...Might I ask your reasoning for that?"

The woman smiles. and it is far more friendly. She leans close enough to twirl a lock of his hair around her finger, gazing deep into his eyes like she could see into his soul.

Moren feels twice as nervous in the face of this interest.

"You have one of those faces."

Moren touches a hand to his face. "Do I?"

The woman grins, and Moren is a bit taken aback by the sharpness of that toothy smile.

"A face like yours could be a weapon."

The woman pulls away then, and Moren feels like he can breathe again.

"Nice to meet you, pretty boy."

Moren flushes, voice cracking in a way that makes his voice squeak, "It's Moren! N..not pretty boy!"

The woman tilts her head, repeating, "Moren," like she was savoring it on her tongue.

She nods once. "It suits you. See you later, pretty boy."

Moren is doubly flustered by her refusal to call him by his name. "It... It's Moren!" he calls after her, the breath leaving his lungs in anxiety as she vaults over the side of the railing instead of using the stairs like a normal person.

Moren rushes to the edge with his heart in his throat as he looks down. The woman had landed in a crouch, completely fine like she did this all the time, and looks up as he gazes down at her. She waves to him, and Moren helplessly waves back. Staring after her as she leaves.

The Crystal Exarch's guests were a strange lot.

#ladyramora writes #ffxiv shadowbringers #ffxiv shadowbringers spoilers #shadowbringers spoilers #ffxiv 5.0 #ffxiv 5.0 spoilers #Moren #this scene wouldnt leave me alone once I discovered Moren and Asahi have the same face #asahi sas brutus #ramora d'aubigne #but can be read as fem wol #the cute librarian #is it funny that I like Asahi more because of his murderous tendencies and obsessive love for Zenos #Ram is like hashtag same #Asahi hates her ofc #but that didnt stop Ram from flirting even tho she knew from the start that binch was fake #just picture the pain Asahi was feeling having to be fake nice to her while she flirted with him #it tickles me

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inexplicifics · 4 years ago

Note

So when they ransacked Duke Velen's manor before burning it down did they maybe take the contents of his large unused library? It would be shame for all those books to have been needlessly destroyed. Kaer Moren library could finally be more that bestiarys and erotica! And that would increase the need for a librarian to sort it all out. I'm sure they also got all the torturing mage's notes and the contents of the old Dukes office for Treyse and Mouse! Who knows what horrible things were in there?

They may have taken some of the books, yes. They definitely took all the notes and most of the contents of the office.

I’ve got to get a librarian to Kaer Morhen, I really do. I guess I sort of feel a little silly about doing so, since I’m a librarian myself and I don’t know how much anyone else wants to read about putting a collection in order...

#questions answered

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fistsoflightning · 4 years ago

Text

mune ga hachikire-sōde

my chest is about to burst.

gatheredfates’ [30 day WOL challenge] | prompt: letter

just a lil bit of catharsis for me… sort-of kind-of a follow up to holy! also @to-the-voiceless i am So Sorry for this, thank you for letting me take the linkpearl idea from this fic but also i’m really sorry for the angst again??? that playlist you made for harudewah. i am Still losing my mind over it.

also CW: a’dewah definitely has an anxiety/panic attack and it’s. kinda hard for me to read through and i was the one who wrote it? just take caution since emotions are Messy!

[ao3 mirror] (the word count rounds to about 7.5k!)

“but i find that lately i've been crying like a tall child…

...please, hurry, leave me, i can't breathe

please don't say you love me

mune ga hachikire-sōde

one word from you and i would

jump off of this ledge i'm on, baby

tell me "don't", so i can crawl back in”

- first love/late spring, mitski

it’s barely three nights after the last visit to the cabinet that a’dewah finds himself again holed up between shelves and books, studying potential ways for g’raha to infuse the damned auracite with his blood, and a’dewah has only just realized that his hands are shaking and he has a craving to teleport to doma on a whim. a small craving for salmon muffins tickles the back of his mind, but he shoves it aside.

“i suppose i should have expected this,” he sighs to no one in particular, a small wave of magic stopping the shivering in his fingers. if only he could heal away the rest. magic can only keep him running for so long, and to extend one’s waking hours like he does would be considered harmful at best and eventually fatal at worst, should he keep doing so.

whatever must be done to keep myself from doing something stupid.

it’s not hard to see him falling back into old patterns—of tiring himself out so he doesn’t think too hard about what he doesn’t want to dwell on, of slipping further and further into both avoiding his feelings and drowning in them. his old friend; that familiar hollow, needy feeling that chews at his sanity yet again as he keeps writing down formulas that might save g’raha from doing something rash that will absolutely earn him a beating from… well. a number of people in the future. that tiny, loud, intriguingly horrible idea that sits in the center of the empty warmth burning low in his chest like a lantern running on its last bits of oil.

an angry, huffy exhale escapes his otherwise tightly sealed lips. hells, that hollow feeling shouldn’t even be there in the first place; it’s not as if he had no source of comfort here on the first—he doesn’t need haruki’s attention like some fragile flower, he could just ask zaya or wyda for a hug if he really needed the warm feeling. he shouldn’t be needing to constantly argue with himself whether he should write a letter, or call, or do nothing at all.

really, what he should do is stop thinking about it, but here he is, squeezing his eyes shut and keeping his hands planted on the table. he shouldn’t want what he nearly destroyed this much, and yet—

greedy, he chides, forcing himself to hold the quill tighter so that it presses into the callus forming on the side of his finger; a quiet, grounding pain. not even elwin sounds this silly. ‘wanting’. he doesn’t particularly care for arcanima, but if it helps him in the game of tag he’s playing with his own feelings for what feels like the millionth time in his life…

a’dewah keeps writing. reaches out for a book to his left, only flicking his eyes over for a moment to see the cover he needs, and then he sees the kanai-anzen omamori sitting on top of the very book he’d been meaning to crack open next, waiting from when zaya quietly snuck over to sit with him for a few bells.

great.

the prospect of slamming his head into the damned table and giving himself a dire enough concussion so that someone in this library gets the guts to drag him to chessamile and have her put him to sleep—preferably for a long, long time—grows more enticing every moment his brain spends convincing him that making a small, short call wouldn’t be so bad. so does the idea of finding a pouch of dream powder and using as sugar in his chamomile tea later even though he knows how lengthy a lecture he’ll receive from g’raha, alphinaud, y’shtola and lunya if he does try it.

y’shtola would be disappointed in me; looking for a simple way out instead of pushing forward, he thinks, lifting his quill from the page and glaring at the small ink pool in his usually neat (doman) handwriting. he’s still not accustomed to writing with a quill but eorzean shopkeeps don’t carry calligraphy brushes, especially not ones small enough for his needs.

but someone in kugane might, he thinks and gods he just needs to get it over with otherwise he’ll never make it to tomorrow night with his sanity intact.

he leans back in the hard, wooden chair, running a hand through his too-tightly tied up hair until his fingertips brush the edges of his linkpearl earring, searching for the one that cools his burning hands like diving into a river. once he finds it, it’s almost too simple to thumb open a connection despite the larger-than-usual tug on his own aether, the gentle chiming as he waits leaving him to wonder if this was going to be another one of his mistakes. he takes a sip of his (cold, stale) tea, steals a glance back down at the damned arcanima circles, stares back up at the glass ceiling of the cabinet and counts the stars as he waits, still pushing away the wanting that suffocates his heartbeat.

the monotonous chimes give way to a whole lot of static and the quiet rustling of leaves in the wind, and a’dewah almost thinks he’s used the wrong linkpearl until a tired, gentle voice like lazy river water whispers, “hey, can you keep this quick? it’s kinda late, and i’ve had a pretty long day.”

“ruki,” a’dewah breathes out, sitting up straight in his chair as haruki gives out a small ah of surprise. his tea is definitely cold, but he feels warmed anyways, a jolt of energy restoring the clarity to his murky thoughts. “sorry, is it a bad time?”

“a little, but i really thought you were hana-chan, or tsukiko—sorry, mune fell asleep while we were out and i was a little preoccupied.” for a connection made across worlds, the quality isn’t all that bad—a result of zaya’s very long search for a good linkshell to gift him, probably—and through it he can hear running water, maybe a few splashes and the click of haruki’s sabatons against stone as he walks slowly. he’d have sped up, if a’dewah were actually there to see him. he must be at the docks of the enclave, walking home with mune cradled in his arms. “what’s up?”

“nothing, really. i just—” needed to hear your voice. wanted to take a bit of your time. craved the warm feeling that fills my chest anytime you laugh or call me sunshine. “i have a bit of down time, and thought i’d see if you were, uh, free to talk? we—last time i was dragged into treasure hunting before i’d got to catch up with you, so i was thinking we could, well, just talk.”

“for you? of course,” haruki says, and a’dewah nearly breathes out a sigh. “just lemme get mune in bed and we can ramble about our days, or… weeks? hey, is it night there too?”

a’dewah nearly says yes, but the chirping birds and first light outside the windows of the cabinet tell him otherwise… but if he says it’s early morning, like very early, will haruki just tell him to go to bed like everyone else? he lays his head down flat on the table, staring at the quill loose in his hand and the incomplete formula on the parchment in front of him longingly. he doesn’t want that. ah, and again; wanting.

“no,” he lies, steadying his voice. a little half-truth wouldn’t hurt him… hopefully. “it’s a little later than dawn, but it’s still morning.”

“er, sir a’dewah?” just his luck; moren comes around the side of the bookshelf, eyes worried and moss green hair tied into a bun—it seems the warmer weather was getting even to the recluse librarian. “the exarch requests you do sleep soon, partly on lady lanya’s behalf? i… don’t quite know how he knows your whereabouts, but he said something about requesting the help of a “hagane-san”... d-do you think he’s in need of chessamile’s sleep draughts again?”

a’dewah stifles a groan, because moren had thoroughly blown a massive hole in his lie and haruki would have heard him. plus—since when did lunya and g’raha know about his sleeping issues? why is g’raha threatening him with hanami? why is lunya so worried about him? he lifts his head from the table, somehow pulling himself together enough to smile back at moren.

“send him my deepest regards, and that i will as soon as i’ve finished here.” a’dewah points to the linkpearl earring gleaming lightly in the dim candlelight and then to his pile of papers, and moren nods before scurrying off, presumably to wherever g’raha is watching him from. gods, if he didn’t fear lunya’s wrath, he might have strongly suggested g’raha stuff it.

haruki pipes up after moren’s footsteps recede into the sounds of dawn, more worried than chiding when he says, “dewah—”

“i know, ruki, sorry, i was just—i’m in the middle of a formula and got stumped so i called instead,” a’dewah says sheepishly, picking up his quill and writing down a few more calculations before capping his inkwell. less so being stumped and more so not wanting to do it, really, but that was for him to know. “i’m getting out of the library, don’t raise your voice, remember mune has better hearing than you.” he always forgets that he isn’t a child anymore, somehow, with a booming voice and bigger lungs to talk with.

he hears a small sigh, the creaking of leather and a small squeak of metal hinges on a door accompanying it. almost amused, but still a little annoyed, and he can hear the new clack of metal boots hitting wood much clearer, the echoing distance quieter as haruki heads inside. “...go to bed; i’ll talk to you as much as you want once you’re in bed, ‘kay?”

“keep talking to me while i get back to the pendants,” he tries, a little desperate as he starts to clean his table, re-shelve the books and pick up his research. “and i promise i won’t make a stop at spagyrics to get g’raha more sleeping draughts.” a false threat; he’s not going to invite chessamile to worry herself over two miqo’te scholars losing sleep, but he… he needs haruki’s voice. wants the background noise as he makes a long walk to the other side of the crystarium, not wanting to risk aethernet travel bungling up his work. “just any old story will do.”

“sure,” haruki says, resigned and soft enough to make a’dewah feel like melting. “hey, something kinda funny happened in kugane today…”

as a’dewah quickens his stride so that he might cross the crystarium faster, passing by the aetheryte crystal that can’t take him home no matter how hard he tries, haruki regales him with the story of mune running off (worrying) and finding a great big green chicken (even more worrying) that was apparently the pet of a gigantic man named yojimbo (oh, he’s heard this tale before, with different names) and haruki having to chase him down, eventually running into hildibrand, nashu, and some poor sekiseigumi they dragged along for the ride who were also looking for yojimbo. at one point, he breaks his sentence to whisper good night to sleeping mune, whispering even softer than before and a’dewah finds himself whispering the same thing as he climbs up the steps and passes the manager of suites without even a hello. it doesn’t matter; he’s not loud enough for mune to hear him or know that his dad is talking to his uncle across the rift, and somehow that hurts more than the bruise he gets when he trips over the last step to the third floor.

“i suggest staying far away from anything involving hildibrand,” a’dewah says as he cracks open the door to find an empty suite awaiting him; wyda and tehra’ir had left for eulmore. duscha and valdis accompanied y’shtola back to rak’tika, while lumelle and elwin trekked back to the inn at journey’s head by alisaie’s side. everyone else is… on the source. “he has a knack for getting everyone into trouble.”

haruki laughs, the bright sound covering the rattling wind against the windows—it must be a summer storm rolling in for it to be that violent in less than an hour. “i know; i called hana-chan and lunya about him when i couldn’t find mune and the damn chicken and she nearly choked when i mentioned his name.” the quiet rumble of wooden drawers opening, latches being unclasped, and oh dear a’dewah needs to distract himself before he starts blushing like a drunkard. “i think ihget’sae nearly strangled him; ‘pparently lunya wrangled everyone to come investigate when she heard mune got lost in kugane-dori.”

lost in kugane-dori. even a’dewah’s a little frightened by the thought of mune getting lost, remembering what almost happened to elwin. “anyone would, really. hildibrand is…” a’dewah mumbles. he pulls his boots off and tosses them next to elwin’s sandals, hachigane and gloves placed on the countertop by syhrwyda’s new cookbooks. it takes a lot more effort than he thought it would not to just collapse into bed with his battle robe on, carefully moving to grab his kimono cardigan and pajamas from where zaya folded and placed them on the bench. “he’s a force of nature. a very dense force of nature.”

“so, like us, but… worse?”

he sounds almost hesitant, and a’dewah feels his ears pin back in slight embarrassment. “you’d have to ask hanami for her opinion. she’d described us as, er, something colorful when she realized i hadn’t told anyone i was no longer interested in g’raha. lunya overheard and, well… i feel you know us all well enough to understand just what happens when lunya finds out your secrets.”

“you didn’t tell them, ” haruki exhales in a wheezy breath. his voice is muffled momentarily by metal and leather being carefully set aside, back onto the third shelf in haruki’s closet just behind the spare miqo’te sized clothing, just for him. he usually wears his yukata to bed, and convinced a’dewah more than once to take one of his spares when he’d realized his normal sleeping attire was back home. he—rather shamefully and awfully desperate—imagines haruki digging through his closet for the right colored yukata, chest bare and shivering as a’dewah bites back a laugh of his own, remembering how he had to point a bleary, rushing haruki to where his usual clothing was when he nearly missed mune’s genealogy presentation because he kept both of them up half the night. he imagines seiryu’s scale and how it never comes off from haruki’s chest for longer than a few moments, mostly because it keeps coming back, and a’dewah can kind of hear the thrum of the auspice’s aether. he’d always jokingly stuff it in his own pocket when haruki got fussy about it, and they hadn’t realized it would stay in his pocket so long as he didn’t leave yanxia til a’dewah went with hanami to namai with it still there, sitting quietly in his robe’s pocket. “did hanami—”

“she threw me to the wolves, yes, and i can still hear lumelle and a’satina’s screech of excitement, do not laugh at me,” a’dewah says fruitlessly, since haruki’s already choking down his laughs so not to wake maki and have her yell at both of them for being rowdy at whatever time of night it is. at some point, haruki sounds like he’s inhaled helium, and that sets a’dewah off in the middle of taking off his robe, bending over and dropping one of the clasps for the chain keeping the front close and the sash tumbling to the floor.

“i—kami, i really love you,” haruki says as easily as he breathes once he catches his breath, followed by the sound of the closet door closing, the drawer rolling back into place, and his lance being set against the wall. a’dewah’s breath hitches, something more than a little terrifying starting to worm its way out from the cracks haruki’s i love you tears into his tempered walls. his cardigan feels scratchy against his skin as he sits on the too large bed, moving to grab a blanket or two as haruki resumes his routine.

and after he’s practically wrapped himself in the blankets to the point where he’s swaddled like a newborn, he mumbles, “i’m in bed.” the rumbling static climbs in volume as a small clap of thunder sounds—he wonders, briefly, if the storm is zaya’s fault somehow—but a’dewah can still hear haruki’s quiet humming, the tune familiar from when they were just ten and still tripping over the lyrics. haruki makes a small noise of affirmation, hums quieting down. he can see haruki’s eyes scrunching up, focusing in on whatever it might be.

he starts to remove the clips and pins in his hair as haruki’s softened hums keeps him company. part of him wonders if haruki’s untied his hair yet, letting the mess of turquoise and teal down from the singular hair tie he somehow keeps it all in, or if he’ll wait until he’s already in bed and about to fall asleep when he suddenly remembers about it. his fingers tingle with the feeling of carding through haruki’s hair and braiding it just to see if he could. part of him hopes haruki will let him do it again, even though the first time he’d somehow tangled up the three parts into more of a twist than a braid.

“okay! now i am too.” a loud puff of air comes through; haruki must have flopped onto the futon with his arms and legs spread out. the rustling of the blankets, even though a’dewah is certain it’s summer and there’s a rather humid storm outside. he usually pulls the covers up to his stomach, especially when haruki tugs him onto his chest and into his arms. “anyways, how was your da—er, night?”

“i was in the library for the past sixteen bells, ruki, i don’t think you want to hear about it. talk about your… your past few weeks?”

“ah, right,” he says, not at all phased by the confused tone of a’dewah’s voice. “well, i got back from gangos with a new staff for mune! i’m saving it for when he finishes his current lessons with the kojin on, er, water aether? he still doesn’t like going there alone, though; he keeps asking when you’ll come back whenever i mention it.”

“is that so?” a’dewah cracks a weak smile like haruki might see it somehow. “promise i’ll be back soon… but who made a custom staff for him?”

“oh, the bozjan resistance got… was it gerolt? well, it’s something about him being a great blacksmith perfect for reconstructing the blades of gunnhildr, and he was offering services to anyone who could get him the materials, so!”

haruki rambles on about how he’d needed to “expertly persuade” hanami into helping him out with finding the inscriptions for the weapon only to realize he couldn’t do shite since they’d have to delve into the memories of poor cid, who really deserved to have a break and a lot of tea, and with each sentence a’dewah sinks deeper into something horrible. the part of him that is selfish, craves attention and touch, seems so much colder now than it was before, the hollow pit now a yawning chasm of wanting. of yearning.

he does not deserve to be yearning for haruki’s hands running across his skin, scratching at the nape of his neck to comfort and behind his ears just for fun. love is not meant to be as one-sided as he’s making theirs, a cycle of unrequested but nonetheless cherished actions rather than one side constantly wanting and the other giving. part of him wonders if he really ever loved before, or if it was just the terrible, horrible monster inhabiting the same space as him craving affection and getting it however it could, wringing it from the people a’dewah cared for.

(did his short-lived love for g’raha feel as twisted as the garden of emotions he grows in his chest for haruki? or was this what being loved and loving in return felt like?)

he bites his lip as haruki mentions a few other things he’s had happen in the time a’dewah’s been away—a very lovingly made omamori from mune, complete with a cat charm that sounds terrifying to him that lunya chose out, something about meeting tsukiko in her civilian clothing and her panicking, a visit from seiryu and suzaku inquiring to his and hanami’s whereabouts that spooked shomi and maki for a precious few seconds, a conversation with someone who said how people dream to stay with someone even in sleep—and tries not to wish for too much. even with suzaku’s blessings, his heart was still weaker; if he stressed about how good a partner he was to haruki, he might die here without ever seeing him again.

he’s probably exaggerating a little, but he’s got that odd feeling he’s going to die soon. just a little.

when haruki finishes going on about his incredibly interesting past few moons, a comfortable, smothering silence begins. a’dewah shuffles himself about so his tail isn’t suffocated under the blanket, whipping about slowly. “hey, are… are maki-san and shomi-san still, er, angry at me?”

“you really can drop the honorific, dewah,” haruki chides quietly. “but! no. not really. mother might talk to you about communicating when you come back, but you’ll be fine.” it sounds an awful lot like i won’t let them hurt you, which is stupid; they’re haruki’s mothers, they wouldn’t hurt him intentionally—but a’dewah is much softer than the stuff aymeric and hanami and haruki are made of. a golden heart, haruki says, but gold is soft. malleable. melts, under enough heat, and he is already filled with enough molten feelings to rival the sun’s heat. a’dewah is fairly certain he will melt if he damages his relationship to the haganes more than he already has, the solar flares of regret and guilt worse than any magical red lilies he could conjure.

he wants and yet he fears what he craves, left wondering which part of him is the broken bit that needs to be healed so that he might be able to just ask for it instead.

“i… er, don’t believe you, really… but i miss all of you,” a’dewah admits, feeling a bit smaller and colder than before. then, a quieter, less sure thought that really has no business bothering him: “e-except maybe itomi-san, even though she d-doesn’t really count?”

“well, y’know, she and naonaka kinda disowned themselves, so you’ll be fine.” haruki’s voice drops a smidge into bitterness—well, that wasn’t what he meant to do, curse his stupid mouth—but haruki recovers easily. he always has. “homesick for here, huh? tell you what; you can list what you miss the most, and i’ll see if i can get hana-chan to carry it over for you. maybe a’khebica has some ideas.”

“i don’t—it’s. what i miss from there isn’t, er, something hanami can bring through the rift. khebica wouldn’t know, either.”

“well, the offer still stands; i might be able to arrange something,” haruki says, and a’dewah just knows he is winking to his ceiling with a gleaming grin across his face like a’dewah can see him, and in a way, he can. it takes everything he has not to groan and smile at the goofy thought in return.

even if he did list what he missed so much about home, he’d just sound so desperate because what he misses most is haruki. for the past four years he’s been confined to the first it’s been haunting him just how much he’d relied on haruki’s energy to fuel his own once garlemald started pressing down on them double time, wondering if any of his strength was really his own. he wants what the letters they send back and forth describe; the quiet nights spent in each others’ company, the adventures in eorzea he promised, the hugs and kisses and that one dance haruki really wants him to do, the garden they’ve been caring for since he’s been gone.

lunya had offhandedly mentioned, once, how he and haruki wrote to each other like a married couple in their honeymooning phase, and he flushed a brighter red than dalamud not because she implied they were married but because he really, really wanted that more than he should. a step too far too soon, especially with the empire breathing down the warrior of lights’ necks, but fuck he really wanted to promise his future to haruki even if he didn’t know how much longer he would live just because it felt more right than everything else a’dewah could have done.

he wants too much. greedy, needy, childish wants. he just wanted to be loved for so long, and now that he has it he wants more. wanton.

“i can’t quite think of anything,” he lies through his teeth even though what he really wanted to say was i want to be yours, forever because he is and will always be a coward. “but if i figure something out i’ll tell you.”

for all his perceptiveness when a’dewah is sitting in front of him, haruki doesn’t seem to be able to pick up on him feeding both of them lies through linkpearl. maybe something to do with the interference. “‘kay.” the silence rolls back in, like an early morning fog that chills a’dewah because he knows what he’s dreading is hiding in that fog.

please don’t say you love me, a’dewah pleads even though that’s exactly what he wants to hear. i don’t want this to end, i want to listen to your voice for so much longer, i want to hear about you, i want, i want—

he must have pissed off some sort of kami of misfortune, because the very next thing haruki whispers to him, so sweet and kind and not at all knowing what he’s doing to a’dewah’s heart, is “i love you, dewah.”

“...l-love you too, ruki,” he barely manages to say, not even toying with the idea of saying love you more like usual, and oh he’s starting to cry, how embarrassing. it takes everything he has to clamp his hand over his traitorous mouth and patiently wait for haruki to end the connection, pull the blankets over his chest and go to sleep while a’dewah fights with the monster leaping out of the holes in his greedy, greedy heart.

for a moment, haruki goes quiet, only soft breathing coming over the aetheric connection, and a’dewah thinks he might be asleep. he… hopes haruki is asleep; he doesn’t know what he’d do if haruki heard him, really.

and then of course a’dewah’s fingers slip, a loud sob that sounds more like a dying cat than him tearing through the cracks, and the silent turmoil is broken as haruki obviously gets pulled from the beginnings of sleep.

“...sunshine?” haruki asks, sleep fogging up his voice and a’dewah stupidly opens his mouth to respond which only lets out a whimper instead of it’s fine , and gods he’s a horrible, horrible mess, why is he like this . it’s not fair of him to keep asking for haruki to talk him down from the edge, to cry every time he calls and expect haruki to pick up the pieces when they both know hearing him crumbles hurts both of them. “dewah? was that noise you?”

and on the other end, a’dewah can hear the rustling of blankets being pushed off—shite, he’s keeping haruki up by being a child about this—and haruki’s hands slapping onto his bedding in a light thump as he pushes himself up in fear. “what’s wrong,” haruki says so kindly and fuck, he’s crying harder now and a’dewah was already teetering on edge of something completely and entirely disastrous before he did this, why did he do this again? “did something happen?”

everything is happening at once, more like.

“i don—i don’t know,” he cries, wrapping his arms around his head like he used to when prisca would say stop crying like it would keep him safe from his own thoughts… but haruki’s not prisca and he’s using his time for him instead of for himself so why is this even happening, he shouldn’t be panicking. the blanket tangles around him, comfort twisted into a trap and a’dewah feels like he’s drowning. “i wish i did but i don’t and i’m so sorry please just end the call i need you to sleep—”

part of him is screaming please don’t leave me alone and the other part wails don’t listen to me cry again, i can’t be good for your health while a third, utterly confused bit of him sits trapped in the middle, hunkered down. the monster a’dewah has been running from has opened its maw and spews out all the things he utterly craves but ultimately does not deserve from life, threatening to swallow him whole and permanently, this time.

“sunshine, i’m not going to let you be alone when you’re crying like that,” haruki says, and a’dewah can’t tell if it’s pity or disappointment pouring through the linkpearl but he hates it, please just leave him here to suffer. “unfortunately, you’ve found a very stubborn person to date.”

he knows, but he also knows haruki knows danger when he hears it, so why doesn’t he run from this?

because he loves you, part of him thinks in mune’s voice, remembering the comfort the little raen boy could bring in four words when a’dewah looked worried in the middle of teaching him something and gods, since when was a child more emotionally mature than him?

maybe because you never got the chance to be a kid and grow up normally, he thinks again, teetering dangerously close to hyperventilating as he practically strangles his fingers in his tangled hair.

he has absolutely zero clue what haruki has been saying for the past few moments, evident in the rising worry seeping through haruki’s usually calm, energetic, happy voice. “love, i need you to breathe,” he coos, and a’dewah hisses, lungs not working with him no matter how much he wants to listen, his wanting finally turning on its head. “here; listen to me. follow, please, i can’t help you if you hyperventilate.”

he’s extremely glad past him had the forethought to tell haruki a bit about how he deals with scared patients, because he remembers to murmur in, breath deep, out, breathe out, and even though a’dewah chokes on his own air he can catch up. i’m here, i’m here, haruki hisses between breaths, and hells open, heavens weep, if he wasn’t already crying his dedication to making sure he’s alright rather than listening and cutting the call would have made him weep.

“hey, sh-sh-sh,” haruki coos once a’dewah’s breaths sound less like desperate gasps for air and more like struggling to breath past the fat tears streaming down his face. “i won’t leave you alone, you can pretend i’m there next to you until you can actually lie down next to me again.”

but you know i’m no good at playing pretend. he can’t believe himself, sobbing and wrapping himself further under his blanket and letting the fluffy, stuffy feeling wrap around him in some poor facsimile of being hugged. nothing here could possibly measure up to the feeling he so desperately craves, even though it’s just being in haruki’s arms. all he really wants is a hug. imagine that.

gods, it must be killing haruki to listen to a’dewah sob like he’s dying—he’s never going to tell haruki that he actually died, a bolt of ice piercing through his chest and suzaku’s feather on a staff he had no access trying to save him once more—and he has half a mind to cut the connection between linkpearls just to save one of them from being in pain but his arm makes the executive decision to try and rip his hair out instead. he almost never has control over himself when he’s blubbering, so he’s not so much surprised as he is sickened by his lack of restraint.

“i—” he chokes on the words, a hiccuping gasp shocking both of them. “i’m s-orry, i didn’t mean t’ pull you back from sleeping.”

his chest feels like there’s a thousand ponze weight crushing it down into dust, his emotions becoming too much like they always do, inevitably. in a better universe, maybe he would have had the restraint to let haruki go to sleep first, cut the call, and be miserable on his own until wyda came back, or duscha decided to return because he somehow always knew when he’d break down next. so did krile. maybe there’s just something innately motherly about scholars when it comes to their younger peers (was krile older than him?).

“i wasn’t meaning to pass out then and there, dewah, but i’m sorry for making you think i was going to leave you hanging like that.” haruki makes a little noise that sounds like oh dear, followed by the quiet ripping of fabric. did he clench his sheets so hard his nails tore into them? “i had a feeling something was wrong from the moment you said you called because you had time.”

well then. isn’t that a bit embarrassing, to be found out from the beginning. “i shouldn’t have called.”

“but you did, and i’m very glad for it,” haruki answers honestly, and a’dewah can imagine him sitting, a little hunched over and relieved, eyes half-lidded and foggy with sleep, because he’s always been one to work himself down to the bone and pass out, and a’dewah’s been keeping him up for stupid reasons, this time. “you deserve to feel okay, and i don’t mind losing a lil sleep over it.”

a’dewah doesn’t deserve anything, really, but he’ll take what haruki gives just because he doesn’t want to be rude when he’s offering support so kindly. even if it’s exactly what he’s craving—comfort. haruki knows him too well and one day it’s going to get him killed, either from heartbreak when a’dewah screws up for the last time or from actual danger when a’dewah gets the haganes in trouble by being a public figure with a very peculiar lover and an adorable nephew that also happen to be related to another warrior of light.

“ruki, go to bed.” he curls up into his pillow, poking his head through a hole in the tangles of the blanket to breathe. he’ll just stay up until his stomach rights itself and the sickening dread-guilt sets in, something more comfortable than panic and safer than feeling content, because when he wakes up he absolutely won’t be okay no matter what.

“no, dewah, i think i won’t go to bed if you don’t too."

fuck, please don’t start this. “i—no, ruki, you can’t stay up on account of me being emotional, i’ll be—”

haruki scoffs, though more at the stifling tension and the lie than at a’dewah himself. “fine? please don’t lie to me. don’t close off again.”

“b-but… it’s not fair to you,” he croaks out, finally, throat raspy and dry. “to keep asking you to care for me when i break down. you—you’re not supposed to constantly have to listen to me cry, not when it hurts both of us because listening to someone you love in pain is horrible, horrible work.” he had experience with listening—watching over someone as they writhed in pain and knowing there was nothing he could do but watch if he didn’t want to harm them. he’d done it a thousand times before, and would do so a thousand more so long as the world needed heroes and wars. walking around amaurot besides hanami and zaya nearly tore his heart in two because no matter how afraid of them he might be they were suffering the whole time and even when he was pulled from the rift by g’raha and could heal again he couldn’t stop their pain as they all valiantly fought emet-selch. “let me just be fine, let me learn to take care of myself.”

he doesn’t want haruki to have to care for someone broken as him when the dirty work could easily be done by himself. he might be a caretaker by—not by nature, but by experience —but even the most stalwart caretakers have their limits and by nophica’s grace he does not want to be the straw that breaks haruki’s back. if haruki ever got tired of him, because everyone gets tired of a stubborn crybaby eventually no matter how much they love the person they can be, he wouldn’t know what to do. he’s too reliant, acting like a child when really he’s an adult, and it isn’t healthy for either of them to be like this.

a’dewah doesn’t want to leave but if his solar flares of emotions are hurting haruki he’d rather jump into the ocean and be extinguished forever instead.

“well, most people learn best by example. breathe,” haruki says, quiet even as the storm outside his home rages. he takes as deep a breath as he can, listening to haruki breathe with him. “can you name one person, besides me, all of balefire, and the scions, that has shown you how to care for yourself?”

haruki leaves him in strenuous silence as he thinks, still there but waiting. he almost says my parents, but the last time he saw them was when he was eight, long since buried and he’s nearly thirty-six now—and really, did the nunh of any tribe really care for his sons past their strength, of which he had none because khebica said he’d inherited their mother’s love for the elements. mahja and tahja were too busy trying not to be a burden for him, atoh and vahno were both too young and needed to be cared for first, khebica was taught to care for herself first after what happened to her, and he was the only one castrum fluminis wanted anyhow and they nearly broke him before he was eighteen so who else? tsukiko was still too afraid of yudai, louisoix had so many others to look for first, e-sumi-yan didn’t even know—

“...i. i don’t know,” he says, and the revelation nearly shatters him. even among the people haruki had him exclude, he’d only just started letting them fuss about his wellbeing, except... “you might—you were the first. for a while, the only person i let try. you were just too—too...”

“persistent? thank you, it’s one of my strengths,” he says, a smile leaking through the crackling connection that makes a’dewah’s chest stutter in its rise and fall. “and besides, when i first saw you in that rice paddy i seriously got worried ‘cause i saw kotone almost drown there that same day. you were so much shorter, too.”

“ hey, i w-wasn’t that short then.”

“were too. anyways, you kinda proved my point. let me help, because i want to, and i’m sure you’ll be able to do it on your own soon. i want you to get better,” haruki promises, and the words a’dewah turns over in his head have a cool warmth to them, like diving into the one river in summer. something distinct, grounding. loving. “and if it means i have to share your pain, so be it. i can take a fair amount.”

great; he’s going to cry again, all because haruki loves him too damn much and he doesn’t know how to deal with it all, an ocean’s worth of devotion and promises poured into his hands and leaking through his fingers.

“i—i did warn you that this stuff is horrible, right? i don’t want you to get hurt from my issues,” a’dewah murmurs, hands grasping uselessly at his cardigan’s sleeves and fingers cramping from it all.

“yeah, and? it’s you. there’s not a lot that can keep me from helping you, save this damned soul-ghost situation. no matter what comes up, you’re stuck with me for the near future.”

a shaky breath on both sides, trying to survive the last few tremors of a’dewah’s fragile temperament. fabric rustling on haruki’s end; good, he must be tucking himself back under the covers, albeit gingerly. the guilt might eat at him later, if haruki says he didn’t sleep well, but for now the weirdly soothing thought of you’re stuck with me smooths the prickly bits in his chest back down.

“i have an idea.” haruki shifts, horn with his linkpearl brushing against his pillow. maybe he’s looking out the window, or looking out his door to check if he’d woken someone up in talking sense back into a’dewah. “we can keep the connection open ‘til morning; i’ve got aether to spare and you’ve even more than i do, right? it’ll be kinda like waking up next to each other,” haruki says soothingly, even though it won’t be like he says because a’dewah won’t be able to turn over and laugh at haruki’s bedhead, won’t be able to lazily pull haruki’s arm over his shoulders and feel safe. “we’ve got similar sleep schedules. it shouldn’t be too hard compared to saving the world.”

“i—i know what you mean, but…” what if when i wake up hearing your voice but not seeing you beside me just makes it worse, he would say if he had the guts, but all of those had jumped out the window with common sense when he made this damned call.

and yet haruki just knows him too well and answers anyways. “hey, it’ll be fine. think of it this way; part of me is always thinking about you, even if i don’t realize it, so just think of me,” haruki says, and a’dewah already knows where he’s going with this but isn’t that a thing they all reserve for mune, who is starting to grow up faster than they can keep up with? “and i’ll be there with you, always, because i trust you with my heart—and if that isn’t enough, i’m still just a call away, right?”

“r-right,” a’dewah whispers back, eyes brimming this time not with pained tears but happy ones, not even knowing how much he needed that little bit of permission until now. his heart is finally settling, after three or four nights of restless searching, restless wanting , simmering quietly in its proper place rather than leaving him hollow and melting. “and... i trust you with mine.”

neither of them have to say it, but even with the rain pouring down by haruki’s window and the winds outside a’dewah’s the silence coming over the linkpearl finally feels calm.

haruki’s next yawn is loud, and a’dewah can hear the tension melt from his voice like frost in spring and silver dew from plants in summer. “d’you think you can sleep now? or… should i serenade—”

his voice is utterly wrecked, but he somehow manages to yowl, “i can sleep fine!”

haruki’s bubbling laughter rises with the thunder outside his house, filling a’dewah with liquid gold warmth—not molten, but soothing, comforting, home. no longer threatening to melt him from the inside out but strengthening, and he can feel himself blushing at the thought of warm hugs just like this even though it’s not all that much, in the grand scheme of things.

when both of them manage to calm down—haruki from his ever bubbling joy and a’dewah from his constant state of embarrassment when it comes to haruki—it’s not too much for a’dewah to rub his eyes one last time and simmer in the dark warmth sitting further inside his chest, no longer threatening to overtake him for now. not bright, like his magic and the light and the harsh sun. dark, like the sunless sea and the stars and shooting stars overlapping, even if two of those things aren’t quite dark.

for someone proficient in white magic, it feels safer in the dark than the light.

“i miss you,” he whispers even though he has a feeling haruki found a way to laugh himself to sleep—oh, no, his breath hitches when a’dewah hiccups in an ugly croak, gods why does haruki find him attractive despite all of this—thinking of teals and oranges and fireflies that light up the white scales lining haruki’s jawline. “and i think i always will, a little bit. i want to be yours forever.”

there, he’s said it; i want. the simmering, unknown dark cools off, no longer warbling his voice, and his eyes start to feel heavy as adrenaline bubbles away.

“i could say the same, dewah,” haruki whispers back, words fraying as a’dewah’s past few days of running catch up to him, finally. “i miss you too, but you’ll be back soon, so for now? sleep tight.”

and he does, the tinny sounds of haruki’s breathing evening out lulling him to his dreams where he isn’t so far away from home.

#ffxiv #final fantasy xiv #seaswolchallenge #a'dewah tia #haruki #s: sitting in a persimmon tree #my writing #hey so im sorry for emotional damages?#but if i have to be cursed by the inevitable linkpearl idea so do you #luckily! there's gonna be a fluffy/crack/joke fic version. do with that info what you will >:3 #tales from the blue

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thesilverdragoon · 4 years ago

Text

The Cabinet of Curiosity

Previous: The Inn at Journey’s Head

"Word's come in that Holminster Switch is requesting a refreshing and a bolstering of the guard for a little while."

"Are they now?"

It had been fairly quiet for the better part of the day. Only a handful of soldiers had come in to be treated, leaving everyone at the Spagyrics with a little more free time on their hands than they were used to.

Not that there weren’t things to do still. Like cleaning (Chessamile would use the word ‘spotless’ most often, even knowing this was nearly impossible.)

"There've been reports of eaters coming closer and closer to the fields where their animals graze. The townsfolk are starting to get rather worried, I assume." Chessamile continued, brushing a stray lock of hair way from her face after wiping off her glasses.

Hanameen hummed aloud as she thought about the news. "And you're telling me this...why? It’s not as though I can go rushing out there to defend the town all by myself."

Chessamile had this almost wry looking grin about her as Hanameen went back to dusting the shelves. "Well, for starters, I've been seeing you eye those tomes as of late."

"And? What of it?" She paused, narrowing her eyes with suspicion.

It had to have been months since she last picked up any book of incantations, much less practiced them. It was a frequent enough occurrence. Life kept her and everyone else nearly scrambling all the time to make end’s meet as it was. She simply hadn’t the time.

"Aaand there's a good chance Gennar will probably be sent there as well,"

Just the thought of it made Hanameen's mouth crumple into a squiggle. She knew better than to get her hopes up.

But she just couldn't help it.

"I'm no good at throwing spells and what have you Chessamile, you know that. They need actually skilled people. You know. Skilled in fighting??"

"Well it would be as good as any a time to practice wouldn't it?"

Feather duster still in hand, she turned to face her, "Even if I did go, purely on your insistence, then who will watch the boys? I can't just leave-"

"Why I'd be delighted to watch them in your absence!" The old woman offered very dramatically, clapping her hands together. "They'll be so busy helping me they wouldn't have any time to wonder about much else. And far too tired to fight, certainly."

Hanameen chuckled a little at that, before turning away again. "Still… they'd be heartbroken if I-"

"Come now, they're not babes anymore Hanameen. They can survive several weeks without you.

With Gennar and the others there, the town will be relatively well-defended. Large scale attacks out that far north are rare, if they happen at all.”

Again Hanameen hummed with indecision as she mulled it over in her head.

It was true. With work and the boys, she hardly had any time to herself to practice magic, or do much of anything else.

While she held little interest in the more offensive side of magic-casting, she found the healing aspects of it to be far more useful to her own needs (as well as others.)

When was the last time she'd tried to cast any sort of spell? Well- months of course, but she hardly remembered anything that she did at the time.

Letting out a breath she cleared her head, searched for a target and then closed her eyes. Slowly she raised her hands and focused on a nearby flower pot, willing a barrier to form around it.

The air shimmered brightly and distorted, as though the pot were caught in a soap bubble that engulfed it entirely. But she couldn't hold it there for long.

With a sharp exhale, the magic barrier shattered and faded away.

Hanameen looked dismayed as Chessamile came and patted her encouragingly on the shoulder.

"So,"

"I don't know,"

She clapped both hands on Hanameen’s shoulders and bobbed her back and forth in a teasing way. "Geennnnn will be theeerree~"

Hanameen couldn't even stifle a laugh. "Oh stop! I would just get in the way and distract him,"

"Trust me, that boy NEEDS to be distracted by his own family if that's what it'll take for him to realize he needs to come home more often. It's ridiculous. Twelve years of this nonsense, running around out and about saving the world, doesn’t even remember to come home to care for his own children! Or falls right asleep the minute he does!"

"I know...but… well, he has an important job- they all do out there."

"Bah, men's all time famous excuse. Important job or no, he has children that need their father, and a partner who needs him.

...Or at the very least you could start scouting out someone else!"

Hanameen snorted rather hard as they both broke out into laughter. "Wicked white- Chessamile! Why don't you go instead? So you can look for someone you fancy yourself?"

"Ohh you know I would, if we didn't have so many of our own running in here covered in bumps and bruises and anything else they can think of, begging me to kiss them better.

Though, I could just wait for the Exarch's new companion to come back. Now he's quite a handsome looking fellow with those adorably round ears of his,"

Hanameen wiped at her eye. "Goodness, you'll scare him away with that devilish side of yours."

"I don't make it easy for them, it's true." Chessamile nodded with all the wisdom of a sage.

"I should go find the boys, see what they think about all this." The last thing Hanameen wanted to do was upset them by suddenly leaving without any warning.

Fenick wouldn't have it. And Arval? She didn't even want to think about it (and no doubt all the crying and blubbering that would ensue.)

"They might be more willing if their father is involved." Chessamile suggested, sifting through a crate of clinking, colorful medicinal bottles. "You know how much they miss him. Even Arval, despite him never saying so."

"I know," Hanameen nodded in agreement. "...I'll speak to them after supper.

You'll be all right here on your own this evening?"

"Of course!" Chessamile waved her off. "Go on now! And let me know when I need to start preparing a spot for them in my apartment! We'll have a wonderful time!"

"I will. See you tomorrow."

As Hanameen left the Spagyrics, she couldn’t help but feel that tinge of worry, tainting every other thing that would come to mind.

To just up and leave like that...

What if something went awry? That was always the danger of going out into the field. What if something happened to Gennar if she didn’t go? What if something happened to her if she did? As much as she trusted Chessamile and Fae-Hann and the others… well…

Fenick and Arval needed her.

But, Chessamile was right too, in that they weren’t as little anymore… And how would she ever find time to practice her own magic in order to build her own skills?

There were no easy answers. And she was loathe to bring it up to either Fenick or Arval to begin with.

As the Rotunda came within view, Hanameen sighed loudly, drooping with the sound as she frowned at the aetheryte swirling around in the center. It was quite mesmerizing. But she willed herself to stay focused.

Rather than head off towards the marketplace as initially intended, she turned and walked the other way, to the lower levels of the Crystarium.

It had been quite some time since she paid the towering vault that was the Cabinet of Curiosity a proper visit.

________

The library tower in the Trivium had always been something of a marvel unique to the Crystarium. Hundred- no, thousands upon thousands of books sat there in shelves that went all around the room in a circle. Ones that had survived the disaster of the time after the Flood from ages long past, all meticulously cared for by a handful of archivists and scribes who worked relentlessly to protect them. Not even the gilded halls of Eulmore held such a collection.

Or perhaps they did. But Hanameen wasn't sure if they had had their own library to begin with (would there be any time to read? Living a life of luxury? Surely there would.)

The place almost echoed as she pushed the massive doors shut, once again sealing the relative silence back within the library's walls.

The Cabinet of Curiosity it had been dubbed by the residents from long ago, back during the beginnings of the city when it had first been built.

And what a fitting name it was.

In the center stood a column with stairs that spiraled all around it and up to the very top, sectioning off different levels with even more books along the way.

Hanameen took a few slow and aimless steps, merely enjoying the feeling of being able to have a leisurely look around at all.

Inevitably, several tomes caught her attention during her browsing, and she pulled one off of its shelf. A dark blue book with gilded letters and gold on the pages, and a well loved ribbon-bookmark dangling limply from the top.

She remembered the book. It had been one of her favorites growing up.

Flipping through it brought back memories of palaces in faraway lands with magical gardens and lords and their knights- not unlike the stories she had read to Fenick and Arval a hundred times over.

Gennar had been somewhat of a gentleman back then. Somewhat. What with the holding doors open for her, laying his coat on puddles for her to walk over, inviting her to dance in that funny way he would try… The memories made her practically swoon. And she would have done so aloud, had she not shaken herself out of the daydream and back into reality.

That's right...incantations… spell books.

Clearing her throat awkwardly (it wasn't like anyone was watching,) she climbed the column stairs to the top level. "Moren! There you are!" Only to startle the hume librarian with short green hair in even greener-robes into dropping a whole stack of books he'd been carrying. "Oh! Sorry-"

"Hanameen! Wh- I didn't even hear anyone coming up the stairs! You haven't been back in some time," He scrambled to pick everything up, only to offer a sigh of thanks as she stooped down to help him. "Is Fenick growing bored of the same stories? I might have a few he may be interested in-"

"Oh, no it's nothing like that." She dusted off her skirt folds once Moren had righted himself. "I'd actually come to see what your selection of spell books was. I still have that beginner's guide that you let me borrow months ago, though I'm afraid I haven't had much of an opportunity to study it all that closely."

Once Moren had set down the stack of books onto a nearby surface, he put a hand to his chin, gazing upwards as he thought. "Other spell books? Well… I can tell you that all of the knowledge builds upon itself. If you haven't mastered the basics you might have a harder time with the others…

N-not that I would know! My skills lie in the preservation of antiques and old literature!! Not casting spells to send eaters to oblivion!

I assume that's what you were aiming to learn anyway?"

"Not exactly…

Holminster Switch calls for aid and Chessamile recommended I test my skills out in the actual field. Which...would be a much quicker and more effective way to learn but-"

"Learn on the job with eaters about?! She's mad that one!! That's dangerous!

And besides, who would care for Fenick and Arval??"

Hanameen let out a light sigh as she rolled her eyes. "I know- I'm in agreement with you there...but," Chessamile did have a point still.

"And she did offer to watch them while I was gone."

Moren looked slightly dismayed by the answer but held his objections nonetheless. "Well, if I were you, I would plan on studying every minute of the day just to even hope I stood a chance out there. For one minute even!

Let me see what I have…"

"I haven't decided yet, I was going to think about it tonight." She added as he motioned for her to follow him back down the steps to the floor below them.

There he perused through the shelves, plucking out tome after tome until he had another armful of books with him, letting them practically drop onto another nearby studying table (weren't you supposed to be delicate with old books?)

"You could branch off into these, from the one I gave you… If I'm remembering it correctly that is. I think I am."

Hanameen came forward, picking each book up and scanning through random pages.

"I think this will do. Thank you Moren."

"You're not going to lug all those out there with you? I suggest these, if you plan on it," He held two up out of the bunch and offered them to her, which she took.

"Well now if I wanted to be a big bumbling target I'd just tie a sign to my head. These two?"

"Yes, they review the basics well enough and delve into the more advanced aspects of barriers and such."

"Perfect! Just what I needed."

Moren looked relieved, at the very least. "Excellent then. Just...please try not to damage them, you know how finding copies is a nightmare."

"And since when have I ever not been careful with books?" Hanameen smiled innocently.

"Since Arval…" Moren muttered before hiding the comment with a cough. As if he could, from an elf. "A-anyway you'd probably best be on your way! You're going to have a lot of studying to do tonight!"

With renewed confidence Hanameen gave a firm nod as she turned to go back downstairs. "Oh won't I. Thanks again Moren, I'll be sure to bring these two back safe and sound! I promise!"

The hume nodded in return and gave a small wave as she left through the large doors and back out into the Trivium. Only after she was gone did he stop hiding the concerned look about his face.

#dovah writing #hana gets a turn now!#im actually really enjoying writing her #im also still getting over the trope of 'girl charas are only interesting when theyre masculine' cuz thats simply not true

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