#projects so hard onto aymeric

[referentblood]

cw religious zealotry , child neglect , toxic family dynamics , and  emotional abuse & mental  abuse , victim  blaming .

      the  de  borel  family  were  a  house  of  wealthy  merchants  well  known  for  their  patronage  and  donations  given  to  the  church  on  an  annual  basis . the  lord  and  lady  of  the  house  were  strict  in  their  adherence  to  the  doctrine  as  it  was  taught  in  cathedral  walls  and  worshipped  halone  fervently , every  day  dedicating  hours  of  time  in  devotion  to  her . they  were  unquestioning  in  their  loyalty  to  the  church , and  to  the  archbishop  thordan . there  was  nothing  the  church  could  truly  do  wrong  in  their  eyes , and  any  wrong  they  did  percieve  was  outside  influences  fault  not  the  churches .       the  poor  were  suffering  in  the  brume  not  because  the  church  denied  them  aid , but  because  they  didn’t  believe  in  halone  enough  to  better  themselves . those  opposed  to  the  church  were  not  opposed  because  of  any  slight  or  wrongdoing , but  because  they  were  wicked . the  bastard  child  of  thordan  was  not  a  sign  of  corruption  within  the  archbishop , but  corruption  from  the  maiden  who  dared  tempt  him .      and  aymeric  was  the  product  of  such  a  wicked  temptress , so  when  the  church  entrusted  his  upbringing  to  the  de  borel  family  they  knew  that  they  would  raise  him  to  be  extra  reverent  to  wash  away  the  wickedness  staining  him  since  birth .        it  was  not  a  house  abounding  in  love  that  aymeric  had  been  adopted  into , it  was  as  cold  and  unforgiving  as  the  breath  of  winter  against  the  nape  of  his  neck . mistakes  of  any  kind  were  not  tolerated  in  this  cold  and  viscious  manor , and  his  days  were  often  filled  with  punishments  for  things  that  he  could  not  control .       a  babe  cannot  help  but  stretch  out  their  lungs  in  a  piercing  cry , breathing  in  the  air  around  them . it  cannot  be  helped , it  just  was . but  a  toddler  was  a  different  story  --  there  was  to  be  no  crying , no  tantrums , and  no  coddling . he  must  be  to  their  standards  of  perfection , with  all  their  ideals  being  what  formed  him .      and  aymeric  had  no  way  to  say  otheriwse : this  was  his  normal . this  is  what  he  assumed  all  families  did , or  that  his  punishments  were  deserved  even  if  he  had  done  no  apparent  wrong  because  he  was  wicked , the  spawn  of  a  serpent  he  hadn’t  even  met .       aymeric  did  not  have  it  in  him  to  resent  the  way  they  had  raised  him . it  affects  him  every  day , with  every  reaction , with  every  emotion  that  crosses  his  heart  and  is  subsequently  pushed  away . to  say he  did  not  consider  himself  lesser  to  others  was  wrong , the  needs  of  the  many  oft  outweigh’d  the  needs  of  the  individual  and  until  aymeric’s  dying  breath  he  would  place  his  people  before  his  own  self .      upon  his  adoptive  parents  death  he  was  bequethed  the  manor  and  the  de  borel  name , and  he  could  not  lie  in  his  relief . it  brings  him  shame , how  light  his  heart  felt  knowing  he  could  return  home  and  live  in  peace . there  was  no  ill  will  in  that  relief , but  there  was  no  grief  spared  to  them  outside  of  that  of  a  child  wanting  what  was  only  right : the  love  of  a  parent .     his  lack  of  self  worth  and  his  beaten  in  devotion  to  the  church  has  started  to  wane , more  so  every  day  that  he  continues  to  carve  paths  to  change  within  ishgard , but  he  still  struggles  with  how  he  was  treated . he  no  longer  troubles  himself  with  the  church  outside  of  what  is  needed  for  the  speaker , and  finds  himself  at  times  selfishly  indulging  what  he  wants  rather  than  what  he  deserves . this  is , in  it’s  entirety , thanks  to  the  friends  in  his  life  that  have  taught  him  that  he  is  worth  far  more  than  he  allows  for  himself .

[wingedscribe]

Divine Intervention

For the FFXIV Write 2022 Free Day, have how the Trial by Combat played out with these four heroes, ft. Hikari being melodramatic and Ciel judging both Ishgard and his friends. Also yes I just beat the Vault. I’m coping.

Ciel was fairly sure the only thing stopping Hikari from kicking down the door to the Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly was their burgeoning respect for Ser Aymeric de Borel--and that the only thing saving the doors from Askirael, who probably also respected the Lord Commander but was less likely to let that influence her actions, was that Hikari was faster. He followed behind the others, keeping pace with Rhel’ir, whose ears were flattened back along his head in worry. Not that Ciel couldn’t relate--hadn’t Alphinaud and Tataru been through enough? Hadn’t all of them been through enough? 

    They weren’t the first to arrive, though, which became clear when they entered to a familiar greeting, far more strained than usual. Haurchefant hurried over from where he had been speaking to Aymeric, who looked about as pleased as Ciel felt.

“Friends! I had but this moment resolved to go and fetch you,” Haurchefant said, rounding the edge of the table. Ciel forced himself to relax enough to offer a smile to the other man--not very hard, when it was Haurchefant. “I presume you have heard what happened, then?” 

    “The basics,” Askirael said, voice dark and low in the space. Next to her, Rhel’ir made a low, unhappy noise in the back of his throat--and Ciel didn’t blame him. Out of all of them, after all, he was the one who had been arrested, and the reminder couldn’t be pleasant. 

    “That they should regard the Scions with such suspicion even after you stood with us on the Steps of Faith...it is bad comedy,” Lucia said, low and vehement. “Yet unlike the grave injustice you suffered in Ul'dah, this wrong may swiftly be righted.” 

    “How?” Rhel’ir asked, tail lashing back and forth, and Lucia nodded toward Aymeric, who had stood from his chair to greet them. 

    “It has been too long--and I wish this visit came under happier circumstances,” he admitted, letting out a breath, one hand sliding flat across the smooth wood of his desk. “That Ser Grinnaux's accusations are baseless, I have no doubt,” he began, and Ciel felt a little of the tension leave his own frame--at the very least, they wouldn’t have to prove the Scions’ innocence to Aymeric, as well. “Refuting them will be difficult, however, as he is a knight of the Heavens' Ward.” 

    “I’m not familiar with that title,” Ciel noted, eyes narrowing, and Aymeric nodded. 

    “The personal guard of the Archbishop. The twelve finest knights in all Ishgard, carrying on the legacy of those who fought and died with the original King Thordan. Sworn to serve His Eminence alone. Suffice it to say, their testimony is unimpeachable, and I have not the authority to challenge their actions.” Aymeric’s tone was as measured as ever; surely any bitterness there was just Ciel projecting his own feelings onto the situation. Hikari let out a harsh breath, almost a hiss, from between their teeth. 

    “So we can’t just point out that they’re lying,” they summed up, and Aymeric nodded. Haurchefant’s face twisted with unhappiness. 

    “After all the Scions have done─routing the heretics and defeating Shiva, helping us to defend the Steps of Faith and drive back the Dravanian Horde─after proving themselves true allies on countless occasions, is there naught we can do!?” 

    “I fear the only path that remains open to us is to demand a trial by combat,” Aymeric said, looking up again to meet the eyes of each of the Scions’ group in turn. 

    “How would that work?” Hikari said, but their tone was more intrigued than angry, dropping a hand away from their grimoire to cross their arms instead, cocking their head to the side. Askirael, also, was leaning forward for the explanation. Of course, Ciel thought with no small amount of amusement, those two would be fascinated by the option to turn this into a fight. 

    Not that he couldn’t understand the impulse to fight someone over this. 

    “Under Ishgardian law, a trial by combat pits the accuser against the accused,” Aymeric explained, expression serious. “The victor’s claim is judged true regardless of who the loser is, as the Fury only grants victory to the righteous…in theory. In this instance, Master Alphinaud and Mistress Tataru would be expected to face Ser Grinnaux and a second of his choosing─another knight of the Heavens' Ward, most like.” 

    “Two of them?” Haurchefant sounded aghast. “By the Fury, that cannot be considered fair.” 

    “They’re that skilled, then,” Askirael’s tone was flat as ever,  but Ciel didn’t miss the fire beginning in her mismatched eyes, and--well, in any other situation, he would be exasperated; he would say that this wasn’t the time to try picking fights just for the joy of a strong opponent. But…well, this Ser Grinneaux had accused Alphinaud and Tataru of heresy, and Ciel had seen how Ishgard treated heretics. 

    No, this time, Ciel would hold their tongue and let the consequences of Grinneaux’s actions happen to him. 

    “They are indeed exceptional knights,” Aymeric said. “I would not suggest this course of action lightly, or if I believed we had another option before us. Master Alphinaud's magical talents will not have gone unnoticed, meaning that he will have no choice but to participate,” He added, and Ciel winced--Alphinaud was talented, of course, but in no world should a teenager be forced to go up against a trained, decorated knight in combat for his life and liberty.  “Mistress Tataru, on the other hand, is quite obviously bereft of martial skill, and should be afforded the right to name a champion to fight in her stead.” 

    “I see,” Hikari said, looking back and up to meet Askirael’s eyes with the same look they got in the moments before they summoned one of their Egis onto a battlefield. 

    “Lest you doubt, I am ready and willing to serve in this capacity, as I am sure is Lord Haurchefant,” Aymeric said, which Ciel appreciated even if he thought that Hikari and Ask would actually injure anyone who attempted to get between them and this chance. When Aymeric continued, his voice was tinged with slight, grim humor. “But it appears that will not be necessary, as the most accomplished warriors among us,and mayhap in the realm at large, are eager for the opportunity.”

    “Ask,” Hikari began, and Askirael shook her head. 

    “With you and Alphinaud fighting, it would be two ranged mages against two close-range fighters. A bad matchup. I will take the field.” She sounded immovable on this point; Hikari turned to meet her gaze fully. 

    “You misunderstand. I will be taking the field, but not as a Summoner. I have a different skillset available to me.” 

    Oh. Hikari had been, well, understandably reticent to use their dragoon’s training within the walls of Ishgard thus far. Already, they got stared at for their horns and tail; openly being the second Azure Dragoon in a generation was asking for trouble, as they’d pointed out. But if trouble had come to find them already…

    Without waiting for Ask’s response, Hikari turned back to Aymeric, who also seemed to have caught their meaning and looked, for one of the first times Ciel could remember, shocked. 

    “Would you mind answering a few questions for me, Lord Commander?” Hikari only used formal titles when they were extremely serious; all of their usual levity had fallen aside. At Aymeric’s nod, they continued. “I was told the history of the Azure Dragoon by Ser Alberic, but my education was by necessity focused on control and combat. But the position originated with Saint Haldrath, the son of King Thordan and one of--or at least, a contemporary of--those selfsame twelve knights the Heaven’s Ward serves as a legacy to?” 

    “It does indeed,” Aymeric said, tone guarded. Hikari let out a sigh, considering something for a moment. 

    “I had no intention of letting my status as Azure Dragoon be known outside of those Estinien and Ser Alberic have seen fit to tell,” they admitted. “But with this opportunity before me, it is hard to resist. Even should we win the fight, unless it is sufficiently overwhelming the High Houses will merely know this is a way to keep us tied up in political machinations--and while we are skilled, I’m not certain how many trials by combat against powerful knights we could weather. The Eorzean Alliance’s heroes arriving to fight sends one message, but…I suspect the Azure Dragoon, even if it is only an Azure Dragoon, fighting to combat a charge of heresy would be far more emphatic.” 

    “It would be almost unprecedented,” Haurchefant said, “and would certainly cast doubt on the accusation before even the first blades are crossed.” 

    Ciel tilted his head to the side, ears swiveling to follow the conversation even as he considered. “Hikari, are you proposing weaponizing the legacy of one of the first saints of the Ishgardian Orthodox Church? Not that I have any particular objections, but I want us to be clear in what we are proposing here.” He looked from Hikari to Haurchefant and Aymeric in turn, wondering how the two knights actually felt about this move. 

    “Ah. Yes, that was my next question,” Hikari said, wincing slightly. “I am…all too aware I lack the full context as to what my position means and implies. I do not intend to use Haldrath’s legacy for a political stunt; I would not do this if I did not genuinely believe it was the right thing to do. But I will not deny that part of that would be the spectacle, and impressing upon House Dzemael exactly who they are interfering with. However, should either of you have the slightest discomfort as to my plan, I will cede the position to Askirael, who doubtless can inflict a devastating loss herself with far less pageantry.” 

    “I have no objections,” Haurchefant said, unsurprisingly. “The Eye chose you; the mantle is yours to do with as you see fit, and none could deny this is a worthy cause.” 

    “Moreover,” Aymeric said, with more consideration, “House Dzemael has already brought the Holy See and the legacy of the Knights Twelve into this by having Ser Grinnaux be the one to offer the charges. It is only fair to respond in kind, although,” he added, offering a slight smile, “I do appreciate the concern.” 

    “Ask, then? Will you let me do this?” 

    “Could I stop you?” The roegadyn snorted, crossing her arms. “But very well. Don’t lose and make me regret this.” 

    “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that,” Hikari said, and their voice pitched down into what was almost a growl. “I have some preparations to make. I assume the trial will be at--the Tribunal, it was?” 

“The Supreme Sacred Tribunal of Halonic Inquisitory Doctrine,” Rhel’ir remembered; he’d been quiet most of the conversation, but Ciel was glad to see some of the nervous tension had left his body as the conversation continued. “And--there will be an audience?” 

“There will, and I will be in attendance, as will many others with a vested interest in the outcome,” Aymeric confirmed. “At the very least, I would assume that many of House Dzemael will be present to see the outcome of their actions, and I do not doubt Count Edmont will attend if he can.” 

“Then I suppose I will see you all there,” Hikari said, nodding once, before turning on their heel and striding out of the room. 

--

The viewing gallery was as full as Aymeric had implied it would be, but next to Count Edmont--and with Ask towering even over some of the elezen in the room--it wasn’t hard to find a spot next to where Aymeric was standing. Haurchefant, who had been speaking with Hikari outside, slid in late, managing to make his way next to Ciel. 

“Hikari is prepared, then?” Ciel asked, keeping their voice low to avoid being overheard, and Haurchefant smiled when he nodded. 

“Prepared and aware of how the trial will proceed,” he confirmed, before leaning forward to look over the Tribunal. Ciel, watching him rather than where he was looking, caught his eyes narrowing at the two white-armored knights standing on the other side of the space.

    “Anything amiss?” Ciel asked, leaning closer, and Haurchefant blinked before shaking his head. 

    “Not unexpectedly so. It appears Ser Grinnaux has decided his second to be Ser Paulecrain de Fanouilley,” He nodded toward the elezen in an eyepatch. “Another of the more…formidable members of the Ward,  although in truth they are all formidable. It is unsurprising he would volunteer for such a task as this.” 

    “Ah,” Ciel said, nodding both at what Haurchefant said and what went unspoken--he supposed it probably wasn’t wise to say “that man’s known for being cruel and it makes sense he would volunteer to fight a teenager” out loud in the Tribunal, but it was clear enough. “His weapon?” 

    “The spear,” Haurchefant said. “Ser Grinnaux prefers the axe.” 

    “Is he more skilled at the spear than Estinien?” Ciel asked, and Haurchefant paused, considering that. 

    “Their styles are rather different, as Ser Paulecrain is no dragoon, and I have never seen them fight. But…I do not believe so. Why do you ask?” 

    “Hikari has bested Estinien,” Ciel said, biting back a smile at Haruchefant’s look of shock. “So I don’t think this is any cause for concern.” 

    At the head of the room, the Adjudicator stood, gesturing for silence, and Ciel subsided, taking advantage of the cramped space to lean against Haurchefant’s side and catching the shudder of the other man’s muffled snort of laughter through both of their armor. 

    “We are gathered here today, under the watchful gaze of the Fury, to ascertain the guilt of two souls in a trial by combat! Petitioners, step forward!” At the man’s gesture, both of the white-armored knights stepped forward, their pristine armor drawing every eye in the room. It was…well, Ciel supposed pure white armor was a good symbolic choice for an Archbishop’s guard, but he had grown up in snow-cloaked mountains; he was aware how much could hide under a pristine surface. “Ser Grinnaux─for the benefit of all here present, I would ask you to repeat the charges which you have leveled against this man and this woman.”

    “I, Ser Grinnaux de Dzemael, brother of the Heavens' Ward, did bear witness to these two foreigners consorting with heretics!” He was incredibly authoritative about what was, of course, a complete lie. Ciel almost respected it--and perhaps Grinnaux did believe they were heretics. Not that it mattered; regardless of what he believed, this shouldn’t have come this far in the first place. One man’s word, no matter who, shouldn’t jeopardize the lives of other people--

    But he couldn’t let himself get too angry now. He was a spectator here, not a combatant, and retribution would be arriving soon enough, likely at the most dramatic possible moment. Hikari was one of Ciel’s dearest friends; he felt no guilt, then, in condemning them as loving nothing in the world so much as putting on a good show. 

    “Let the accused step forward!”

 Alphinaud stepped forward, head up and shoulders back, indignant innocence pouring from every inch of his presentation--Tataru was more hesitant, understandably. Ciel was impressed at how well she was keeping her composure together, all told--with this on top of the horrors of the last month in general, all of their nerves were shot to the hells and back.  “Alphinaud Leveilleur, Tataru Taru─you have heard the charges leveled against you. Will you take up arms to refute Ser Grinnaux's claim and thereby prove your innocence in the eyes of gods and men?” 

    “I, Alphinaud Leveilleur, am innocent of this charge,” Alphinaud said, with all the cold hauteur of a noble infuriated that the world sought to inconvenience him--not something Ciel usually appreciated, but Alphinaud had gotten far better at learning when to turn it on and off, and if there was ever a moment for it… “And I claim my right to trial by combat!”

Some of his confidence seemed to have passed to Tataru, who also raised her head to speak. “I, Tataru Taru, am also innocent of this charge.” She took a steadying breath. “But I am no warrior, and cannot fight, so I claim the right to name a champion!”

The Adjudicator looked down at her, considering. “To the old and the infirm, the young and the weak, this right we allow. Very well. Who will stand for this woman?” 

Ciel prepared, but the moment of silence stretched long. One moment, two--even Haurchefant tensed, as whispers started to fill the room--

Wham. The great doors at the back of the room were thrown open. Even before the newcomer came into view of the gallery, everyone heard their footsteps; not quite the familiar clang of armored boots against ground, a strange additional resonance to the sound that Ciel couldn’t place initially, until--

Oh. Of course, Hikari was not in any of the outfits he’d seen them fight in as a lancer. Instead, the armored figure was clad in a twin of Estinien’s armor,the only differences being the stature and the color--the armor gleamed with a silver-blue sheen, far from Estinien’s grim black. Hikari’s visor was down, face obscured, but their lance--the same augmented ironworks lance that Ciel had watched Cid fine-tune--was unmistakable, a current of aetheric energy already running up its tip. 

The Azure Dragoon looked up at the Adjudicator, face inscrutable. “I will.” The voice was Hikari’s, underlaid with the same growl that so frequently lingered under Estinien’s words. Whispers, momentarily quelled by Hikari’s entry, started again stronger than ever, which was probably for the best--Ciel overheard Alphinaud’s comment about the efficacy of the Ishgardian justice system, but doubted the assembled lords would like it much. The Adjudicator gestured for silence again, more vehemently. 

“O Halone, render unto us Your judgment! Raise up the righteous, and cast down the wicked!”

There was something, Ciel thought absently, deeply disturbing about a judicial chamber that was so used to trial by combat that it was built to convert into a dueling arena; that said, though, he’d already decided to put aside his feelings about if this was a good method of resolving conflict in favor of the knowledge that, good or not, it was the method that was available to them, as Alphinaud moved to summon his Carbuncle and Hikari swung the augmented lance off of their back in a graceful, practiced motion. 

“This one is mine, Ser Grinnaux,” Paulecrain said, lowly but not low enough to escape Ciel’s hearing. “Go and play with the boy.” 

Hikari’s answering growl ripped through the room, and as they blurred into motion Ciel realized he had never seen them fight like this. He was more than familiar with the devastation they could rain down as a Summoner, of course, and had seen their fighting style as a lancer, but they’d been far more sparing with their lance since becoming Azure Dragoon. They’d seen dragoons fight, at the Steps of Faith,  but had not marked any of them particularly--not enough to note how one’s style might differ from another. 

Watching Hikari fight, it was unquestionable that they were not just an ordinary dragoon. As Ciel looked on, they vaulted further into the air than muscle alone could take them, landing lightly behind Paulecrain and moving instantly into a sequence of lance-thrusts that forced the knight backward. Behind them, Alphinaud had called up his Radiant Aegis, holding the barrier against Grinnaux’s axe as his carbuncle prepared to unleash an attack of its own. Certain that Alphinaud was, if nothing else, not going to fall quickly, Ciel felt he could turn back to watch Hikari without undue alarm. 

And they were beautiful to watch, in a terrible, martial way. While initially caught off-guard, Paulecrain recovered quickly, and his position in the Heaven’s Ward was clearly earned; Ciel knew that most warriors, even skilled ones, would only last seconds against Hikari fighting at their full strength. But while he often couldn’t parry or avoid Hikari’s levin-quick strikes, those same strikes forced Hikari into his reach, and he seized every opportunity they gave.

Still, the first blood on the stone floor of the Tribunal was Paulecrain’s, the aether-enchanced blade of the ironworks lance burning away any blood left on its surface as Hikari flipped backwards, landing still too-lightly for an armored figure before charging back in. Next to Ciel, Haurchefant cheered; Rhel’ir, also, was lending his voice to the crowd’s fervor. 

“I've had enough of your tricks,” Ser Grinnaux swore, drawing Ciel’s attention back to the other knight in time to see his axe cleave the Radiant Aegis aside, and in the moments before Alphinaud could recast it, a steel chain--directed by Grinnaux--wrap around the young mage’s wrists, throwing his grimoire to the side and binding him in close proximity with the knight, who smiled. 

“Hikari, watch Alphinaud,” Ciel said before even thinking, his voice taking on the same tone he used to call out where to avoid on the battlefield and cutting through the gasps of the crowd, and without even turning to look Hikari took to the air in a gravity-defying leap, nearly reaching the vaulted ceiling of the Tribunal.

With every eye on them, Hikari seemed almost to hang in the air for a moment, flipping so that their lance pointed directly down and the rest of their body perched above that deadly point--and then, with a flare of aether Ciel didn’t recognize, dragoon and lance alike burst into flames. 

The meteoric strike landed point-first in the center of Grinnaux’s chain, snapping it instantly and blasting both knights back from the point of impact. Hitting the ground that hard,Ciel thought absently, should probably have broken bones; Hikari stood easily, flipping the lance back up to point at the members of the Heaven’s Ward.

“Did you think the drachen mail was for show?” they asked, voice still rumbling with a growl, before launching into another set of attacks, flipping out of the way of an axe-strike even as one of the fighters--Grinnaux, Ciel suspected--called lightning onto the field and the knights redoubled their assault. 

In the end, Paulecrain fell first--Hikari hooking his spear out of his hands and sending it spinning out of the dueling arena after the man fell to one knee--and Grinnaux soon after, Alphinaud’s magical assault devastating when combined with facing Hikari in close quarters. He did not stop fighting when sent to one knee, standing again until a blast from Topaz Carbuncle combined with a blow from Hikari sent him sprawling to his back, and the Adjudicator stood before Hikari could, Ciel suspected, follow their urge to physically pry the axe from the knight’s hands. 

Silence reigned in the Tribunal for a long moment, broken only by Tataru’s quiet whisper of “We--we won?” 

Hikari stood from the crouch they’d landed their last blow in, turning to face the Adjudicator and flipping their visor up. Now, not moving and with their face visible, it was clear the fight hadn’t been as effortless as it seemed--scorchmarks trailed up the side of their face to singed hair, and their gauntlets were marred with red-brown smears of blood. Still, they held their head high. 

“The Fury has spoken!” The Adjudicator said, looking across the dueling ring and then the room at large. “Alphinaud Leveilleur, Tataru Taru─you are hereby acquitted of all charges. Blessed are we who receive of Her wisdom and see justice wrought by Her divine hand! Petitioners, accused─go forth in peace!”

Grinnaux and Paulecrain seemed less than satisfied, but clearly the Adjudicator was not to be questioned on this; they took their leave as Tataru ran over, hugging Hikari’s knees until Hikari knelt to properly hug her back. Ciel let out a breath, feeling himself relax. 

“I thought you said there was no cause for concern?” Haurchefant asked, but underneath the teasing there was also a level of relief. Ciel elbowed him. 

“There wasn’t. I don’t know what you’re speaking about,” he retorted, tone comically arch to draw a laugh from the Fortemps knight. “But I am glad to see they’re relatively unharmed--and Rhel’ir’s already gone to heal any scrapes that Hikari may have incurred.” Sure enough, the dark-furred man had vanished from the gallery almost immediately. 

“In that case, I don’t want to miss the congratulations,” Haurchefant said, smiling. “In fact, there’s a gift I’ve been looking for the right occasion to offer--not that I think you would accept, unless there is any chance you will put aside your ironworks contraption for a proper chocobo, but I suspect your friends may have better sense.” 

Ciel pretended to consider it. “From you? I’d think it over,” he said, smiling at the look of surprise on Haurchefant’s face. “However, I suspect Maggie would not, and I am rather at her mercy on this issue.” 

Haurchefant’s laughter carried both of them out into the entryway, and into the clear skies of Ishgard beyond. 

[carrotycake]

the world put you in front of me (and we aligned)

A chance encounter at an Ishgardian dance, and Ysayle finds herself falling in love all over again.

4.1k words | Rated M | FFXIV | Estinien/Ysayle pairing | AO3

*

It’s funny, Ysayle thinks. She has spent so much of her life fighting and despising everything the nation of Ishgard stood for, that to be standing here, on the balcony of one of Ishgard’s largest manors, feels a tad hypocritical. For the first time, she appreciates the beauty of the land stretching out in front of her, the late-night sunset (which is as close to a summer as Coerthas gets) casting orange and pink hues across the grey pointed spires of the city itself. She rests her arms on the balustrade, observing the chatter of guests down below. It is oddly peaceful, despite her protestations at being invited in the first place. And still bitterly cold, of course, despite it being summer. Ysayle, shivering, rubs her hands together in an attempt to warm herself up; she had left her coat inside and the thin fabric of her gown was not nearly enough to ward off the freezing night air.

She sighs, her breath exhaling into a cloud of mist in front of her. Had she not gone by the name ‘Iceheart’ for years, revered by her heretic followers? She had survived many harsh Coerthas winters, only for her to shiver now at the merest hint of a breeze. Admittedly, she had found the warmth of the ballroom inside to be a little much, packed as it was with nobles, commoners, and politicians alike. The fresh air, cold as it was, was extremely welcome.

It was Aymeric, of course, that was behind the ball, and her invite to it – the Warrior of Light’s dear friend, and perhaps the most influential man in the city. Endlessly charming, he had persuaded her that it was an olive branch, of sorts, to mend the rifts between heretics and men. And – well, she had wanted to make amends. Lead those who walked after, and all that.

“Out here enjoying the festivities, I see?”

A familiar voice drags her from her thoughts, and she turns to see the tall, lithe body of Estinien crouching carefully on the gables above the double doors leading back into the ballroom. She frowns, irritated that he had caught her unawares in a moment of introspection.

“How long have you been sitting there?”

He shrugs, getting to his feet and gracefully hopping onto the ground beside her; ever the dragoon, she notes. He’s not in the armour he wore the last time they had seen each other, before Azys Lla. Like Ysayle, he is dressed in an approximation of Ishgardian formal wear, his long white hair tied in a loose half-ponytail. He’s handsome, her mind helpfully supplies, and she wills the thought away before it becomes trouble.

“Long enough,” he replies, leaning on the railing a fulm or two away from her, his gaze distant. He frowns. “Formal…balls aren’t really my thing. I needed some air. And – a break from drunk nobles trying to get me to dance with their offspring.”

Ysayle chuckles, despite herself. “I must admit, I did not recognise you at first. You clean up well, when you’re not head to toe in dragon blood.”

He bows his head. If Ysayle is not mistaken, she sees the hint of a blush colour his pale cheeks.

“Well,” he mutters, “You are the opposite, Iceheart. I believe there was not a soul in that room that did not notice you upon entering.”

She raises an eyebrow. “In a good way, or a bad way? Pray, do elaborate.”

Estinien splutters for a second. “Well, I – It is a nice dress. That is all I meant. No doubt the haberdashers will be inundated with requests for similar styles by tomorrow morning.”

A slightly backhanded compliment, but a compliment, nonetheless. “Damned by faint praise, I see.”

She turns to look back towards the sunset. “It is actually one of Tataru’s creations, so they’ll have a hard time prying the pattern from her little hands.”

Tataru had taken over creative control of this project, because formal dances were certainly not Ysayle’s area of expertise, and the Lalafell had been only too happy to help out. The light, drapey cerulean fabric of the dress belied the traditional Ishgardian style, but Ysayle had never cared much for tradition anyway. It was pinned and tucked beautifully, with embroidered details on the neckline and hem. It even – scandalously – showed off a little cleavage, something Ysayle wasn’t necessarily unhappy with.

They stand like that together, a little distance apart, for a few minutes; enjoying the last rays of the sun in what appears to be a companionable silence. How many times had they done this, a mere few months ago? Accompanied by Alphinaud and the Warrior of Light, of course, but together nonetheless. Sunsets always seemed even more spectacular when seen on islands beyond the clouds. Ysayle had never thought to see such beauty again in her lifetime; she had expected to die on Azys Lla, one last act of service as Shiva.

The gods, as it happened, must have had other plans, as she’d fallen from that great height and landed in the middle of a Vanu Vanu outpost; the last remnants of Shiva’s protection shielding her from further harm in the fall. Word had gotten back to Camp Cloudtop of her survival, and she had eventually woken in the infirmary in the centre of Ishgard. Mere days after her own discharge, and Estinien was staying there under the very same care as she had.

She had avoided visiting, though, despite Alphinaud’s almost-insistence that she do so. She had never thought this far ahead in life; now there was peace, real peace, and her old role was no longer needed. Lord Aymeric, introduced through the Warrior of Light, had requested her help in rehabilitating the remaining heretics and repairing the city in exchange for a pardon for her crimes, and she was not about to turn down such an offer. The Scions had allies, and she herself was still blessed with Hydaelyn’s gift, so she might as well make herself useful.

In quieter moments, however, her mind always drifted back to Estinien. She admitted to being a little disappointed when he disappeared from Ishgard without a trace after his recuperation; the small, naïve girl within her longed to believe that they could have been…something, more than just acquaintances passing in the night.

“You are deep in thought, my lady,” he says, a statement more than a question. Ever with the formalities, even when they were at each other’s throats with opposite ideals.

She shakes her head. “Just reminiscing. My life has taken on a trajectory I could not have anticipated before I had met you and your allies. I have much to be grateful for.”

“I admit, I was – glad to hear you had lived. My own fortunes were, you could say, not so lucky after our victory on Azys Lla. I did not hear about – you – until after I had awoken in the infirmary.” Estinien looked – embarrassed, perhaps? Ysayle could not tell, in the dim light of the evening.

“I-” He falters, swallowing. “I wanted to apologise. For things I have said. Knowing now the full truth of the war betwixt man and dragon, I – I said some unkind things. ‘Twas not your fault that I was ignorant.”

Ysayle takes a moment to think on his words. They were not the people they once were, after all. The truth, she thinks, has changed them both. She looks at him, then – he does not shy away from her eye contact – and nods.

“Apology accepted. For what it’s worth, I have a great deal to apologise for as well. My conscience is not clear, by any means.”

Estinien cracks a small smile. (She tries not to think that a smile suits him. It really does.)

“Aye, that is true.”

Their conversation was momentarily interrupted by a change of music from the ballroom – a slightly faster tune, reminiscent of folk tunes Ysayle heard as a child at communal dances in Falcon’s Nest. It was clearly designed to bring more couples onto the dance floor, and was so far having the intended effect. Ysayle could see the Warrior of Light, dressed in finery (another of Tataru’s creations), swinging Alphinaud a little too fast round in circles on the dancefloor. Aymeric could be seen, too, dancing politely with Hilda; commoners and nobles alike danced merrily to the band’s music. If this was their new republic, Ysayle thinks, then she quite likes it.

It is this train of thought that compels Ysayle with more bravado than she has; not thinking about where it might lead, she turns to her brooding companion.

“Well, when all is said and done-” She holds out a hand to Estinien, “Care for a dance?”

His brow furrows. “I’ve never- I mean. Forgive me, Ysayle. I’m not much of a dancer.”

She smiles lightly. “Neither am I. But we are alone, for the time being. Indulge me.”

“As you wish,” he frowns, still a tad reluctant, but he takes her outstretched hand regardless and pulls her close and Ysayle thinks, oh.

Oh no.

It has been a long time since she has been this close, physically, with anyone, and she wonders if Estinien can feel her heart thudding loudly in her chest. They stumble at first, taking a few attempts to figure out the rhythm of the song versus the clumsiness of their feet, but eventually settle into a gentle waltz.

Ysayle is acutely aware of the position of Estinien’s hand on the small of her back; its warmth – and he is so warm – practically burning through her dress. They are closer than they need to be, exactly, for the formality of ballroom dance, but Ysayle finds that she does not mind. He is avoiding her eyes now (deliberately, she thinks), so she instead concentrates on the position of her hand on his shoulder, her other hand clasped tightly in his as they circle aimlessly together across the balcony.

“So,” he begins, uncertainly, once they’d found their rhythm, “Where did you learn to dance, then? You seem to have more of a head for it than I.”

Ysayle smiles. “A little, as a child. And we had plenty of impromptu dances when I was-” When I was with the heretics¸ she would have said. Another time, in another life. Estinien, evidently noticing her hesitation, raises an eyebrow.

“Forgive me, my lady, but I simply cannot imagine a band of heretics indulging in such trivial things as dances whilst plotting the fall of Ishgard.”

“You are a fool, then, if you believe that we did nothing but sit around and curse the Holy See whilst getting drunk on dragon’s blood,” Ysayle scowls, swinging Estinien round a little more forcibly than she had intended. He stumbles, a little, before righting himself.

“I did not give much thought to the heretics unless they were forcibly attacking the city,” Estinien says, his tone serious, but the quiet glint in his eyes relaying a certain kind of humour. Ysayle rolls her eyes. He always knew exactly how to push her buttons to get her riled up when they were travelling together, and it seems not much has changed.

“I’ll have you know,” she huffs, “Lord Aymeric himself requested my assistance in restoring the city-”

“To avoid a jail sentence, yes,” Estinien has an eyebrow raised, smirking. He positions his arms just so, allowing her to dip backwards as part of the dance. His arms are secure, holding her in place perfectly before swooping her back up. They continue their circles together, Estinien chuckling at Ysayle’s irritation.

“For someone of little skill, you have picked up this dance remarkably fast,” she comments, her face flushed – from the exertion of the dance, or from Estinien’s attention, she was yet unsure.

“I’m a fast learner,” he says, and was it her imagination or was he a little closer to her than before? He stares resolutely ahead, his expression faintly jovial, and Ysayle tries not think about how good his arms felt holding her up.

The upbeat song currently playing comes to a close and, after a brief interlude, a new one starts up, slower than the previous one. Adjusting their pace accordingly, she thinks back a few months to their expedition together. Gods, she had not cared for the dragoon upon first meeting him. He was narrow-minded, and brash, and had been all-too willing to fight and kill the very creatures they were trying to make their allies without a second thought.

And yet – she had grown to like him, over those many days travelling. At first, the attraction had been purely physical. He was handsome, after all, and Ysayle had caught a peek of him removing his armour to see chiselled muscles and a wiry frame; something inside of her had fluttered, momentarily, when he had removed his helmet in front of her for the first time, revealing uncharacteristically soft, fair hair and deep-set blue eyes.

“Don’t get used to this,” he’d muttered, noticing her looking at him. “I can’t eat your soup with a helmet on.”

She’d blushed, then, almost as much as she was surely blushing now.

Even with Estinien’s growing connection to the Eye of Nidhogg – she’d felt it, creeping, growing, gnawing at him even as they travelled together – and his insistence that killing the wyrm was the best solution, she had caught glimpses of a kinder man underneath his harsh determination. Alphinaud had seen it too, as had the Warrior of Light. It endeared him to her, whether she wanted it to or not. And in the long weeks that had followed her miraculous survival, there had been much time for her to dwell on these thoughts.

Halone’s tits, she was in it now, wasn’t she?

It occurs to Ysayle, just then, that the slow pace of the current song meant that their little, secluded waltz had become less of a dance and more just – swaying gently, endlessly circling, not really paying attention to any kind of rhythm. The whole world, for a second, felt like it was just the two of them, the stars aligning to bring them together in a single moment.

“Your hands are cold,” Estinien murmurs, and she forgets for a moment that she still had one of his hands in hers. Usually a woman of great eloquence, she suddenly finds she is tongue-tied, she cannot speak-

“Y-yes, well. Perhaps it is you that is warm,” she whispers, her breath hitching in her throat as he brings her hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. He almost seems surprised at his own boldness, his eyes crinkling in a rare bit of humour at her response.

“Mayhap,” he replies. The night is almost completely upon them now, the only light illuminating their faces being the candlelight from the outside lanterns and the ballroom itself. Their eyes meet, Estinien’s expression unusually soft.

Ysayle is not sure who makes the first move but suddenly his lips are on hers, her arms snaking around his neck, his hands on her hips, guiding them in a new kind of dance. In the end, it does not matter, because she is kissing him, and it is suddenly all she can think about. How long had she thought of this moment? How long had she imagined what Estinien’s kiss would feel like? It was, in truth, longer than she would care to admit.

He kisses with the air of someone who does not have a huge amount of practice, but makes up for whatever experience he lacks with strong, guiding hands; Ysayle soon finds herself pressed up against the iron railings of the balcony, the coldness of the metal on her back in sharp contrast to Estinien’s warm embrace. She feels goosebumps on Estinien’s neck where she is touching him; – yes, her hands are always cold, so cold – she moves a hand round to his lapel, using it to anchor herself to him and pull him closer, ever closer.

They break apart to catch their breath, and she looks up at his face, flushed as red as she’d ever seen it, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Do you, perchance, have a residence in Ishgard, Ysayle?” he breathes, still so close to her. Ysayle knows where this is going, knows where this might end up. And she wants it, Halone knows she does.

“That depends,” she says, curling a lock of his hair around her finger. Estinien exhales, almost impatient.

“On?”

Ysayle pulls away, just enough to see his face fully. “Is this…something you want? Truly?” Am I someone you want? She doesn’t say it, but the words settle between them anyway.

He frowns, a trademark scowl, and grasps the hand currently playing with his hair.

“It is. I am not one to deliver undue suffering to a soul such as yourself. And-” He looks flustered, struggling to articulate, “-this is something I have thought about often. In times of difficulty. The possibility of…something more.”

Oh.

“Well then,” she murmurs, his answer more than satisfactory, “In that case, I have a small apartment in the lower wards of the city.”

“I would very much like to get out of here,” Estinien replies, pressing a kiss to her cheek, another along her jawline. She lets her nails scratch the back of his head, just a little, privately enjoying the effect it seems to have on him.

“If you would permit me, my lady-” He breaks away suddenly, a spark of mischief in his eyes, and scoops her up bridal-style. She splutters, wriggling.

“What are you doing?!”

He peers over the edge of the balcony cautiously. “Avoiding any odd stares we might receive from my good friend’s guests. Now, hold still.”

Before Ysayle has any chance to protest, Estinien bends his knees and leaps, and Ysayle’s heart is rushing, the wind howling in her ears momentarily, and it is not far off what a dragon in flight feels like-

He lands, gracefully, some distance away from the mansion, and places her back on her feet with an uncharacteristic amount of care.

Hand in hand, she leads him through the lamp-lit streets, following well-worn paths to the lower area of Ishgard. More than once he catches her against a wall in a bruising kiss, so the walk takes considerably longer than it normally might on one’s own, but Ysayle is too busy wrapped up in Estinien’s arms to care.

The night is fully upon them now, so upon reaching Ysayle’s apartment there is a small amount of stumbling in the dark until she manages to find a lantern. Estinien, helpful as ever, is predictably distracting as she reaches for a pack of matches, hindered by his hands on her waist as he caresses her from behind.

“You know a lantern isn’t really necessary,” he growls, apparently eager. She rolls her eyes – realises too late that it was a gesture he could not see – and bats him away, momentarily.

“I don’t know about you,” she retorts, “But I like to see my lovers when I’m in bed with them.” She manages to strike a small flame into the lantern, illuminating them both in dim, soft candlelight.

Estinien raises an eyebrow, tailing after her as she leads him to the bedroom. “And has the Lady Iceheart had many lovers, in the past?”

She places the lantern down on the chest of drawers with a thunk. “A few. Borne out of convenience, mostly. Some out of love. All enjoyable, for the most part.”

It might have been a cold way of looking at it, but her time leading the heretics had come with its perks, namely that there was no shortage of people interested in her and her powers. She would never have dared manipulate anyone into sex or abuse her power in any way, but she had not been without company, had she so wanted it.  

“And what about the famed Azure Dragoon?” she says, her tone a little more defensive than she had intended, “I’m sure the position comes with its own amount of attention.”

“Some,” he concedes, “But for the most part, I preferred to spend my free time training. A few dalliances, here and there. Nothing serious.”

Ysayle nods. Fair enough, she thinks. You’d have to be out of your mind if you actually wanted to sleep with that grouchy, stubborn arse of a dragoon anyway. Yet here she was.

“Well then,” she says, instead, “I still wish for your company tonight, if you’ll have me.”

Estinien is already against her, capturing her mouth in his and lifting her – a little roughly, not that she minds – onto the bed. “I was hoping we would get to that eventually,” he grins, wickedly.

“You’re an arse,” she replies, but there is no heart in the insult, not really. There’s not much time for thinking, after that, and she is happy to lose herself in Estinien’s arms for the time being.

Ysayle wakes from what might have been the most restful night’s sleep she’s had in some time. She casts a sleepy glance over her small apartment; the curtains had been left half-drawn the night previously, and the morning light was casting a bright glare across her bed, and the sleeping souls that lay within.

Ah, right.

Estinien is still sound asleep next to her; they must have moved apart in slumber during the night, but she distinctly remembers falling asleep in his arms. For the first time, she sees him and all of his scars in full daylight, and fights the urge to trace them gently with her fingertips. She settles for brushing his bangs out of his eyes; he is so peaceful in sleep, she thinks, his usual furrowed brow replaced with one of general content.

There are bruises too, newer ones, scattering across his neck and chest. Ysayle blushes, a little, because she knows that she is the one who put them there, and that there are similar marks on her own body. They will be covered with clothes, eventually, but for now they sit as a reminder of newfound passions and a lover she can’t quite forget.

His eyes flutter open, and an immediate scowl crosses his face as he adjusts to the bright light streaming in.

“Gods, do you always wake this early? To this kind of racket?” His voice is raspy with sleep, his long hair a little dishevelled.

She throws him a mock-frown. “Usually I remember to shut the curtains. I might have been…a little distracted last night.” She runs a finger along his jaw, lifting his chin so that she could lean and kiss him. He leans into her touch, a different kind of reverence.

“Ah,” he says, softly, when she pulls away, “Yes, that would make sense.”

Their clothes, haphazardly rumpled on a nearby chair would also suggest a measure of distraction. They had only paused long enough last night for Estinien to peel off Ysayle’s dress and his own clothes and place them somewhere off of the ground before continuing his ministrations.

“I don’t have anywhere to be today,” she says, by way of invitation, unsure as to how her overture would be received now that it was morning. Morning, bringing with it clarity, and the uncertain light of day. Estinien may not want anything more than whatever the previous night had been.

To his credit, though, Estinien reaches for her and brushes a few strands of silver hair behind her ear.

“Me neither,” he says, and Ysayle’s heart thuds in relief, “What activities have you planned? Lunch out, mayhap?”

This elicits a laugh from her, despite herself.

“Mm,” she smiles, “Maybe later. For now, I want you all to myself.”

Estinien responds in kind, using his advantage of strength and centre of balance to hold her firmly by the waist and flip her over, laying on her back.

“That can be arranged.”

His eyes are dark with want, and Ysayle finds that it pleases her greatly to be able to obtain this kind of reaction from him. She wants – well, she wants Estinien. All of him. Now. Obviously.

What she really wants, though, is Estinien for longer. Knowing that they might have something to come back to, a home found in each other’s hearts – the thought terrifies her, as it wasn’t something easily articulated to her stoic lover. Still, she thinks, perhaps in time.

For now, she has the man she wants in her bed, and that is enough.

[the-dragons-knight]

FFXIV Write 2021

Prompt #8 - Distractions

<Mature Themes and Suggestive Content>

Adroit - ‘clever or skillful in using the hands or mind’

————————————————————

The ink flowed smoothly from Aymeric’s quill onto the parchment before him as he wrote out his response to the report, one of the many he had brought home with him this evening. He would have done them in the morning, but they would need to be sent out at dawn promptly, and so there was no time to wait. It was growing harder for him to read the letters though as they had begun to blur having written so many in the few hours he’d been sitting here. That and it was also growing more difficult to stay focused with his lovely Katsum working not so far away from him.

The raven-haired noble glanced up from his work to see the miqo’te woman sitting at her loom working a very colorful design, weaving the strings back and forth carefully with a most concentrated look on her face. Her ears were tilted forward slightly as she moved, her eyes flitting back and forth as she wove. He found himself staring for a moment, a soft smile crossing his lips. She must have felt him staring because she glanced over only to catch his eye and blush slightly with a soft giggle, her tail curling bashfully over her lap. He smiled apologetically at his wife and turned his gaze back to this report, a bit of energy renewed to finish these works and finally get to lift her into his arms and finally wind down. The scrawling of his pen on the paper filled the room as he lent over the page, narrowing his gaze on the words.

‘…and so it is our duty to ensure the provisions of the villages are protected and kept secure. A village at risk of attack and theft shall quickly only find ruin’-

“Aymeric, did you hear me?”

“Huh?” His head snapped up to look at her and for a moment, his eyes blurred and he groaned, covering his eyes with his free hand.

Katsum sighed and he heard her shift out of her chair as she moved over to his side, setting a hand on his arm to comfort him. She had come home shortly after him to find him hard at work in the study, and truthfully had been saddened to see work had come home with him, yet she knew he would have left it in the congregation if he could have. So she had come to work on some of her crafting projects to keep him company. She’d been peeking over and watching him as he worked to make sure the work wasn’t getting to him, and she’d caught his gaze here and there and flirted silently with him, but she began to notice that he looked wearier the longer he wrote. Finally, she called out to him and asked, “Perhaps you should finish them first thing in the morning, dear. You look like you need a bit of rest.” When he hadn’t answered her, she called out again, and his reaction confirmed her thinking.

She stood beside him and touched his arm as he shook his head to try and see again, “Are you alright, my love?”

Aymeric blinked painfully for a moment as he slowly sat up straight, “I think I am, yes. Sorry to worry you.”

She sighed, patting his arm before reaching over to brush his bangs out of his eyes, “It is but an “occupation hazard” as they say for my dear, overworked husband.”

“Indeed, indeed.”

“Plus,” Katsum leaned down and kissed his cheek lightly, surprising him, “ As much as I love your beautiful handwriting and your skill as a politician, I was hoping to have a bit more…intimate time with you tonight. Writing is not the only thing your hands are skilled at after all…”

Aymeric’s face warmed up a light at her words and he saw that hers had burned a much darker shade too at her own words, a sight that always made him melt, “Hmm…I had hoped to do the same. I cannot say that I haven’t been a bit distracted watching you work at the loom. It made it rather hard to stay focused,” He reached up and caressed her cheek which she leaned into with a pleasant little sigh, “So beautiful, my talented little wife.”

“Katsum nuzzled into his hand as she held it close to her, “Come, let these reports wait until tomorrow, and come spend time with me.”

How tempting she made the offer with the smoldering look into her eyes and the gentle sway of her tail around her legs. Aymeric had to swallow thickly to keep himself grounded, though his mind still wandered and he could feel himself growing excited. He cleared his throat quickly to try and rid himself of his thoughts, startling Katsum a bit as he gently took back his hand and reached for the quill again, “I am sorry to make you wait, my love, I am, but I really must finish these before anything else.”

His fingers brushed the feathered quill when suddenly his chair was pulled back nearly against the wall, and his beloved moved to stand in front of him before pouncing on him, his hands catching her waist as she straddled his legs and pressed her body against his. Aymeric’s breath hitched in his throat as his hands shook slightly on her waist, and he glanced down to see her short skirt was nearly riding up her thighs. He could feel her sitting right on top of him, her warmth emanating through the layers of fabric.

“Aymeric~” Katsum tilted his head back up to look into her gaze, locking her shining blue eyes with his and the heated look he saw in them. She grinned before her face changed to a bit more of a pouting expression, the gentle candle light of the room giving her an angelic glow as she dropped her ears and said, “I can’t help myself anymore. I…want your attention, Amyeric.”

By the Fury, she had learned him well. She had him right where she wanted him, and at this point, he had no intentions of fighting it. Not when her soft skin was pressed against him like this and her warmth enveloping him like a blanket. His mind wandered freely again and he found his trousers were growing a bit tighter than usual. She’d caught him, and he was perfectly fine with that.

Before she could speak again, he raised a hand to her face and pulled her down to his lips as he pulled her closer and wrapped his arm around her back. She was surprised at the gesture for only a second before she sighed into the kiss and pressed against him, pushing him with her eikon-slaying strength against the back of the chair. He groaned into the kiss and his fingers strayed from her back to the base of her light furred tail, scratching it lightly and smiling as she flexed against him with a moan. She pulled away from the kiss, her pupils now wide with excitement as she grinned sensually and pressed her forehead to his while moving a hand to rub his chest and sides through the fabric of his shirt.

“Come now, my sweet Aymeric, are you sure you absolutely must return to your documents?” She accented these words with a gentle roll of her hips that nearly sent him heavenward. His eyes darkened finally as she continued to rub his chest while leaning down to nuzzle his neck and kissing the soft spots around his ears and under his raven curls.

Aymeric’s hand on her cheek brushed around to the back of her neck and moved to tangle itself with her blonde tresses, groaning softly as he lay his head back and moaned out softly, “Nay…that I do not now that you have awoken me, my love. I only need you now…”

[owlespresso]

Tremble, Duck and Weave / 4

7,000+ words! I’m proud of myself for going this far. If you like what I do, consider commissioning me or donating to my ko-fi, which can be found here: https://ko-fi.com/owlespresso Thank you to TenkeyLess, Neila_Nuruodo, WickedWiles and Nidvaller on ao3 for beta reading this chapter! I could not have done this without them.

The fresh, frigid air pulls in and out of your weary lungs, a refreshing change from the stifling coziness of Urianger’s abode.

 Despite not being accustomed to it, you appreciate the way the cold settles against your skin. It’s a better wake up call than any tea could ever be. Haurchefant shields you from the harshest of the chill; the weight of his arm is a welcome warmth, a reassurance that you are not alone. Whilst you traverse the emptying streets, he takes the time to point out various locations and landmarks.

He chatters like a child eager to show their parents an art project.

“And just over there is the Jeweled Crozier—where you can find anything and everything your heart so desires. It’s also home to an array of restaurants should you grow peckish while on a shopping spree. Emmanellain, my younger brother, idles there often, much to my eldest sibling’s, Artoirel, dismay.” The swell of fondness in his voice is heart-warming. You should have expected someone as delightful and devoted as he to cherish his family like this.

“I look forward to meeting them.” If they’re related to Haurchefant, they must be almost as wonderful as he… and even if they aren’t, you owe them a great debt for sheltering you. If they hadn’t extended that kindness, you would have been forced to fend for yourself, left to hide in whatever decrepit crevice you could find. Still, you can’t help but want to know more. All he’s given you thus far are brief summaries, which, to be fair, is likely all you have time for.

Artoirel must be the responsible type, you assume, from both his position as the eldest brother and his apparent dismay over Emmanelain’s troublemaking. Is he as kind as Haurchefant? Or is he colder, more devout to his responsibilities than he is compassionate?

“They will adore you,” Haurchefant insists all the way up the stone stairs. For as much as Ishgard has gone through, the noble district seems untouched by war. “If Emmanellain gets fresh with you, I apologize on his behalf. As the youngest, he is perhaps… a bit spoiled.”

“The kind of person who doesn’t know how to take ‘no’ for an answer?” You raise an eyebrow. As close as you are to Haurchefant, you know next to nothing about his family or life prior to meeting you. What shaped the man you knew and treasured? What were his parents like? Had he always aspired to be a knight?

“A bright young man with an unfortunate tendency to philander and act recklessly.” Haurchefant clears his throat and corrects you sheepishly, sparing you a smile. “He means well, I assure you.”

The conversation flows slow and steadily as you walk through the fragile veil of the night. Street lamps shed bright light onto the concrete paths. It’s eerie, almost ethereal in comparison to Ul’dah’s bustling nightlife. No vendors, no street performers, no crowds. Simply sheer silence against a dull grey backdrop.

Eventually, you reach Fortemps Manor. It’s a tall, elegant building much like every other you’ve seen. Two armored guards are posted out front, their steel halberds at the ready. They give a low, courteous nod as you pass, opening the doors to reveal the interior of your new home.

The marble floors are so shiny you can see your reflection. A circular bench rests atop an elegant throw rug in the center of the lobby, the middle of the bench decorated with an immense floral display. Embroidered curtains hug either side of the wide windows. You don’t even want to try and gauge the price of even one set; artisan goods like that sell for thousands of gil a pop, far beyond your price range.

“It’s incredible,” you breathe. A warm flame crackles, nestled in a well-stocked fireplace. It extends its warmth graciously to you, thawing you from the dry cold. This is their living room? They get to return to this luxury at the end of every long day? “I’m kind of envious. Even the Rising Stones wasn’t this nice… and we had a bar out front.” Customers would stumble out drunk or worse, and piss in the nearby street after a night of hard drinking.

“Well, there won’t be a need for you to feel that way a moment longer,” he assures you. When you glance up at him, he’s smiling, gaze unmistakably tender. “This is your home now as much as it is mine.”

He’s so utterly devout that you can’t not believe him.

Your home. A place you can always come back to without fear or betrayal. When you were driven from the rank sewers of Ul’dah, you had given up on calling anywhere home. It seemed impossible, malms away, ripped from your bloodied fingers with no warning.

Tears burn at the corners of your eyes, threatening to roll down your cheeks.

“Ser Haurchefant,” a new voice cuts through the air, ripping you from your train of thought. Probably for the better. You’ve cried enough today.

A tall, blond man strides into the living room from one of the branched hallways, clad in gleaming white armor. You’re not sure what grabs your attention the most, the incredible pauldrons which adorn his shoulders or the stripe of pale gold that slopes over his chest plate. Blond hair sweeps to the side, framing his angular face, his stern expression. His vivid white armor’s shape contrasts with the shadows at his back.

“Pardon the intrusion.” He glances from Haurchefant and then to you, recognition brimming in his blue gaze. “Ah. The Warrior of Light. Tis good to see you’ve arrived safe and sound. I am Zephirin de Valhourdin of the Heavens Ward. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” His torso dips in a polite bow, sparing you the slightest of smiles before turning his gaze back to Haurchefant. Hurried, hasty. “Archbishop Aymeric has need for us. I was sent to retrieve you.”

“Can this not wait ‘till morning?” Haurchefant’s tone oozes exasperation in a way you’ve never quite heard before. A glance at his expression reveals a foreign neutrality. His lips are set in a firm line, an eyebrow raised in slight inquiry.

“Once more, I apologize,” Zephirin’s breath leaves him in a sigh. “It will take less than a bell, I’m told.”

“If we must. I expect you to treat me to a fresh tankard of ale tomorrow.” Haurchefant’s lips curl into a mischievous smile. His arm drops back to his side. The warmth he’s cocooned you in is torn away with little preamble. Despite the crackling hearth, you immediately feel a new kind of cold settle over you.

“Right.” Zephirin follows Haurchefant from the room and back out into the cold, leaving you alone. Again. You clutch the Fortemps lordling’s jacket tight to yourself and shut your eyes, feeling exhaustion pull at your weary consciousness.

You haven’t done much but sit around all day, yet you still feel fatigue clutch you close, sinking its devilish claws into your aching muscles. It’s agonizing, to be this tired from doing so little.

Had you not risen to acclaim through slaying gods and monsters, perhaps you would be less bitter about your new weakness, about the time you need to recover. Urianger had asked you to take a moon away from strenuous activity, but you don’t know if your sanity will let you.

The injuries that mercilessly litter your body ensure those responsible for the banquet can roam free and unpunished. That thought makes your blood curdle, the very fabric of your being rearing up and howling refrain at your helplessness, at the unkindness of this reality.

“Oh! Good evening.” Yet another new voice rings out across the spacious living room, rich and soft in quality. Your gaze sweeps in its direction, coming to rest on the tall, slender form of another elezen. Adorned with a thick, elegant alpine coat, the new arrival’s hair is as black as coal. It’s long and wavy, swept beautifully above his forehead to crest over the left side of his face. He’s handsome, sharp facial features and intent gaze unlike the soft gentility you’ve come to know and expect from Haurchefant. “I assume you’re the Warrior of Light?”

“Uhm, yes.” The sudden, unexpected social interaction causes the cogs in your brain to very suddenly knock back into place. To tell the truth, you’re not really sure how to respond here. So you tell him your name, do your best to act naturally, act cool despite being a stranger in a strange land.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” His heels click against the marble floor as he approaches, thin lips curling into a welcoming smile. He’s the perfect picture of a noble gentleman, right down to the eloquent way in which he bows at the waist. “I must thank you for your service. Had you not led our defenses at the Steps of Faith, we likely would have met crushing defeat. It is truly an honor to have you.”

“It’s no problem. I should be thanking you for letting me stay,” You manage a small smile, cheeks growing warm under his unfiltered praise. “I don’t know where I’d be if you hadn’t extended the invitation... speaking of, is Alphinaud here? And Tataru? They came in with me, right?”

“Yes. They arrived with you, in admittedly much better condition. No harm has been done to Alphinaud beyond a few bruises and thoughts fraught with worry. He went to sleep half a bell ago, but I’m sure he will be delighted to see you safe and sound,” the noble replies. “Miss Tataru is completely unscathed, but has opted to head to The Forgotten Knight, a local tavern, to speak with the locals and attempt to gather information on your companions’ whereabouts.”

Your shoulders slump with relief. Had either of them been severely injured or—Hydaelyn forbid—killed, you never would have forgiven yourself. It’s tempting to ask to see Alphinaud now, but you know he needs his rest. Tataru is enough of a grown woman to take care of herself, and you don’t know if you can manage another long walk, so she’ll have to wait until tomorrow.

“Good, thank you again. That’s such a relief. If he had—uh, never mind.” You’re exhausted and emotionally wrung out, but you still have enough good sense to not unload your innermost feelings on a man you’ve just met, on a noble kind enough to shelter you and your allies despite the target painted on your back. “Haurchefant left with, uh—”

“Lord Zephirin? I had assumed so. In the meantime, I can show you to your room. You must be exhausted after the ordeal you’ve been put through,” Artoirel offers, every bit as kind and polite as you expected him to be, given Haurchefant’s unfailing cheerfulness. His expression softens with sympathy. You glance back at the arched double doors leading outside. It feels wrong to head to bed without giving Haurchefant a proper goodnight, but you don’t know when he’ll return. Turning back to Artoirel, you acquiesce to the siren’s call of your fatigue.

Your stomach snarls and immediately you are reminded that Haurchefant whisked you away from Urianger’s humble abode before he had the chance to prepare dinner.

“...Did you miss dinner?” Artoirel inquires and your cheeks flame with warmth.

“I did, but it’s no trouble,” You try to wave it off. You can wait until tomorrow morning to eat. It won’t be the first time you crawled into bed on an empty stomach. “I can wait, really—”

“Nonsense. We ate only a bell ago and the chefs won’t be leaving for another two. Come,” he gives you no room to argue, a hand gracing the small of your back. You jolt at the touch, wide eyes staring up at his handsome profile as he steers you alone. “You can sit in the kitchen whilst you wait—you there!” he calls to a passing servant woman, listing out a small order before continuing to lead you back across the living room. The extravagant furniture vanishes as the structure siphons into a slender hallway that lies in the back.

“Thank you,” It wouldn’t do to argue with him, and you would be a fool to turn down a fresh, hot meal. “So, you’re Haurchefant’s older brother?”

“That I am,” He sends you another smile, leading you into a wide dining room. An oval-shaped table sits in the middle surrounded by eight, elegant chairs resting around it, all positioned with perfect symmetry. A golden chandelier hangs from the ceiling. Several crystals affixed to the ends of its curving, twining arms emit a vibrant, illuminating light.

“I am quite fortunate to have him as a brother. He’s been incredibly dependable since our father stepped down.” A solemn smile graces his lips as he speaks, as though recalling better times long past.

“The count stepped down?” You settle into one of the chairs, allowing your weary muscles to relax into the firm frame.

“Yes, it’s quite common for house leaders to step down as they reach their twilight years, often to prevent reckless decisions due to their old age. Our father fortunately isn’t in that position. He was simply ready to retire and pursue other passions… I shall let him disclose those details himself—”

The next half-bell passes in quiet, mild conversation. It’s simple and surface level in a way that puts you at ease. He pointedly avoids any mention of the banquet or your injuries. It makes you feel coddled the longer you speak, but the food arrives before you get truly miffed at being handled with kid gloves. It’s a delicious dinner, a meal that fills and warms you from the inside. The meat is thick and tender, the vegetables expertly cooked and spiced. You barely manage to not scarf it all down like a monster, reminding yourself that the nobleman who’s so generously sheltering you is sitting mere fulms away.

After dinner, he escorts you to your room. From the dining room, you head back across the lobby and in a hall that branches off the left side. Heading further into the house, you walk up a steep case of stairs and down another wide corridor. Artoirel leaves you in front of a polished wooden door, bidding you a polite farewell alongside an offer to show you the city proper tomorrow. If Haurchefant is busy, you may just take him up on that.

You enter the room and let your back thunk against it, eyes shutting as the day’s events wash over you in their entirety. Your eyes fall shut, the wooden surface cool against the back of your head.

It… it would be a good idea to get some sleep.

Yet, a pair of feminine voices reach you through the door.

“Lord Zephirin was… in his chambers…” As they come closer you guess they’re a pair of maid servants. Over your time of bumping elbows with nobility, you have learned that the help are by far the most knowledgeable when it comes to the inner workings of any noble house. They cook the food, personally serve each member of the family, have access to every room on the property.

They most definitely have access to a wealth of knowledge about House Fortemps and all its occupants.

“I could hear them, plain as day! You’d think someone so high ranking would attempt to keep their affairs quieter…”

“Be quiet!” a second voice hisses. “Imagine what they’d do to you if they heard you gossiping so!”

“Well, they should at least keep it down. Imagine how I felt, having to hear them carrying on while cleaning ser Artoirel’s study!” the first voice acquiesces into a quieter grumble.

“I’m sure they don’t really give a damn about our comfort.” You can practically hear the second woman roll her eyes.

“Ser Haurchefant should at least care about his good House’s reputation! Think, if the court heard he was gallivanting around with—”

Their voices lapse into quiet little grousing until you can no longer hear them, which is probably for the best. You already have enough to think about to keep you up at night. It’s likely nothing more than idle gossip, you tell yourself. But then again, what reason would they have to lie?

You sigh, shoving the matter to the furthest reaches of your mind.

You lay Haurchefant’s jacket across a luxurious, cushioned arm chair facing an elegant coffee table. You nearly stumble out of your trousers and rip your shirt in haste, clambering over to the tall wardrobe. It sits proudly next to a dresser-vanity combination.

This is nicer than any room you’ve ever stayed in, you realize, from the lush weave of the throw carpet to the very grain of the wooden furniture.

A decadent robe rests on a silver hanger inside the wardrobe, just as nice as the one Urianger lent you earlier. It chases the cold from your weary muscles as you tumble onto the bed, ignoring the pain that jostles your entire body upon impact. You barely have enough energy to burrow underneath the bundled blankets, much less decipher anything you just heard.

The best thing you can do for yourself is fall asleep and get some rest. So, you toss and turn among the sea of blankets, until you descend into the velvety embrace of sleep.

- - -

Lantern light spreads over the concrete in spaced out lines as the knights traverse the holy steps. They venture towards the apex of the Holy See, yet Haurchefant’s thoughts cannot be further from the man who requires their presence. Archbishop Aymeric is a man he’s spoken with countless times, who he’s gotten to know in a shockingly intimate way. A bond old, yet pale in comparison to what he feels for you.

His thoughts return to you constantly, a grandiose girandole of scenarios in which he gets to know you deeply and intimately. He cannot help but recall how his jacket dwarved your precious form, could only imagine the sweet curves and planes of your body, the sanguine siren call of your raw fragility threatening to drive him from his good senses.

Never had he wished to see you under such duress, yet the helpless gaze you leveled him with whilst caged in Urianger’s abode still sent thrill after thrill down his spine. It haunted him to this very moment.

“I anticipated her to at the very least be an Elezen.” Zephirin’s baleful grousing disguises itself as a genuinely thoughtful statement, his tone shockingly level. His voice interrupts Haurchefant’s musings, ripping through the pristine portrait memory crafted of your image.

Ah, is that… envy in his fellow commander’s voice? How unseemly for someone held in such high regard by the general populace! Haurchefant isn’t sure whether to be flattered or mildly aggravated. so he settles for ignoring the other. He barely spares the other man a glance as they come to stand before Ishgard’s mightiest cathedral, lit tall by ever-burning touches, stone smothered by flamelight.

“I don’t see how species matters in this situation,” He raises an eyebrow steeply, making sure to emphasize his skepticism, for shame is a powerful tool and socking Zephirin in the face would surely cause a stir. “Especially when she seamlessly led our defenses in order to protect the Steps of Faith.”

Zephirin has been a good friend to him, but he will not stand to hear your grand name slandered even the slightest bit. The man at his side has rested upon his silken sheets in nights past, but even that treasured intimacy pales in comparison to his unadulterated passion.

He will not have Zephirin sow seeds of doubt and discontent in regards to you. Not when you are soft with injury and so perfectly pliable to him, not when you are finally within arm’s reach.

“‘Twas not my intent to offend you.” Zephirin makes the wise decision to rein himself in, a stiffness in his voice that speaks to unpreparedness for Haurchefant’s push back. It makes sense. Never has Haurchefant dared to be so stern with any of his fellow Heavens’ Ward. Not when he was so young and green, so recently inducted into its vaunted ranks. “The Warrior of Light has my utmost respect. I think it’s simply… novel that you’ve chosen to fawn over someone so decidedly different than anyone in Ishgard.”

Statues frame either side of the grand hall they enter, heroes memorialized in carefully crafted effigies that watch in silence as they traverse the stairs. The sound of Zephirin’s gleaming platemail clanging echoes up and down the hollowed corridor, somehow making it feel emptier.

“Then again, you have made a habit of walking to the beat of your own drum,” Zephirin continues knowingly, pensive, observant rather than judgmental.

“The Holy See will always have my sword at their service and my undying loyalty, but the people of our fine city have a habit of stubbornly clinging to useless tradition. It would be narrow-minded of me to limit my romantic interests by species.” Haurchefant shrugs as they reach the top of the staircase, continuing down the hallowed halls. The distinct lack of moonlight makes the halls seem older and dingier than usual.

“I apologize if I offended you,” Zephirin says. “I have your best interests at heart when I advise you keep some of your more outlandish beliefs close to your chest. You know how the nobility likes to gossip.”

Hah! Haurchefant barely stops himself from barking a laugh, both from disbelief and genuine amusement. To think, the bastard child of the Fortemps has gained the favor of the Heavens’ Ward’s most vaunted! Distantly, he wonders how his fool of a step-mother would react. To think, both children born in wedlock would be passed up in favor of him, the reminder that her husband had strayed!

“The nobility cannot rob me of the position I have worked endlessly for. Let them gossip.” Haurchefant brushes off the other man’s warning with an unintended note of disdain in his voice, left over from the memory of the witch his father once called a wife.

He blinks a moment later. Ah. Being rude to Zephirin certainly isn’t in his best interests. Best mend any potential rift between them before it even forms.

“My apologies. The hour is late and the day’s fatigue is getting the better of me,” he says, voice softening at the edges like the sweetened edge of an apple pastry. His gaze is honey, his expression tender as he smiles in his fellow’s direction. “I appreciate your concern, ser Zephirin. It is truly an honor to serve at your side.”

“It’s no trouble. However, it would be in your best interests to make sure you don’t allow your tongue to slip in the archbishop’s presence.” His fellow Heavens’ Ward acquiesces, likely deciding the conversation not worth continuing.

“Duly noted.” Haurchefant idly assures him, gaze drawn out one of the steep windows, towards the moonless sky. Silence settles between the both of them, the empty space filled only by the sharp sound of Zephirin’s greaves against the marble tile.

- - -

“Full glad am I to see you in one piece,” is the first thing Alphinaud says to you as you wrap your arms tight around him. You ignore the way your wounds ache and groan in protest, because oh god, you’re so utterly relieved to see him alive and safe—the admittedly bratty child whose tailed you so long, through a seemingly endless cycle of hardships.

Knowing he was more or less alright was comforting; actually seeing him put all your worries at rest.

“Thank the gods you’re alright.” You press your cheek to his temple and give him another loving squeeze. He gasps and jolts under the sudden pressure, noises devolving to a delighted, nervous little giggle. Hesitant fingers curl in the dense fabric of your robe. He’s so warm, so soft and alive. He’s one of the two people you have left in this cold world and you’re not going to let him anywhere near potential danger anytime soon.

“After all that happened, you’re concerned for my well-being?” he inquires incredulously. He shakes his head, but cannot hide his weary, fond smile as he steps back. He looks you up and down, gaze softening with sympathy as he looks you up and down. The smile he adorns turns into a guilt-ridden frown. “I must apologize. What happened with the Crystal Braves was utterly and completely my fault. I should have—”

He cuts himself off as a line of servants flows into the kitchen. The light from the chandelier glints off the extravagant, silver platters they carry.

Fresh steam rolls off the mounds of food as they set each one down, arranging them artfully down the long table’s center.

“You don’t have to apologize,” you reassure him over the sound of silverware and fine porcelain and hushed chattering. “It’s not your fault. You’re too young to be leading any kind of organization and Minfilia should have known that.”

“I should have known that. It’s because of my recklessness that—” His voice cracks with his agony and you once more reach for him, grasping him his hand warm and tight, attempting to convey all the love and passion and forgiveness you can manage with a simple, physical gesture.

Are you disappointed in him? Had such terrible tragedy not stolen your friends from you, perhaps you would have been. But all you can feel right now is overwhelming relief.

“There’s no way you could have known, Alphinaud. Because you’re young and no amount of education could have changed what happened.” Your voice is hurried and rushed and desperate, more of a plea than a statement. “Happened. Because it’s in the past, and we can’t go back and fix it. All we can do is go on and grow from this. It’s not your fault, Alphinaud. Please believe me.”

He’s just a boy. Despite his past arrogance, he didn’t deserve to be humbled like this. He’s not even eighteen and he’s already been exposed to the horrors of war, already had some of his closest friends stolen from him in a single night.

He’s just a boy. A boy with no home, no present parents, and no more political power. Just a boy, but most importantly, he is now your boy.

“I...” he gives a small, sputtering laugh, a hand coming up to wipe away a spare teardrop. “When you insist with such ardent passion, I cannot help but want to believe you. In any case, you’re right. Wallowing in my own self-pity will get us nowhere… and it will not bring anyone back,” he ended with a soft sigh, staring blankly at a plate stacked high with pancakes and fruits. “It wouldn’t do for our new allies to see me in such a crestfallen state.”

“You’re allowed to cry and grieve.” Your expression softens. You press your hand gently to his shoulder. “You just have to know it isn’t your fault.”

You’re not entirely sure if he believes you, but you aren’t given any time to reassure him further. Artoirel strolls in with two other men, who are introduced to you as former Count Edmont Fortemps and Emmanellain.

To make a good impression, you’re forced to shove your Alphinaud-related worries to the back of your mind. After a pleasant breakfast, Haurchefant at last makes his return, sweeping you into one of the more private lounges whilst Alphinaud opts to head to the study at Artoirel’s side, hoping to learn more about Ishgard’s political climate and resources he can use to locate the Scions.

“Good morning, my lady,” Haurchefant openly fawns, mischief gleaming like flint and steel in his eyes. “I hope you had a good rest, last night? I specifically made sure they gave you the softest mattress we have to offer!”

His shameless affection makes your cheeks grow warm. No matter how much time you spend with him, his unabashed affection never fails to astonish you.

He sits next to you, his side pressed right up against your own.

“I slept fine,” you assure, promptly ignoring the gossip you overheard last night. Even if what the maids said happens to be true, it’s none of your business, despite how curious you are.

Prior to all this recent chaos, you dismissed his affection as mere friendliness, denied the idea that he could be romantically interested in you, someone so constantly occupied with your work.

He merely supports the Scions and their mission statement, you had attempted to reason.

I don’t have time for romance, you convinced yourself. Before you knew it, you had crafted excuse after excuse, each one growing more elaborate in nature.

“You spoil me too much, really. You haven’t eaten breakfast and here you are, asking after me.” You try to sound indignant, despite the way your heart thrums so wildly in your chest.

“I’ll have you know I purchased one fine bowl of stew from a trustworthy vendor on my way home! Though, I am touched by your concern. It’s simply riveting to know you keep me so close in your thoughts.” He sends you an impish grin, the weight of his hand warm on your shoulder. “Forgive me, though.” His voice dips into something genuinely solemn, gaze shifting downcast with sudden guilt. “T’was my intent to dine with you this morning. However, the archbishop required my services and it is not my place to deny His Holiness.”

“Don’t apologize.” You level him with an incredulous stare. Are all Ishgardians prone to such melodrama? With how deeply he pouted, any passerby could easily assume his mother had just passed. “You had work. It’s not a big deal. I just wanted to make sure you had something to eat. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, you know.”

“Ahh, how could I forget!” He seems to ignore your reassurances, hanging his head low. “Allow me to make up for this transgression by taking you to the Jeweled Cozier. Surely a veritable sea of gifts, including the realm’s finest garments, would be an acceptable appeasement?” he drawls, his charitable intent near knocking you flat.

“Haurchefant, that’s so sweet, but I couldn’t possibly—”

“You arrived in our fine city with naught but the clothes on your back, correct?” He cuts you off in a way that makes your ears burn hot. Your gaze dives to the floor, unable to look him in the eyes.

He’s not wrong, but did he really have to bring that up?

“Yes, but—”

“And—pardon my well-intentioned assumption—would you say you have not a single possession to your name?” His gloved fingers find your chin and delicately coax your face upwards, the sudden gesture shocking you still. After a moment of attempting to gather your frayed nerves, you swallow and nod.

That quaint, smug smile widens.

“Then allow me to treat you. Please. Hardly ever do I spend my coin, and my pockets are so heavy that they encumber my every move. It would be a delight, nay, a relief to spend some on you.” His dramatics practically fill the room, and you’re suddenly grateful as he releases your chin… only to slide off the couch and onto his knees. He clasps his hands together, fingers intertwining, head dipping to mimic prayer.

“Stop!” You raise your hands to push at his clenched fists, protesting before he can wax any more flowery poetic. “I get it! I get it! We can go shopping together!”

“Ah! There’s that brilliant common sense you are so well-known for!” His smile turns a touch smug as you acquiesce, pushing himself to his feet. “Wonderful, simply wonderful. I’ll go get you a coat. We don’t have many, so you’ll have to settle for one of mine.”

With that, he scurries off, asking you to stay put whilst he retrieves it for you.

It’s plush and fur-lined, multiple sizes too large for you. It buries you, coated in his soft scent, cocoa and faint spice, a familiar comfort in a strange, new city.

The Jeweled Crozier wasn’t a market filled with glitz and glamour as much as a series of shops, restaurants and vendor stalls among the sea of grey stonework. It’s the most you’ve seen of the lower and upper class mingling. It’s elezen as far as you can see, dotted with the occasional hyur. Despite being clothed in Ishgardian garb, you stick out like a sore thumb—and those in the crowd have no problem with making you really feel it.

Countless gazes glue to you, making your ears hot with shame. You’re out of place, away from every home you’ve ever known.

“Pay them no mind.” Haurchefant breaks you from your train of thought, sparing you a kind smile. “Hardly ever do outsiders venture inside the city walls. They’re just curious.”

And ignore them you eventually do, once Haurchefant tugs you inside a spacious store. It becomes impossible to think about the public’s general public opinion of you when you’re face-to-face with racks of fine garments, overwhelming you instantly. Where are you supposed to start? You desperately look over the blouses and skirts and pants and dresses, suddenly losing the mental checklist you had come up with.

“I’ll apologize now for taking too long,” you say with a nervous chortle. “I’m not really sure where to start.”

“Allow me, then. Surely with our powers combined, we can assemble you a new wardrobe—aha! What about this one? The color suits you.” He plucks a fresh blouse from one of the high racks, holding it up next to you.

Much of the next hour passes similarly. You roam the aisles with your devout “helper” in tow. He plucks garment after garment—

“As much as I love it, I don’t think wearing a skirt that short is a good idea—”

—from the aisles—

“Haurchefant, I am not looking for swimwear.”

—And shelves. Some are genuinely helpful, while others…

“I am not shopping for lingerie today!” You finally lose your temper and scold him.

“Ah, so you will one day?” He falls into step next to you, your chosen garments rested across his arms. He refused to let you carry them yourself. “You must let me accompany you when the time comes ‘round. I know the most delightful boutique—”

“Please, just focus on what we’re doing now!” You rub your temples wearily and use it as an excuse to not look at him, taking the moment to try and cool down. Your cheeks are much too hot underneath his unyielding, devoted attention. Aren’t Ishgardians supposed to be rigid and uptight? You’ve long known about Haurchefant’s more… affectionate tendencies, but never can you pretend to be immune to them.

“As my lovely lady wishes.” He heaves out a dramatic sigh and keeps his teasing to a minimum, resigned to his status as a practical coat rack. After grabbing a new bunch of socks, he accompanies you to the counter, stunning you with the absolutely swollen wallet he brings out.

He makes no attempt to be subtle about his wealth as he ferries you from store-to-store, purchasing everything from necessities like new shampoo to frivolous luxury candles and rose petal pastries.

“You really have money to burn, don’t you?” You eye the crepe he’s shoved into your hand incredulously, the pastry wrapping covered in sugar crystals and cinnamon, stacked high with fruits and cream.

“A man of my position and status would never lie about something so important,” he says with humorous firmness.

“I thought you might have been exaggerating.” You lean forward to take a heaping bite of the pastry. It’s just as rich and delicious as you expected.

“Me? Exaggerate? Impossible,” he declares.

The bags nestled in the crook of his arm bump against each other with each long step. It’s somewhat easier to ignore the prodding gazes of nosy passerby whilst locked in conversation with him.

“If you say so,” you shrug with a small smile, not bothering to bring up his tendency for ridiculous dramatics.

You’re barely given another moment to savor another bite of your pastry before your leg suddenly locks, the jostle of the sore muscle forcing a pained little cry from your chapped lips. Fuck, fuck! It was clear one of your wounds doesn’t agree with how much walking you’ve been doing.

“What’s wrong!?” Haurchefant is looming over you in an instant, concern clear as day in his deep, blue eyes. One of his hands finds your shoulder, the other arm wrapping around your back to pull you close, away from the Crozier’s foot traffic. “What’s troubling you, my friend?”

“Just one of the cuts on my leg, I think,” you admit with a small sigh, before shooting him a reassuring smile. “It’s nothing. Really.” Weak, you realize. You’re still weak. The pain brewing in your body suddenly renews the heavy grief settled in your heart. You’re weak, too weak to even enjoy a shopping trip with one of your best friends.

“Perhaps it’s best we head home for the time being. I think our trip was quite successful!” He lightly shook a few of the bags on his arm as if to emphasize his point.

“I’m fine,” you insist, lips curling in the beginnings of a soft frown. Perhaps it would be best to retire to the manor and get some rest, but… “We can keep shopping. You wanted to pick up some groceries, didn’t you?”

“That can wait, I assure you.” Haurchefant’s expression curls to match your own, mirroring your displeasure with a touch of worry. He doesn’t relinquish his grasp on you, lest you topple over the moment he let go. While you appreciate the concern, you can’t help but feel deep frustration boiling underneath your heated skin. “Urianger prescribed you the best painkillers Ishgard has to offer and extensive bedrest until you’re well on your way to being fully recovered.”

“I’ve been bed-resting for the past day and all this morning. I can last a trip to the grocery store,” you insist, voice growing more fervent. You may be injured, sure, but you’re also an adult who can make your own decisions!

He says your name as an exasperated inhale, a hand perched on his hip.

“My dearest friend, I understand your pain and your frustration, but the more you rest, the faster you’ll recover.” Haurchefant’s voice slows and softens, any potential exasperation brewing on his expression melting away into the tranquil joy you’ve come to associate him with. “Please. Even if you insist that you’ll be fine, come home with me and rest for the sake of my own sanity. It worries me when you push yourself. Long have I been forced to watch you plow onto the battlefield, thrown against opponents no other mortal can face only for you to return injured.”

A sudden gust of wind wails through the area, slipping between the streets and alleyways to reach you. Yet, you hardly feel its effects, shielded by his steep body.

“When you came back from your victory against Shiva, I was so relieved… but also regretful. Regretful that I could not be by your side and help you.” The sudden onslaught of genuine tenderness completely throws you off your train of thought. The rage you feel dissolves in a near instant. A single, gloved hand comes to rest against your cheek, gaze impossibly tender.

He’s right. You know this. The more you rest, the fast you’ll recover. No matter how upset you are now, you can’t be illogical if you want to return to full health as quickly as possible.

“...Okay. Alright.” You shut your eyes and suck in a deep breath, reaching a hand up to pinch the bridge of your nose, attempting to soothe an upcoming headache. “Let’s go back.”

“Let’s go home,” Haurchefant corrects gently. His eyelids dip low, his smile sanguine and delighted at your easy compliance. His hold on you adjusts, an arm steady around your shoulder. By now, it felt natural to be attached at the hip to him, held close to his side. Close enough to feel his body warmth.

It does wonder to soothe your mental and physical aches. He continues to speak in quiet, gentle tones as he escorts you back to the manor, sheltering you from the frosty, curious gazes of the Ishgardian passerby. He smells nice, his clothes interwoven with the rich scent of mocha and freshly cleaned linen. It’s a familiarity you’re able to cling to and bury yourself in, a deep-seated comfort you can’t place a name to until you’re at the manor doors.

He smells like home.

- - -

The veil of night settles over his skin like a soothing balm.

This is the time of day where Estinien feels most at ease. It is the blessed dark that shrouded his draconic features, gave him more cover should the glamor that shielded him from prying eyes begin to falter.

It keeps him tucked away, as he pries open the one window Urianger leaves unlocked for him.

The building’s interior does precious little to shield him from the cold. The small orbs of light that float freely around the room don’t carry any warmth with them.

No matter. He’s long grown used to the cold.

His greaves land heavy on the wooden floor. The boards creak underneath his each step as he makes his way to the door, sliding into the hall. He picks up on the book man’s scent within a mere few seconds, old books and rich spice.

He makes his way down the narrow hallway, retracing a path long grown familiar to him.

It’s a new smell that causes him to pause and divert from his chosen path, grasping one of the doorknobs to tug it open. Blood, he realizes, blood and a familiar, rich scent that is uniquely yours.

The globes of light, when combined with his enhanced vision, allow him to see as if it were day. His gaze falls upon a tousled bathrobe. He knows that bathrobe is too large for you. It is Urianger’s, yet you cling to it, yet—

Ah. He understands now.

He exits and shuts the door, continuing towards his intended destination.

A ray of gentle, warm light slips through a crack in one of the doors. He curls his armored fingers around the door to pull it open.

Urianger is hunched over his humorously large desk, long fingers wrapped around a long quill. He glances up, amber gaze softening at the sight of him.

Estinien doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like the sympathy he is so freely afforded by this man. He is not a creature to be pitied.

“Good evening, my friend. ‘Tis good to see thee.” Urianger rests his quill and stands, looking him over.

“Likewise,” Estinien grunts, more out of obligation than anything.

“I imagine thou hast come with the intention of brevity in mind, as per usual.” Urianger wanders away from his desk and towards the door, towards Estinien.

Estinien steels himself at the approach, smothers the cacophony of singing, screaming voices that claws and rises at the back of his mind. Sparks of pain dance down his spine and he exhales, firm and long. He listens to the sound of Urianger’s footsteps across the floorboards, allows the noise to ground him.

“You had a guest,” he says as the man passes him. He practically feels Urianger stiffen beside him, the tendons and muscles tightening rigidly. The broad set of his shoulders grows stonelike with newfound tension, and Estinien can instantly tell he has hit a nerve.

“I did. The Warrior of Light wast dropped into my waiting lap yestermorn. I was gifted with the pleasure of treating her,” Urianger informs him.

“...Did you do more than treat her?” Estinien inquires. He knows this is not his business, knows he has no place prying into these affairs. But the sight of the astrologian hunched over your bloodied, battered form has been ingrained into the fine corners of his memory. It settles uneasily in his stomach.

“Of course not. My duties laid in administering care and that alone. Art thou casting doubt upon my good intentions?” The astrologian assured and inquired with an arch of his elegant brow.

Ah. There are the melodramatics he’s come to know and expect.

“Of course not,” Estinien parrots, deadpan. “I was simply curious about why her scent clings so deeply to the robe in one of your guest rooms.”

“Thou… wandered into one of my guest quarters?” Urianger looks to him with a vaguely betrayed expression. His eyes have widened, blinking several times as though he cannot believe what Estinien just admitted.

“Her scent saturates the entire house, Urianger.” Estinien shrugs. “It is merely strongest in one of the guest bedrooms.”

“So in an attempt to satisfy thy curiosity, thou intruded—” His voice is getting faster, more agitated. Seldom does Estinien ever see or hear the bookman lose his temper, but he is coming dangerously close.

“Wasn’t it you who assured me that your home is my home? Or are you attempting to retract that claim?” Estinien raises an eyebrow. “Regardless, if it makes you uncomfortable to disclose such information, I shalln’t pry.”

“That would be best. As much as I appreciate thy companionship, I would enjoy it if thou did not pry into my personal affairs.” The tension did not dissipate from Urianger’s posture or his tone, but Estinien could feel him beginning to loosen up. Interesting.

Someone who did not know Urianger as well as he might not even be able to tell how nervous he was. But hardly did anything escape Estinien. Not when his nose was so sharp, not when his ears were so open, not when his carnal instinct was akin to a flail and a mace.

Still, he lays underneath Urianger’s capable hands, receives hundreds of small needles pried into his aching muscles and head. Never would he have discovered how acupuncture benefits the symptoms of his condition without Urianger. For that, he will always be grateful.

He savors the gentle draw of Urianger’s fingertips across his shoulders and back and sides. Small strokes and touches that make stars dance behind his eyelids as he melts.

For an hour, he is not the Azure Dragoon. He is not the foolish child who fell into temptation and stole the Eye for himself. He is a mere elezen, a humble creature allowed through Eden’s gates.

When the treatment is done, he indulges in the way Urianger helps him off the table with a hand. His solitude has made him appreciate even the slightest of contact. He allows himself to drink in the feeling of humanity and compassion for a meager few moments, before his hand falls back to his side.

When he climbs out the window, he is a beast once again, seeing, smelling and hearing what he should never be privy to.

[efrmellifer]

FFxivWrite ‘20, Fourteen

Prompt: Part, post-Shadowbringers (spoiler-free), 1,610 words

Remaining silent save for the rusting of branches as she plucked at them, Etien listened to the sounds of Upper La Noscea as she gathered rolanberries.

Now, granted, she was going to be experimenting. But she had always been working off her memory of her mother’s recipe for these pastries, and now it had been quite a while since she’d made them last.

The last time would have been… oh, she’d still been living with the Fortemps family. So that was a few years back now. Though, she’d been making these with her mother since she was little, so she doubted she’d forgotten the recipe. At least, in broad strokes. She might forget minor details.

But her mother had on and off, too. And they had always turned out okay.

For what it was worth, Aymeric had never complained about the last batch she’d made and given him anonymously (unless Lucia had told on her. Gods, she hoped not). But whether he’d known Etien had been responsible for them or not, he was too polite to make comments like that unbidden.

She bit her lip, dropping another berry into her basket.

She probably wasn’t going to need many more than this, considering the berries would be halved, then quartered, and made into something nearing a preserve before they were put into the dough and baked up. Not to mention, half of them were going to be chocolate anyway.

She looked at the berries in her basket, counting them and trying to imagine their volume when they’d been chopped up and boiled down.

Aye, that’d be enough. She rose to her feet, groaning at finally getting off her knees, and headed into Bronze Lake to travel back to Ishgard by Aetheryte.

As Etien pulled out the dough from where she’d put it away to chill, she wondered absently how she hadn’t been caught yet. She supposed it made sense, when she’d stayed up late (or rather, Aymeric had gone to bed early) to start the dough, mixing the ingredients and kneading it out again before she’d put it away the night before, but still. How had no one seen it?

Oh, well. It was probably better that way, since if no one had seen, they couldn’t have altered it.

She turned the bowl out onto the floured surface again, parting the dough carefully, fingers digging into the pillow-y softness. She’d crinkled her nose at working the butter in last night, but now she had to admit it did smell nice. She dropped half the dough back into the bowl for safekeeping, and began rolling out what remained, slicing it up.

Then she turned to the stove, lifting up the pot of rolanberries and running a spoon through them to check their consistency. Not that it mattered; if it had turned to jam, she would just add more to each of the rolls.

She dipped her finger into the still-hot fruit mixture, checking if it was sweet enough while she still had the chance to add sweetener. She’d started with honey, but now she was debating the merits of adding birch syrup.

She shrugged, putting the pot down. That could go on top later.

She started spooning out thick dollops of the berry preserves, spreading them across the pale expanses of dough, the motion becoming rhythmic as she started humming, her mind wandering.

She couldn’t really remember what she had been thinking about by the time the first set of pastries, packed to leaking with rolanberry, were rolled up and sitting on the pan, but she regained her focus as she covered them and put them aside to start rising while she worked on the chocolate ones.

These were the ones her mother had specialized in, preparing them for special occasions and rising early to be sure the job was done by the time the rest of the family woke.

To eat these was like tasting home, enjoying a bite of the past for Etien. She had hoped to pass along that comfort in some small way when she’d made them last time, though seeing as she had refused to admit she had been the anonymous giver, she’d never gotten to explain herself.

Well, this was her second chance, wasn’t it?

She watched the dough stretch as she cut and pulled it into eight equal parts. She tipped her head, brow knitting, at the fact that this half of the dough was producing smaller pieces, but couldn’t do anything now but shake her head. She just hoped these got extra-puffy when they rose.

She laid the chocolate down in the center of these, unlike streaking the preserves toward the edge like she had before. These were always a little thicker and more like a bread in Etien’s memory, so that was what she attempted now, as always.

She letter-folded the pastry dough, sealing up the chocolate within and nodding decisively. These, she would let rise seam-up, so she could tell the difference when they had finished baking. She covered these as well, and put them next to their berried siblings to all rise together, and dusted the flour off her hands before it could get all over her clothing.

She snapped her fingers with a curse under her breath just before she slid the trays into the oven. She’d forgotten a step. But she still had a chance to get it done.

“Eggs, eggs,” she mumbled to herself, praying there was one left in the pantry. She cracked it into a bowl, stirring it rapidly and brushing it over the tops of the pastries.

Only a third of a bell until they were done now.

She had the feeling her mother had used some trick to make everything settle in the dough faster, since Etien had never seen her starting them the day (or two full nights, if she’d wanted to wait that long) before. And now she’d never find out what that secret was.

She sighed a little, leafing through Aymeric’s favorite cookbook again. Things like that made her miss her mother. It was one thing when she was busy with the Scions, swept up in action and adventure and the go-go-go of it all. And when she was occupied with the family she’d found (and made for herself) in Ishgard, she didn’t usually think about it. She was who she was now, what she’d been formed into.

But when she was by herself like this, struggling to remember the steps she’d watched her mother make over and over, then she felt unmoored, adrift on a Shroud breeze that became a Coerthan wind. She had been a daughter once in more than title.

She brought a hand up to her mouth and nose, in case she started crying. She already felt the pressure on her eyes. She could denounce her father all she wanted, but she missed her mother. She missed M’ertle and M’ynstrel, too, but she’d found a facsimile in Alisaie and Alphinaud, so that sting was reduced.

But Etien didn’t really have her mum, any mother figure, anymore. Feo Ul had been maternal, maybe—she thought of the tiny Pixie hand on her cheek, the soft ‘are they hurting you?’—but it wasn’t quite the same, was it? Anyone who could have been a mother figure was really more like an older sister.

The scent of butter pastry filled the air, and the timer (a nail driven into a candle falling to the table) sounded.

Etien wiped at her eyes, despite their dryness, and headed back to the oven, pulling the trays out.

Golden-toned and puffed perfectly. Just the way her mother had made them. At least she still had that.

When Aymeric came in, Etien was trying her damnedest to get something together for dinner. Luckily, it wasn’t too hard to whip together a pasta dish, but she still felt bad as she divided it up onto plates.

“Sorry it’s late,” she murmured as she set it down on the table.

“That’s all right,” he replied simply. “I needed the time to catch my breath. I got a little extra work done. I hope you didn’t rush too much.”

“Not too much,” she answered, sitting down opposite him. “I guess you could say I lost track of time. I was baking, a little personal project.”

“Do I get to test the fruits of your labor?”

She laughed. “You will. But not until after you’ve had your fill of that.”

Their plates emptied, it had come time to retire to their usual lounging. So Etien grabbed the basket of pastries, bringing them with her as she sat down on the loveseat, pulling the blanket over her lap.

Aymeric came in with the tea, and as soon as he’d set the cups down, immediately lifted one of the top-seamed baked goods.

He smelled it, explaining, “the scent of freshly-baked breads is just intoxicating. I wish I had been here to enjoy the aroma as they baked.”

Etien smiled, moving her legs so he could sit down.

He did, wrapping an arm around her so she could lean against him fully and taking a bite of the pastry.

“Oh. I’ve had one of these before. After…” he squinted, and his voice lowered. “After the Vault.”

Etien nodded slowly.

“I never did find out who sent them.” He looked over to see her expression, nearing embarrassed. “Oh, dearest, were you too shy?”

She covered a laugh that sounded more like a sob. “Do you like it?”

“I do! I liked them then, too.”

She relaxed, merrily sipping her tea and taking the bite Aymeric offered her.

Damn, she forgot the birch syrup.

[referentblood]

What would you consider is the most challenging aspect that comes with writing your character?

    thank you so much for sending in this question ! it was really thought provoking and i genuinely love when i get asked questions like this . made my day hehe .      but to answer your question , i think the most challenging thing for my lizard brain is self control in literally all aspects . i like everyone’s starter calls and i reblog ask memes and i get overwhelmed and lose the will to write , but then also i have to control myself from projecting onto aymeric a lot LOL , which like , i already do lets be real .     but it’s a genuine insecurity of mine ! because i am neurodivergent , iunno exactly what it’s like to exist as neurotypical , and i feel aymeric does fall under neurotypical . and yet . . .  SJHBDJKHBFJREBH . with therapy i’ve come to know what’s like , maladaptive vs adaptive behavior and what’s my mental health issues vs what’s good coping skills so i’m able to differentiate like “ exploding angrily like that after being perfectly calm a second before is not how a lot of people function and is , in fact , a symptom of bpd “ which has made it so much better for me .     otherwise i genuinely think that’s the only thing that i have a super hard time with 🤔 and that’s okay ! projection is completely fine ! i just want to have a balance with it because i really don’t think ser aymeric de borel has bpd , hehe . ptsd for sure !!!! but not bpd .