#ritavery

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 5: stamp

Rita stared down at the hastily written letter without really seeing it. Now that she was finished writing, regret was seeping in like ink.

It really had been a whim; that was the worst part. She hadn’t planned it at all. Hells, Avery Mordeterre was—had been—her enemy, even when all she’d known of him had been red curls and flashing violet eyes across the crowded tavern at Dragonhead. He worked for the Inquisition, who were the biggest bastards she’d met since leaving Gridania, and she’d met an awful lot of bastards since leaving Gridania. The smart thing to do would’ve been to leave him to his fate after the false Inquisitor Guillaume fell, let him slink off to his superiors or die in a ditch somewhere or be questioned by House Haillenarte. It hadn’t been any of her business what happened to Guillaume’s lackeys. Master Alphinaud would probably prefer it continue to not be her business; he was far more politically-minded than she’d ever been.

She was pretty sure real heroes didn’t go saving peoples’ lives on a whim. They had grand gallant reasons to charge in like knights in shining armor, ready to lay down their lives in heroic sacrifice. They didn’t stare down Ser Whatsisname—Drillemont, that was it—and casually point out that, in case the man forgot, her day job was killing primals, so perhaps he wanted to reconsider torturing interrogating an archer whose only real crime had been to believe a heretic who was, after all, a very good liar...? They definitely didn’t feel a smug little thrill at making a seasoned knight with the backing of an entire Ishgardian noble house go all pale and stammery.

Well. She wasn’t very much of a hero, all told. But if saving Master Mordeterre in the first place had been a whim, writing to him now was...something less than that. A blip. A half-formed thought skittering across her mind and out of her mouth before she could stop it. But he’d just been—been so skeptical and huffy and pretty, it had apparently made her reckless. In retrospect, she had the feeling she’d wanted to prove him wrong. He’d thought she and Master Garlond and Master Alphinaud couldn’t survive the Stone Vigil? She’d show him.

And now she had. The furiously-scribbled proof was laying on her desk, signed and dated. All she had to do was send it, and the moogle post would take care of the rest. Give them a name, and they could deliver letters to the bloody New World, never mind the frozen spires of Ishgard’s Holy See.

He’d probably use it for kindling. It wouldn’t surprise her. Again, she considered taking the smart option and saving him the trouble.

But he’d said he would look forward to hearing from her, and she was stupidly optimistic enough to want to believe him.

She folded the paper, stuffed it into the waiting envelope, and reached for the sealing wax.

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 19: taken

She and Avery have been together for a while. Rita thinks she’s probably getting a decent enough handle on this dating thing, considering she’s never done it before.

(“What th’ fuck,” Gan says when she mentions that. “What about Emm?...what do you mean, not th’ same thing?!” But it isn’t. This is serious. She and Avery live together, fight together, have faced down the end of the world together. He may not have her near-bottomless well of aether, may not have been Hydaelyn’s Champion first, but his is the seat of Azem—alone among the Scions, alone among all the men of the world, he is the one she trusts on the battlefield. And because he is kind and patient and good—because he calls her my lady and means it—she trusts him with her heart as well.)

(It is absolutely not the same thing as when she was with Emmanellain de Fortemps.)

They’re in Tural for two days when she realizes she might have a problem. Not with Avery—gods, no, even in this beautiful land filled with new and exciting people, he only has eyes for her. (Sometimes literally. When she debuts a new swimsuit he nearly trips off the edge of the For’ard Cabins pier.) She knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he is loyal.

No, her problem is with everyone else.

Wuk Lamat shrugs cheerfully when she brings it up. “There aren’t a lot of elezen here! Avery’s just...new. Exotic! Like I was in Sharlayan!”

Rita narrows her eyes at her. “When you were in Sharlayan, you were single.”

“What does that have to do with...oh. Oh. Right.” Wuk Lamat certainly understands when flirtation is directed at her—though watching her try to flirt back is an exercise in torture—but when it comes to other people, well, the subtext has to be delivered with a sledgehammer. “But he’s so—I mean, no offense, but he’s so spindly.”

“Your fellow Tuliyollans don’t think so,” Rita growls. (Technically untrue; spindly is certainly an accurate description next to a Xbr’aal or a Hanuhanu or even most Mamool Ja, and she and Avery and the twins have gotten a lot of extra portions foisted on them by locals who think they need to eat more. But that’s not the part she’s complaining about.)

They’re sitting at a little table outside Aunt Tii’s, drinks in hand. Avery’s in line—it is a long line—to fetch them lunch. It’s an Ishgardian thing, Rita had explained, and then Wuk Lamat had asked her what Ishgard was like and that conversation had lasted them until Avery was three people away from the counter and Rita had looked up to see a Tonawawtan woman leaning over from behind Avery to put her hand on his arm, gazing softly up at him and asking something about where he was from, he was so tall...

Rita sets her piña colada down, takes a deep breath, and adjusts her bra straps.

“Oh no,” Wuk Lamat says.

Her ears are pinned back, but only the Xbr’aal here will know what that means. She rises from her seat like the tide. “I’m not gonna hurt anyone,” she says evenly.

She doesn’t have to. No, instead she saunters over to where Avery is, setting each foot in front of the other in a way she knows emphasizes the curve of her hips. It’s immensely gratifying to watch Avery turn to watch her, a smile tugging at his lips, but that’s not why she’s doing it. No, she leans against him, draped against his side with his hand coming to rest on her waist, and says, “Love, refresh my memory. Did I order th’ shrimp tacos?”

Avery blinks at her. She knows what he’s probably thinking—that she rarely forgets anything, not least because she writes everything down. “You did; why?”

She shrugs. “Wanted to make sure. The table next to ours had some and they look incredible. Think we can get extra salsa?”

He peers over the tops of his glasses, doing that little squint he does when something is at the exact wrong distance for his farsighted gaze and yet too far for the glasses to help. “Aunt Tii seems not to have run out yet.”

She grins, sharp and not aimed at him. The Tonawawtan woman has shrunk back, red-faced, and Rita spares a moment to flick her the coldest glance she can. Back off, her eyes say. He’s mine.

Her mouth, on the other hand, says, “Grand! Extra salsa for me, then. Th’ mild stuff, I don’t wanna accidentally kill you.”

Avery’s ears turn red. “I am perfectly capable of handling spice—”

She grins up at him, twining a lock of his hair around her finger. “I know. But we can’t cheer Wuk Lamat at her coronation if your mouth’s on fire.”

They order the mild salsa. By the time they’ve got their tacos, everyone trying bites of everyone else’s—Wuk Lamat’s pulled xibruq is the clear winner—Rita’s almost entirely forgotten having to stake her claim.

She does sit a little closer to Avery than she normally does, though. Just in case.

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 9: lend an ear

Despite what Avery thinks, Rita is not dying. She hasn’t taken on that much Light, really. She’s fine. If he calls her my lady one more time in that achingly concerned tone of voice she might hit him with something.

Not that it wouldn’t make her melt in any other circumstance, but that’s besides the point. The point is that, though his efforts at sharing her burden are appreciated (gods, nobody’s ever even offered before, never mind been able to), she’s far better equipped to handle this than he is. She’s just...tired. Yes. Tired. That’s it. She shouldn’t complain.

On the other hand...

Well. On the other hand, he keeps asking how she’s doing, if she’s sure she’s well, and right now—they’re in Amh Araeng, it’s hot and dry and sandy and she’s stuck watching Thancred be an absolutely prize arsehole to Mini-filia while Urianger, for some infuriating reason of his own, is not tearing him a new one for it, and all she has to survive this with is shade and a lukewarm beer—anyway, after all that, she can’t stop herself from answering.

It starts like this: the shade of an awning. Avery perched on a crate with his sword across his lap, grimly oiling the blade. He’s pulled his hair tightly back, and she watches the glint of her bronze earclasps in his ears and thinks about touching them. (She’s thought about touching them a lot.) The wind kicking up, blowing sand into her face and making her cough until she can barely catch her breath. Avery’s head snapping up, his concerned, “My lady—Rita? Are you alright?!”

She finally manages a deep breath, aided by another swig of what is truly terrible beer, and snaps, “No.”

He tries to say something else, but she’s still talking. She can’t stop now. “No, I’m not bloody alright! It’s hot and the light hurts my eyes and I’m feckin’ exhausted all the time, I have cramps in muscles I didn’t know could get cramps, my feckin’ throat hurts, I have to look up and—and see Minfilia’s tomb, the place where she died, th’ land she died for, and Mini-filia’s gonna go the same way if nobody—if nobody stops her—Thancred’s not gonna fuckin’ do it because he’s a fuckin’ useless sack o’ shite—we’ve gotta put up with that and the feckin’--th’ feckin’ light zombie voidsent—an’ I’m so—so bloody tired, Avery, I’m so tired—”

And now she’s crying. Wonderful. She scrubs at her eyes, immediately regretting it when it makes the salt burn of her tears worse, but at least this way she can’t see the expression on Avery’s face.

Avery, who’s making a noise like he’s been struck. His sword falls to the ground with a clatter as he rises to his feet, his hand outstretched as though he’s going to—what? Place it on her shoulder? Pull her into his arms? Gods. If he does that, she’ll—she will—

(Break.)

(Push him away.)

(Never let go.)

But he doesn’t get a chance, because one of the locals has noticed them and is asking whether she needs help; she answers automatically in the negative, watching Avery slowly sink back onto his seat and pick his sword up. It will need to be cleaned again.

She blinks away the remainder of her tears and risks glancing at him. Her voice comes out thick and snotty, but she still feels better for getting all that out. “...Sorry. I didn’t mean to go off like that.”

He catches her gaze and holds it. His eyes burn. “You never need to apologize, my lady. I recall a very wise woman urging me to express my feelings; ‘twould be churlish of me not to welcome your own sentiments.”

She’d said that to him once, long ago, when they were near-perfect strangers and she’d been urging him to write with no clear expectations that he would. Her heart twists in her chest, and she knows she’s blushing. “Avery,” she mutters.

“Ritanelle.” His voice has gone soft and warm as candlewax. And the way he’s looking at her...

She decides it’s suddenly a very good time to check her grimoire for any cracks in the binding.

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 13: check

She had thought he’d be different. That was the part that was driving her mad, really.

She and Avery had been corresponding for well nigh a year at least, ever since that first trip into Coerthas with Alphinaud and Cid where she’d still been raw from the loss of so many good Scions and hadn’t been at all inclined to make friends. She’d spotted him in the corner of the Camp Dragonhead inn, his dark red curls catching the light, and thought, Ooh, but that brief spark of interest had faded as soon as Ser Haurchefant had called them all but begging for aid in defending his friend from false charges. They’d granted it, of course, but then there’d been not just false charges but an entire false Inquisitor and she’d barely noticed the redheaded archer in her enemy’s retinue until the fighting was over, he’d switched sides mid-battle, and Ser Drillemont had implied he might be tortured to ensure he spoke true to his superiors about all that had transpired—

Well. She couldn’t have that.

So she’d spoken up, and then when they were safely away on Cid’s freshly dug-out airship she’d thought to write a letter, and though she had admittedly only asked about the man’s hobbies as a challenge—really, she’d never met a more miserable, dour people than the Ishgardians, Ser Haurchefant notwithstanding—his response that in his free time he was a linguist who studied not only Old Elezen and Allagan but Old Gelmorran had...well. It had made Avery Mordeterre interesting.

They’d kept writing. She’d told him about her adventures. He’d told her about his cat. After the bloody Ul’dahn banquet, he’d shown up in Camp Dragonhead and, though he’d made no secret about being there for work, had nevertheless asked her if she was well and hadn’t seemed to mind her immediately bursting into tears or picking up a dreadful Echo of his past. It had been nice. She’d started to hope they’d be friends.

That was before he’d interrupted their crossing into Dravania by trying to kill Ysayle, shooting Rita in the arm instead, and pointedly not apologizing for the first one because, evidently, he had his orders. Knowing he felt bad enough about shooting her by accident to trudge along in their wake while they went to treat with Hraesvelgr was not an improvement. In person, he turned out to be grim, snappish, and utterly unwilling to open his mind to any alternative ideas. Of the flashes of humor, sensitivity, kindness she’d picked up from his letters, there was no trace. It was like having two of Estinien around.

At the moment he was bringing up the rear, since apparently he wasn’t comfortable having Ysayle at his back. She’d pointed out that she wasn’t the one who’d started a fight, and it had nearly devolved into another argument before Alphinaud had broken it up. Ysayle’s ears were still pinned back as she muttered, “You said you knew this man?”

I thought I did, she almost said. Or, He’s not that bad, or You should see him go on about Allagan orthography, they had at least three ways of writing the same word—

She checked herself at the last minute. “A bit,” she muttered, hoping to the gods that she came across as appropriately unconcerned.

But her ears drooped, and Ysayle winced lightly. “Ah. Not a fond acquaintance. I am not surprised.”

She grimaced. It’d be so much easier if the woman was right about that. But she’d started looking forward to those letters, and that made all this so much worse. “...’Tis a long story. I’ll tell you later.”

Once they’d set up camp for the night, maybe. It would be good to unburden herself to a friendly ear.

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 3: i think of you lonely

Wrapped around a dragon’s horn:

Master Mordeterre,

I hope this letter finds you Well and Unharmed, both in mind and body, for Well do I Know the Cruelties which your Superiors are capable of. Do please tell me you have something Else with which to occupy your time – a Hobby, perhaps? A beloved pet? Something which does Not find joy in Fire and Blood?

I recall you expressing your Disbelief that my comrades and I would survive the retaking of the Stone Vigil. Do kindly find attached my Proof to the contrary, and note that I intend Many More victories to come.

Regards,

Ritanelle Soleil

Tattered and smudged, in the same package as a glowing green feather and a broadsheet advertising a comedic play:

Master Mordeterre,

Relieved I am to hear from you, and yet Further Relieved that you are a man of Taste and Learning. You simply Must tell me the name of your cat, his features, and how you came to acquire him, and as for your many Languages – I Demand to know all that you know of Old Gelmorran, how you came to speak it, which texts on the subject I may somehow acquire, etc., etc. I am of that extraction myself, tho’ I have not been blessed with a strong connexion to the Culture and Heritage which is Mine by right. (I shall spare you the Many sheets of paper which I might fill with the depredations of the Gridanians upon my people.) My most fervent desire has Ever been for Greater Knowledge.

I do note, however, that you have only listed solitary pursuits. Surely you must leave the house! I, for one, can spend Many hours at the theaters of whichever city in which I find myself. The tale depicted on the attached sheet is a Particular favorite, and I believe it is also being performed in Your fair city. I would be Most appreciative if you would tell me your own opinion, should you chance to see it.

Sincerely,

Ritanelle

P. S.: The feather was dropped by Garuda, a Most Fierce adversary. Alas, ‘twas the Empire which struck the killing blow. I do not anticipate any threat to Ishgard, but please do take care.

Accompanied by several newspaper clippings:

Avery,

Thank you, thank you, thank you for your loan of the Old Gelmorran primers! I have indeed received them safely, and you may rest assured that I shall return them in Immaculate condition. I have not yet dared to open them, for I know that once I do I shan’t wish to stop even to Eat. And don’t you Dare apologize for your marginalia, you Ridiculous Man! I Adore seeing the evidence of a book Well-Loved. (Even if it is loved by Galloway, who I see has left his tiny fangs imprinted on one corner! Cats are even more trouble than carbuncles!)

Additionally, I am full glad that you enjoyed the play, tho’ I was much Grieved to hear of the zeal with which your Ishgardian Censors ply their trade. The scene with the Sahagin and the apple cart truly must be seen for later developments of M’khebbe’s character to land Properly! And yes, I assure you that there is development of her character, for it hides Quite the clever message if you know to look.

[Several paragraphs follow, explaining Lominsan theatrical conventions, the importance of stage direction, and the double entendres excised from the Ishgardian version.]

Ah, but I am sure you are Wondering about the newspaper clippings. No doubt you have heard of the success of Operation Archon. I am not here to reiterate it, merely to share that I have had to give Several newspaper interviews regarding my role in Expelling the Garleans from our fair land, and I wished for you Not to think I was bragging Unduly. It was [large inkblot] a Most Terrible Battle. That we Survived can only be attributed to Hydaelyn’s Will and Love for Us. This is not the word of a Foreign Heretic, merely the Truth. You are not the only people who are Beloved by your Goddess.

And on that note, I wish you a happy St. Daniffen’s Day! I understand this is the holiday with all the fish-shaped pastries, yes? Do you know where I might procure a recipe? These past few weeks I have found myself with an Excess of free time.

Most sincerely,

Ritanelle

P.S.: I understand you are an Accomplished archer. Perhaps you might enjoy making the acquaintance of my new Scion partner? She is a woman from the Far East of surpassing skill with a bow. Hanchecheg Ganchecheg Gantsetseg is her name.

[A lengthy correspondence follows. Ritanelle seems determined to update Avery on all the strange and lovely things she does and encounters in Eorzea—ancient Allagan crystal spires, fierce battles against primals, plays she’s seen and delicious meals she’s eaten—with a strong undercurrent that he is missing out. They have several lengthy discussions of Gelmorran pronunciation and grammar, particularly its relation to Old Elezen. At one point, she does indeed go on a several-page-long rant regarding Gridania. They do not, as a general rule, discuss his career.]

Unsent:

Dear Avery,

I have met the woman you call Iceheart and [inkblot] she is not Icy at all. Merely fierce in her convictions, as a falcon is fierce. It is true she is a heretic, and a truer one than you ever called me, but though her methods are harsh and misguided that does not make her motivation evil. She believes man and dragon can live in peace, and I am not sure she is wrong. I truly think that, could she actually speak to someone in power – Ser Aymeric, perhaps – some True Change could be made. You cannot tell me you want to fight dragons for Another thousand years!

Perhaps you do.

Perhaps I’ve misjudged and you

I know you will call me Mad. Will say I have lost my Mind. But I am thinking clearly, soberly, and could you but Speak to her – she is an Intelligent Woman. You can be Reasonable. If nothing else, I think the discussion would be Illuminating.

If you don’t just turn her over to your bosses

I have seen what they do [large inkblot]

~Rita

On the reverse of a sketch of an elezen woman in a ball gown:

Avery,

The Sultana of Ul’dah is giving a ball to celebrate Ishgard’s Return to the Eorzean fold, and the Scions are invited! Attached please find a sketch of what I plan to wear; I know not if you can Acquire an invitation, but perhaps if the Stars Align we shall see each other there. You will enjoy the Food, if not the Weather – Ul’dah is Quite Warm, especially if you are not used to it. Fortunately, I am – and I certainly plan to be dressed for it! One can never have Too Much gold, in my opinion. Should we meet, I am looking forward to discussing our Usual Topics in person for once – I have been diligently practicing my Old Gelmorran, but I daresay you shall not laugh if I am less than fluent.

Wish me luck!

~Rita

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 23: suit

Her introduction to Avery Mordeterre had seen him in plain, utterly nondescript grays and browns—the garb of a man who was dressed far more for practicality than for style. Then again, the Inquisitors didn’t pay very well, and even if they did—well, what use did a disgraced ex-noble spy have for nice clothes? (Rita had decided not to mention that he’d probably be a more effective spy if he didn’t look so bloody disreputable. Best not to give him ideas.)

And then he’d decisively quit the Inquisition and been welcomed back into the Temple Knights, and that had been the most pleasant surprise to come out of the horrors of the Vault. But while her opinion of his conscience, morality, and brainpower had improved, her opinion of his clothes hadn’t. Full plate armor was many things. Flattering was not one of them. It was protective, though, and she supposed that was more important. He’d been through a lot already.

And that damnable pride of his meant that he refused to take charity.

(“Avery. Mate. It literally fell out of Sohr Khai, please—”

“My standard-issue armor is fine!”

“So what’re your thoughts on me gettin’ you a nice nameday present, as one friend to another...?”

“That costs more than my rent!”)

Now, she’d be the first to admit—not in Avery’s hearing—that she had something of an ulterior motive. He was, after all, a fine figure of a man, all deep olive skin and red curls and vivid violet eyes. All that archery had turned his shoulders into the sort of thing that should have made sleeves illegal. She might not be strictly interested, but that wasn’t going to stop her from looking in the moments where they actually met face-to-face. Certainly, if she missed him the rest of the time, it was only because he was her friend. Nothing more. She had plenty of other eye candy to eat. It would be silly of her to start pining.

Even if he had the Echo as well. Even if Hydaelyn called him beloved son. Even if, apparently, he’d been thinking enough of her that he was willing to up sticks and attach himself to the Scions when her companions started dropping like flies.

Even if he was proving himself brave and honorable and kind and—

No. She was not doing this.

Even if Lord Aymeric had sent him off in what were definitely, unmistakably, new clothes. The sleeveless vest and sturdy gloves were both dark blue leather, with the sort of gold detailing that could plausibly be either simple decoration or a subtle nod to the colors of what had been his house. What she could see of his trousers was mostly brown, but they were covered by the sort of lightly armored thighboots, popular in Ishgard and among adventurers of all nations, that made anyone’s legs look malms long. She was suddenly very aware that he was a full head taller than her. Forcing her gaze back upwards didn’t help. Again, sleeveless vest. Sleeveless vest that actually fit. His shoulders needed no pauldrons to look that broad.

“...Uh,” she managed finally. “Nice kit.”

Avery frowned at her. “I didn’t think it looked that bad—”

“Oh, that was not sarcasm! It really suits you.” Hastily, she set a hand on his arm, only to remember that most non-Emm Ishgardians weren’t touchy people and just as hastily draw it back.

Now he was blushing, which was not helping the overall effect. It really shouldn’t have been possible for a man she’d first met as a bloody Inquisitor’s lackey to look cute, but somehow he was managing it. It made her want to reach up and tweak some of those loose curls just to see what color he’d turn. She knew she was smiling foolishly, but she couldn’t stop herself. She didn’t want to.

Fuck. Maybe she was doing this.

[ffxiv-swarm]

[ffxiv-swarm]