#the twins de dzemael

[housedeaubemarle]

FFXIV Write 2024 #11: Surrogate

~~

Within signed and sealed parchments stored in one of the vaults of the Holy See, in a counting house belonging to House Vilauclaire, one of Ishgard’s most established families, and the lockbox in the study of Viscount Vouloix de Aubemarle, all dated twenty-four turns ago:

‘By the good will of Halone the Fury, Goddess who guards our righteousness and justice, do I, Vouloix de Aubemarle, Viscount de Aubemarle, hereby declare my only son, Remont de Aubemarle, as rightful heir to the viscountcy, with all the rights, privileges, and dignities thereunto belonging, apart from the legacies I bestow upon my wife, daughter, sisters and other parties.’ 

`

On signed and sealed parchment, with copies stored in the archives of the Holy See, House Dzemael, and the lockbox in the study of Viscount Oudine de Aubemarle, all dated five turns ago:

‘I, Remont de Aubemarle, Viscount de Aubemarle, hereby abdicate the viscountcy, in favour of my twin sister, Oudine de Aubemarle. I relinquish all authority and power of the title of Viscount de Aubemarle along with its rights, privileges and dignities, of my own free will, without coercion or malicious motive. My last act as Viscount is to give my blessing to my sister, Oudine, and proclaim my faith in her who will henceforth lead House Aubemarle with honour, virtue and courage. This I swear in the holy high name of Halone the Fury, Divine Wielder of Spear and Shield, Blessed Bringer of Victory.’

-

end.

[cidnangarlond]

during the bahamut coils where alphinaud and alisaie r like "wow look at all those dragons" it's great having a wol that's ishgardian because reinette (de dzemael) (devout) is like *tugging on the twins' sleeves* "guys can we go"

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #7: Ribbon Games

Prompt: pawn || Master Post || On AO3

A/N: This one didn’t get quite going towards the end I intended for it, but hey, such is writing.

--

Ooooooh, Papa, can we look at those? Roksana said into his right ear, pointing with a paw. Aymeric turned obediently, walking in the direction of the haberdasher that had caught the white pearl carbuncle’s attention. The shopkeep had set up some displays on the street, likely lured outside by the sunny forecast for the next few days, and Aymeric had no doubt it had been the bright colors that had caught Roksana’s attention.

The carbuncle stood carefully balanced on his shoulder, with Amandina tucked into the crook of his arm while she nibbled on the remains of her almond croissant. The twins were still small—water and lightning crystals of the right polarity were still difficult to locate, no matter that Synnove expended a considerable amount of her funding on bounties to coax her fellow adventurers into assisting—but nonetheless were no longer so small that one of them could fit into a pair of cupped hands with ease. His shoulders (and head) were no longer the broad expanse they could bounce atop to their heart’s content, to their sulky pouts the day they had learned they needed to put some effort into riding around on their parents.

That, however, did not mean they did not still act like they were tiny carbunclets.

Roksana leaped from his shoulder with a loud wheeeeeeee! into a basket of ribbons, vanishing into the jumble so deep that only her tails stuck out. The trio of tails wriggled, her fur iridescing between white and blue with the movement, and then she burrowed further down so she could turn and pop her head out, ears flicking in delight, a blue brocade ribbon with sunbursts patterns on it clutched in her month. I like this one, Papa! Could you hold it for me?

“Certainly, sweetheart,” Aymeric said with a laugh, accepting the ribbon from her as she dove back into the basket to look for something else she might prefer instead.

Ooooooh, buttons! Amandina chirped, and stuffed the remainder of her croissant in her mouth, chewing furiously. Aymeric automatically brushed crumbs off her and set her down on the display table, and the black pearl carbuncle bounded over to the button basket, plopping down and happily pawing through the shiny notions.

“Such an attentive caretaker,” a wry drawl echoed from his left, a creeping hint of malice hiding at the edge of the words.

Long years of being inundated by the high society of Ishgardian nobility meant Aymeric didn’t stiffen or flinch, and merely turned his most charming smile, the one Synnove called his shark’s grin, on Mariaute, Countess de Dzemael.

The countess was beginning to grey, bands of steel winging from her temples, a stark contrast against her black hair swept into a simple chignon. She was dramatic in her House colors of grey and red, a cap pinned to her hair crowned with a quartet of red feathers and a pair of silver rooks dangling from her ears. He would have considered her beautiful if it wasn’t for the spark of enmity that lurked in her amber eyes and overshadowed all else about her.

“A pleasure, Countess Mariaute,” he murmured, giving her an etiquette-perfect bow to the spouse of the Head of a High House as due from the Lord Commander of the Temple Knights and the Head of State.

“Ser Aymeric,” she said in turn, curtseying the exact degree to return the salute.

Amandina glanced over her shoulder, ears and tails twitching, and stared for a moment at the elezen matron, before returning to her buttons, pawing at them a little less enthusiastically, one ear turned towards them. Aymeric gave a discreet little flick of her central tail in acknowledgement.

“A fine day for a stroll along the Crozier,” he offered.

“Certainly,” the countess said, turning her gaze to the table of notions—and the carbunclets. “A shame I did not think to ask for my grandchildren to accompany me; I believe they would be as fascinated by these baubles as these two.”

Aymeric kept his smile firmly in place despite his desire to frown. “A spark of color on a beautiful day after the dreariness of snow and fog is always appreciated, especially by the young,” he said.

Roksana chose that moment to pop back out of the ribbon basket, another brocade ribbon carefully held in her mouth, this one emerald with stars picked out in gold and copper. This one, too, please, Papa! she said. Then, noticing the countess, she perked her ears upright and waved one paw. Hi!

Countess Mariaute’s mouth twitched suspiciously. “Hello, little one,” she said.

Aymeric mentally raised his eyebrows as he accepted the ribbon from Roksana. Had she nearly smiled? The Steel Rose of Dzemael?

Roksana ducked back into the basket, and almost immediately returned with yet another brocaded one—she seemed quite fond of the heavy embellishments. The one in her mouth was silver, with scarlet feathers. This one matches your hat! the white carbuncle burbled happily.

“So it does, so it does,” Countess Mariaute said, accepting the ribbon and examining it thoughtfully. “You have an excellent eye, little miss.”

Mommy says I’m a magpie, Roksana said with a cheery ear wiggle. But I know how to use coin for goods and services!

Aymeric coughed to cover a laugh, even as the countess’s mouth twitched again. “Troublemakers, hm?” she said. The malice had vanished, and Aymeric allowed himself to properly relax.

“What children aren’t?” he said dryly. “Especially twins.”

Amandina, meanwhile, had finally made her choices: a set of seven bronze buttons shaped like starbursts, and another set of seven shaped like crescents, the latter set with moonstone chips. May I have these, please, Papa? she said.

“Of course, Amandina,” he said to her, gathering them up and placing them into a small velvet bag from a pile left for customers to place their finds in. “Roksana, are you content with your choices?”

Yes, Papa!

Two loud pops! echoed up and down the street; the countess noticeably startled, but Aymeric had the experience to merely brace himself as Roksana appeared on his right shoulder and Amandina on his left. As he wrapped Roksana’s chosen ribbons around his hand, he said, “My apologies, my lady, but we must be on our way. Have a lovely afternoon.”

“And to you and your girls, Lord Commander,” Countess Mariaute said.

Aymeric hummed thoughtfully as he entered the haberdashery to pay for the twins’ choice of pretties. That was quite possibly the first time he had ever heard the woman refer to the carbuncles in a manner that acknowledged anything familial.

He gave ground to her as she entered the shop on his way out, the girls waving as he bowed. And he couldn’t help but notice, with a smile, that Countess Mariaute still carried the silver-and-scarlet brocade ribbon that Roksana had picked out for her.

Aymeric wondered if, should he run into her on walkabout again, the ribbon would be added to her hat.

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[dragons-ire]

#13 - Oneirophrenia

CW: Death, Depictions of abuse.

Time held little meaning for the dying.

Enguerrand de Dzemael's world had shrunk to his sheets and blankets, the view of the velvet canopy hanging above the bed. Dusty, faded, should have been replaced years ago. When the children had come back they'd shrouded the window against a view. For your rest, Father. One or the other of them said, one pale face or the other leaning down to peer over him.

One of them (the girl?) read the Enchiridion aloud for hours, but the words were unfamiliar, revised, new. One of them (the boy?) sat in silence and gripped his hand with a swordsman's callused strength.

"My Gridanian barbarians." He murmured when he had strength to speak. "My Twin Adders." And they smiled, one or the other, and pretended they were mute like they had before their tutors had coaxed them to speaking.

And they came and went, and came and went. Came less and went more. And when they were gone there was only time. And the sheets and velvet that was now his entire world.

---

Be careful what you keep close. I should hope you know better than to repeat your lord father's...errors.

"Jannisoix, I know. But you know how it looks out here, and it's just not fit that they run around like heathens. No discipline or manners. Trouble enough keeping the girl out of her brothers clothes already so they can get up to mischief..."

Mmm. You ought to watch that when they get older, in both of them.

----

"What is this? It looks like an Ixal wrote it."

A...petition, my lord. From Master Ancelin and his Mistress.

"A petition for - ....oh, nevermind. Has the Count sent his new estimates for how much more excavation...oh, here they are....."

"......"

"...do you know when the boy's due in the yard next? It's been too long since I've gone to see how he's coming along."

--

"All" Our workers lost, you said."

...aye, my lord. The children....

"Oh, just find wherever they've gotten off to and bring them here, I'll tell them myself."

---

A pilgrimage through Daniffen's Pass, my lord, may do the young master well. Settle the restless spirit .I'd like to help him find a.....balance. If you will.

"Thank you, Ser Erembourc. Your council is worth every coin I paid for it."

--

"Look, my girl, I know it's been hard here after your faithless brother abandoned us, but you must understand..."

But I've already gotten sponsorship to the Athaeneum! Please! Let me bring honor to you some other way! Any other way!

----

"The Convictory?! Of all the low places....."

Apparently, my lord. But...no longer. The...ser is on his way back to the Holy See, we've heard. The Knights Dragoon have found him a place.

"Well!, Redeemed himself at the last! Send word to the Observatorium and fetch the girl home. We can go and greet our little prodigal together as a family"

...my lord, there's something you should know.

"...oh. They. Nevermind. I don't want to see either of them. Send no word. Let him spend his holidays alone in the barracks. He can earn his grace dying to the dragons if that's what he wants."

-----

So you've come after all, Enguerrand. I was wondering if it would be you.

"Felice, I - "

---

Enguerrands eyes snapped open as is waking from a dream. His sickroom was uncomfortably hot, the sheets of the bed wrapped around him so tightly. His feeble hands struggled to part them, lifted to brush the soft velvet of the bed's canopy. Had the ratty piece of cloth finally slipped its holdings, fallen at the last?

Down the hall, he could - but faintly - hear the voices of the children. Conspiring again. Always conspiring when they thought noone was paying attention.

---

I can’t believe it’s finally fucking over.

Thank the Fury for small miracles,I guess.

Ref: Twa Corbies

Mentions: @witchespromise

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

[loadedmemory]

Dangerous Liasons: Ishgard Edition.

Note: This entire thing developed pretty organically.  It all began with a joke and snowballed from there.  This post will be updated as more roleplay happens.

Major Players:

Silvestre de Vigneax: The innocent in the center of the storm.  Adopted son of a small house. Breandan Ducaille: Friend of Silvestre, a former dragoon.  Dour of temperament and sharp of tongue.   Brighid Ducaille:  Twin sister to Breandan, recently returned to Ishgard from Sharlayan.  A shrewd woman wise in the ways of scheming nobility. Morianne de Haillenarte:  Noble lady determined to win the bet set by Arelle by seducing Silvestre.  Scheming, smart, but superstitious.   Arelle de Dzemael:  Noble lady determined to win the bet between herself and Morianne.  Lascivious, over indulgent, and totally self unaware.  

Not the Marrying Kind:  Ladies Morianne de Haillenarte and Arelle de Dzemael spot the young lord Silvestre de Vigneaux  during services at the cathedral.  Arelle proposes a bet with her rival and friend: Whoever can manage to seduce the young man into her bed wins.

Center of the Storm: Lady Arelle strikes first, sending a missive to Silvestre as a thinly veiled request he meet her for a discussion about his family’s wine business.  Breandan rightly states that this is an attempt on her part to get far more than his friend wants to give.  Silvestre reacts poorly to this.

Losing One’s Religion: Troubled, and finding himself questioning his faith, Silvestre runs into Brighid at the Forgotten Knight and ends up spilling the entire tale to her.  Incensed, Brighid reassures him, and offers to help by speaking with the lady.  Silvestre also decides to speak to his liege lord.  Both of their thoughts are conflicting in the aftermath.  Brighid wondering why she was helping, while Silvestre can’t keep her smile from his thoughts.

An Intervention:  While Silvestre has an audience with his liege lord, Brighid takes a more direct approach.  She meets with Lady Arelle, using Ishgardian traditions to ensure the lady’s embarrassment should she continue to harangue Silvestre.

Setting the Trap:  With Lady Arelle dealt with, Morianne strikes. She ‘accidentally’ meets with Silvestre in the cathedral, disarming him with lies and false piety.  Silvestre, having a crisis of faith, is easily drawn in by her words.

Little Things:  Morianne schemes, but small things begin to happen that make her question her own sanity.  She attempts to assuage her growing anxiety by blaming her maidservants, though it isn’t quite working.  

Six Words:  Finally admitting to himself he has feelings for Brighid, Silvestre formally approaches Breandan to ask permission to court her.  He immediately regrets this, though his old friend is not entirely against the idea.  Breandan suddenly realizes the serious implication the two of them courting could have should Lady Arelle ever hear of it.  He tells Silvestre he must speak to Brighid for her opinion on the matter.  

Ring Around the Moon: Silvestre feels he’s made a fool of himself asking to court Brighid.  Stumbling home through the snow, he slips and falls and wonders if Halone is punishing him.  Then a voice calls his name, offering him succor inside her home.

It Hurt: The following morning, Silvestre finds that he is reinstated as a Dragoon at last and takes to the rooftops with an injury not quite healed inflamed.  Morianne ponders her attempts the previous night, and plots her next move.

Discoveries: Breandan, while out shopping for friends, takes a diversion into the winery owned by Silvestre’s father, Guillaume.  Feigning interest in his old friend’s knowledge of scripture, he learns that Silvestre has since been reinstated among the dragoons.  Prematurely.  It takes a little coin handed over to a kitchen knife to find out the truth of it, which only leads to more questions.

Interlude: With a moment to actually think, Brighid ponders why she’s even returned to Ishgard, how can she sever the last ties that bind her to life in Ishgard and what her motivations truly were when it came to Silvestre.

In Bloom: Breandan sits down for a conversation with Brighid and tells her about Silvestre’s intent.  But the subject swiftly changes to the bet between Morianne and Arell and how best to deal with them.  Breandan makes an offer to help his sister.

Cold, Haliey, Windy Night:  Breandan visits with Lady Morianne, attempting to further his sister’s schemes. However, the lady is far more clever than either of them anticipated, leading to a disastrous turn of events. 

Consequences:  The Lady Eliane waits for her tutor. And waits. And waits.  His absence leads her to question her feelings, and who she can trust.  (Side story, but as it adds to Breandan’s story, we’ll include it here.)

Out of the Shadows:  Silvestre realizes he cannot hide forever, and comes down from the rooftops where he’s been watching over the city.  The wound in his side has still not healed.  

Misstep:  Brighid waits for word from her brother.  But his absence suggests something has gone awry.  Concerned, she goes searching for him, propriety be damned.

Ghost: Breandan found at last, Silvestre contemplates the fury that consumed him on learning of Morianne's true motivations and how her schemes had nearly killed Breandan.

Out of the Darkness: Breandan takes a little time for self care in the aftermath of his near death experience.  And considers his motivations for remaining in Ishgard.

Conviction:  Brighid plots revenge on the woman who nearly killed her brother and brought harm to a good man.

The Ultimatum: Fresh from a visit with Brighid that shown a little light of happiness on them both, Morianne finds him and makes her ultimatum: Bed her or risk the final dearth of his family.

Haunted: Brighid exacts her revenge in spectacular fashion.

Denouement:  A Durendaire lord has a warning for Arelle Dzemael, and the ultimate fate of Morianne.

The end.

Breandan belongs to @geimhleag, Brighid belongs to @witchespromise, Silvesetre belongs to @loadedmemory.  Arelle and Morianne are NPCs. (Eliane belongs to @tea-and-conspiracy.)

[write-on-my-wayward-author]

Final Fantasy XIV High school A!U

So, my real life girlfriend and I came up with the best idea for an alternate universe ever. I know a lot of fandoms have made High School A!U’s, but you haven’t seen a Classroom Reborn. This is really long so it's under the cute.

 So, let's go over roles.

Principal: Aymeric De Borel Vice Principal: Estinien Wyrmblood Principal Secretary: Lucia goe Junius P.E. Teacher/Basketball & football Coach: Rauhbaun Oceanography teacher/Girl’s Soccer coach: Meyrlweb Biology teacher: Kan-E-Sanne P.E. Assistant: Lyse Hext  English teacher: Thancred Waters Geography Teacher: Urianger School nurse: Y’Sthola Geology teacher: Minfillia (bad joke I know) Librarian: Papalymo Science teacher: Moenbyrda Foreign Language Teacher/Karate coach: Yugiri Political Science teacher: Nanamo World History: Gosetsu Eorzean History: Louisioux Algebra teacher: Cid Garlond Home Economy: Lyngash Janitors: Biggs and Wedge Cafeteria Lady: Tataru Music teacher: Jehantel Archery Coach: Luciane School Counselor: Haurcehfant  Fencing coach: X’rhun Tia

Now it’s not Freshman, Sophomores, Juniors, and Seniors. No. it’s Immortal Flames (freshmen), Twin Adder (sophomores) Maelstrom (juniors) and Ishgardians (seniors).  And during school spirit week, it’s a bitch. Poor Aymeric hates spirit week because of the pranks between classes. At one point some Ishgardians broke in during Tropical day and turned the AC down and poured water on the floors and let it freeze overnight so it was ice in the morning. Another day they all came to school and it was covered in vines and flowers to where no one could get in. At one point the Maelstrom flooded the bottom layer of the school and rowed a boat down the hallway singing “Sea Swallows All!!” and another time they hacked the sound system and the bells to dismiss classes were turned into canon fires. The immortal flames dumped marbles in the gym and spilled them into the hallway and called them jewels and also during a between classes they grabbed swords and shields and fought in the hallways. Needless to say, Principal Aymeric drinks a lot of tea in his office. 

It’s not just the classes pit against each other either. The senior hallway is ruled by the four Ap Houses of Ishgard. The House Fortemps is over AP History, House Hailenarte is over AP English, House Dzemael is over AP Math, and House Durendaire is over AP Science. Each year whichever of the four subjects has the best AP scores, that is the flag that is flown in the senior hallway the next year until the next AP test rolls around.

Alphinaud is the captain of the Academic Team, Allisaie is the star fencer, and Hein is the popular kid who is the ringleader of most pranks.The rival schools are the Garleans and Ascians along with their warriors of darkness which are the best students in their respective sports or classes. If you want to insert your own character you can. Taashiel is a track star and archery kid who is constantly trying to get sent to the principle’s office and has a crush on the english teacher. 

But yeah, that's what we come up with for High School Fantasy XIV: A classroom reborn! Tell me what you think or if you wanna add more! 

[ishgard-confessions]

A Letter to the Lady

@scrollsfromarebornrealm

"To the gracious Lady Riven of House Pendragon, loyal vassal to the Most High House of Fortemps, dear madame:

My good friend. I am overjoyed at the news of your children's healthy birth. For many of Ishgard and myself personally, the sight of such a thing is a welcome diversion from the harshness of the world and a sure sign of hope from Our Lady the Fury above---and you had given the world TWO precious babes, making that very day even more blessed. I regretted that I was not there to bear witness or able to perform the consecration rites, but the artwork you sent to me had utterly crushed such ill feelings. Though I do owe you an explanation...

My aforementioned absence is result of my freelance enlistment with the Order of the Immortal Flames, which has deployed me to the rocky mountains and sunbaked mesas of Gyr Abania. You remember that I was once enlisted before my return to Ishgard after being separated from the Holy See in childhood for many years, but I have not yet confessed my sympathies with the Rebellion. In bearing witness to many of the injustices within the city of Ul'dah, the deplorable conditions of the camps outside its walls and the riots such things caused, I did always feel I had owed the Ala Mhigans their reconstitution.

But I would be a liar if I did not confess a mutual feeling of theirs...

To have our nation under siege for a thousand years and be liberated by the greater part of Eorzea---knowing all the death and suffering it caused---and stand idle as yet another oppressed nation continues its struggle would be a graven offense in the eyes of Halone. With our liberation, there is no longer any excuse to refuse aid to our neighbors.

Should your good brother or the soldiers of Fortemps be sent to the Front, I can be found amongst the Immortal Flames 4th Auxiliary Regiment under Captain Kale Aideron. Beside me in battle are the soldiers of House De'bayle, those of the Maelstrom Command, the Twin Adders and a host of Ala Mhigan Revolutionaries. Soon, I hope that Gyr Abania will have the same luxuries we ourselves have had within the past few years.

Sincerely yours,

Father Laurentoix Beaujolais de Dzemael Deacon of the Most Orthodox Holy See of Ishgard

[housedeaubemarle]

FFXIV Write 2024 #30: Two Heads are Better than One

~~

Six summers ago, at a particular soiree:

“Those’re the Aubemarle twins then?”

“Hah! Sooner call Dzemael and Haillenarte twins than those two. Not saying you have to be mirrors of each other but the colouring could stand to be more consistent.”

“Characters are none like too - one's running round Ishgard probably fathering a million bastards, the other's got legs crossed so tight it gives me a headache to look at her.”

“You sure ‘bout that last one? The way they hover round each other, she might well have opened them up for brother dearest-”

“Whhsst, not so loud, you idiot.”

Across the hall, one half of the Aubemarle twins fans herself gently, making sure her pleasant smile isn't obscured in any way as she does so. Half an eye is kept on one of the gentlemen conversing some distance from her, his grins and laughter not subtle to those who'd had the displeasure of his company. Which she'd experienced, just a sennight before when she'd accompanied the viscount to a meeting at House Dzemael.

She turns her head to the young man who comes up to her, and hands her a glass of punch. In his other hand is a similar glass. “Gaspard de Nogelois and his ilk were so busy repeating the most ludicrous rumours about us, he didn't even notice who was walking behind them.”

She accepts the drink, turning her eyes towards him, ever smiling. “Hardly surprising considering how Lord Nogelois embarrassed himself in the meeting with Papa, right before Count Tarreson. I doubt the younger Nogelois would be in much of a charitable mood.”

Her brother grins slightly. “You don't think our father did the embarrassing?”

A twinkle steals into her grey eyes at that. “Our father? Embarrass the house who claimed they couldn't possibly spare anymore gil to fortify the Congregation, yet commissioned a new wing to their manor? He would never be so gauche.”

He chuckles. “No, of course not.” He sips the punch and keeps smiling. “You know, Dine, allusions are one thing, but to be so direct is surely worth some form of response.”

She raises an eyebrow. “No brawling, no slander. Mamma will never forgive you for such mortification.”

“She would never forgive us for letting this go unanswered either.”

She lets out a breath. That much is also true; neither of their parents are in attendance tonight (hence her brother's uncommon appearance) which means it is left to them to decide their next course of action. “What did you have in mind?”

He grins widely at her. “I think we should redouble our mingling – Lady Gaelle and her posse have been hinting at me for a conversation, so I’ll head over and lament the ill treatment of my virtuous, upstanding sister. I’m sure the ladies will be more than happy to be loudly sympathetic if I exert myself enough. Perhaps you might like to wander in Lord Paulecrain’s direction; I hear he’s curious about the meeting but hasn’t been told much. Such pearls of wisdom that fall from your lips are bound to be taken more seriously. And repeated more often.”

She throws him a very sharp look, then shakes her head. “If Lady Gaelle’s husband calls you out, I will refuse to intervene, so I warn you, Rem. Within reason please; these tactics lose their potency if we use them too often.”

“Yes, but they also should be used when reason demands it,” he replies with his own meaningful look. 

The siblings share a silent exchange – almost an argument – before Oudine snorts, dropping the look she's aimed at him. “Very well.”

With a grin, Remont raises his glass in her direction. His sister duly clinks hers against it. “To triumph, my twin.”

“In totality, my twin.”

They each take a swig, then neatly depart, one to the left, the other to the right, off to set the ballroom (socially) alight.

-

end.

[starcunning]

Night Watch

An expansion and reworking of a snippet I sent to friends at 1 AM some weeks ago. (I do this a lot. “Nightfall”--which this precedes--was born of one of these, too.) Adult situations and MSQ spoilers ahead!

This story contains MSQ spoilers for FFXIV Patch 4.5, “Requiem for Heroes.”

When she had finished with him, she laid down beside him on the airship’s hull. The stars stretched from horizon to horizon overhead, brighter than she had ever seen. There was the rustle of cloth as he tucked himself away, and the sound of a zipper; she wiped her lips with the back of her hand and stared upward with a sigh.

All at once she got the impression that she was the wrong twin. It should have been her sister laid out beside the Black Wolf, cermite at her back and the firmament before her eyes.

Odette was not certain if this was her conclusion or Gaius’s; if she had not owned it a moment before it was hers to keep forever afterward. The ache in her chest was paralyzing. She should sit up, she knew; she should stand and cross to the hatch and descend back into the belly of the ship. Gaius Baelsar could weather a night watch alone.

But she did not trust her legs, under the circumstances, and so she lingered. His feelings were not settled, either—she could not help but get some sense of him, owing to the dubious blessings of light, and he was glad to see her. But still, she was not her sister, and never would be.

Odette turned her head to regard him. Seiryu’s Wall cast a pale blue glow over the scene; with his body betwixt her and the generators, the light traced only the rim of his profile, leaving his familiar features in shadow.

Sadness. That was what afflicted her now, settling in her chest like a leaden weight. Shouldn’t that have been easier to identify? She was familiar enough with the emotion, not least of all after recent events. But that did not fully encompass all she felt. True, she mourned a little what was no longer to be, betwixt her and Gaius—but she mourned it like a little bird, who had sung so prettily once and would not lift its voice to that melody now nor ever again. What she felt was nowhere near as light as birdsong, nor as its absence.

Something else, then.

“I wish to ask you something, Baelsar,” she said, before even she was aware of her intent to speak. “Have I earned that privilege?” Gaius turned his head to regard her. The motion cast his face in shadow, looking upon hers in light. “You may ask,” he said. “Your rights do not extend so far as to the expectation of an answer, just the same.” She closed her eyes, as though she could not bear to look upon what came next. “Have you ever been in love?” He said nothing. She could hear his breathing, feel the roiling of his emotions beneath the surface of his flame-scarred skin. The silence extended on a while, underlaid by the low hum of the magitek generators some yalms away. “This is not a question I ask in hope,” she added, opening her eyes. “Good, for you would be disappointed,” Baelsar said. A curious answer, she could not help but note—in that it was no answer at all to the question she had actually asked.

Guilt, she realized, slipping into it like a tailored jacket. That was a more apt name for the feeling that pinned her limbs. The guilt of having taken from her sister’s plate—yes, that was part of it, but not all. She could not compass the rest of it in Baelsar’s presence, and did not wish to try.

“I don’t believe I have ever been in love,” Odette said. “I am always sure to leave ere there’s any danger of that.” “There are worse strategies that strategic retreat,” the Black Wolf told her. “It has been put about that I am broken by this incapability.” His snort was derisive, dismissive—and not meant for her, she realized. “Look at all you have accomplished, girl,” he implored her. “Even set against one another, I could not deny what you had wrought. Let them call us broken, if they call us broken.” And they had, she knew instantly. “Wolves need not concern themselves with the opinions of sheep.”

She should thank him, she knew, but gratitude did not settle any more easily upon her than had guilt. Instead, she said something else: “I think we should not do this any longer.” There was a smallness in her voice. “That might be best,” Gaius Baelsar agreed dispassionately. Then he said, “I can finish the night watch alone.”

The sharp sting of dismissal should have compounded the weight upon her, but she felt it like spurs instead, and let it drive her to her feet. But it was not the crew hatch she found herself drawn toward; rather she dared the curve of the hull until she could jump, safely, landing on the soft white sands below.

Odette got the sense, even then, that this was a ritual she was bound to repeat for as long as the three of them remained in the Burn. She put Seiryu’s Wall to her right, and began to walk.

[starcunning]

I’ve learned that faith is lovely // But never goes as planned //If you want something done // Take it into your own hand (from 'Redacted' by ShortOneGaming)

[listen]

Odette! de! Dzemael!

Odette’s a newer OC of mine, and I’m not sure I’ve posted much of anything to do with her here, save for the commission that came back to me and Fina last night. So here’s the brief version: Odette and her twin sister, Colette, are the Warrior of Light. Singular?

They share one Echo, one Blessing of Light--when one of them has a vision, both are affected, no matter how far apart. They were both raised as devout daughters of Ishgard, raised to service of the Fury and the Church, but Ishgard is an isolationist nation, unconcerned with Eorzea’s problems because they have their own (dragons, mostly). That wasn’t really working for the twins de Dzemael, so they left home to save home. Who else would, right? They rely on no one but one another, for good or for ill.

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV: A Touch of Midnight

Wolmeric Week #5: Home

A/N: OKAY THIS SHOULDN’T MAKE ANYONE CRY. \o/

Day 1 || Day 2 || Day 3 || Day 4 || Day 5 || Day 6 || Day 7 || Bonus!

RATING: G WORD COUNT: 1512 WARNINGS: None! Cross-posted to AO3

---

Near to midnight and Borel Manor was still and quiet, the only sound the steady ticking of the grandfather chronometer that sat in the entrance foyer and could be heard in nearly every room of the building. Hersande and Baptistaux had kept a few oil lamps on for her, creating a small illuminated path up to the master bedroom, and Synnove smiled softly as she picked up the lamp on the pier table next to the front doors.

The carbuncles rubbed against her legs—Tyr her hip, Ivar her knee, Galette her shin, and the twins her ankles—and then beelined right for the stairs in a mass of softly glowing aetheric fur and tails. As Ivar bounded upstairs first, Galette picked up a yawning Roksana while Tyr gently scruffed Amandina, who took the opportunity as she dangled to rub her eyes with her paws before ascending after their ruby brother. Their summoner followed more sedately, turning off the remaining lamps as she passed, carefully grasping the bannister as she climbed upward.

Her quintet of children quietly chittered their goodnights to her (poor little Roksana’s aetheric harmonic came out a barely intelligible mumble, and Amandina’s was broken by the huge yaaaaawn her jaw cracked on), and then headed further down the hall to their room. Synnove blew a kiss after them and turned for the master bedroom, undoing the toggles of her jacket as she walked. When she reached the door, she grasped the handle and gently turned it, then pushed the door open slowly so the hinges wouldn’t creak in protest. For all the oiling Baptistaux did, age and the cold still conspired to the render the manor potentially loud in the middle of the night.

But tonight, the door swung open smoothly with barely a whisper, and she slid inside, setting the lamp on an end table and her pack on the floor next to her vanity. As she slid her jacket off, carefully draping it over the vanity’s matching chair, she turned towards the bed, another smile on her face—and blinked, her brow furrowing.

…Where was Aymeric?

Her eyes darted around the shadowed bedroom as she thought. It was—it was definitely Fireday, and her knight was supposed to be focused on Parliamentary matters this week instead of military. He had even groused to her about his upcoming meeting with the Counts de Durandaire and Dzemael—his least favorite combination of the Heads of the High Houses—and Master Aucheforne of the House of Commons over their linkpearl at lunch. Even if he forgot to call her again if he was kept late, Norlaise would absolutely tattle on him, so Aymeric should be home, but there was no handsome elezen waiting for her in their bed.

A quiet but firm mew got her attention.

Synnove looked down to meet the solemn blue gaze of Lady Crème. The Ala Kharan queen sat primly at her feet, long fluffy tail curled demurely over her paws, and mewed again, insistently.

She crouched down and gently brushed her knuckles between the cat’s ears. “Good evening, my lady,” she crooned. “Could you tell me where your most devoted servant is?”

Lady Crème squinted her eyes shut for a moment, accepting the attention as her due, and then headbutted her hand and stood, padding gracefully from the room. Synnove turned off the oil lamp and obediently followed.

The true lady of Borel Manor led her down the hall—quite dark now, but the white of Lady Crème’s fur was a beacon that kept her from unintentionally veering off course and stubbing her toes—in the opposite direction of the carbuncles’ room, and came to a stop next to the stairs leading up to the third floor. Synnove sighed, shaking her head, and bent down to gently heft the Ala Kharan cat into her arms. “Oh, dear,” she murmured to Lady Crème, “it must have been a bad day.”

Lady Crème mrowled her agreement, and softly papped her cheek with a paw.

As with many Ishgardian noble houses, Borel Manor had been built up rather than out, a specific luxury for the families who had claimed plots in open air, a rarity now even in the Pillars. And the Borels had always been a relatively small family; for the past two generations, it was the first and second floors that saw the most use—even Hersande and Baptistaux’s bedroom was on the second floor, in a discreet corner easily accessed by the back staircase down to the kitchens and stillroom—with the third floor opened only if more guest rooms were necessary. The fourth floor was the attic space, with some spillover storage rooms on the third, and but it had been up there that she and Aymeric had worked to convert one of the attics into a cozy little hideaway when they needed more privacy, or quiet.

Synnove tucked Lady Crème more firmly into the crook of her arm and ascended the stairs to the third floor, then walked down the hallway and turned into another to reach the stairs up to the attics. (Not for the first time, she cursed whichever Borel ancestor had so thoroughly torn apart the manor interior and arranged the stairwells at the ends of whichever halls they had wanted.) The fourth-floor landing was claustrophobic, utterly pitch black, but small enough at least that flailing out her free hand had it smacking into the door of the refurbished attic. Hissing at the lance of pain from her unhappy knuckles, she slid her hand along the door until she found the handle and could pull the latch.

Dimmed light spilled out onto the landing, the attic’s new lightning-crystal powered chandelier turned to its lowest setting. It was more than enough for her purpose, at least, and Synnove stepped inside, shutting the door behind her with a soft click.

Immediately visible, in the comfortable alcove bed on the opposite end of the room, was Aymeric, back to the door, shoulders rigid with tension. A sympathetic hiss escaped her lips, and she carefully set Lady Crème on the floor. The old queen chirped and sat, beginning to wash her paw, as the Highlander tiptoed closer to the alcove.

Synnove leaned over Aymeric, reaching out to gently brush her fingers through his hair. Her knight grunted and cracked a bloodshot eye open to look at her; pain lines radiated from the corners of his eyes and mouth, and he was unusually pale. She made another sympathetic, a croon this time, and very carefully crawled over him into the alcove bed, laying down on her side and cupping his cheek.

“Oh, darling,” she said sadly, pitching her voice as low as possible without having to resort to a raspy whisper that would just grate on his ears, “how long have you had this migraine?”

“Mid-afternoon,” Aymeric said, grimacing and very, very slowly, began to ilm closer to her. “It began as a regular headache, but it exploded after my meeting ended. Was able to come home early, and I came up here to attempt to sleep it off.”

“Didn’t go well, I see,” Synnove murmured, wiggling the rest of the way forward until her knight could shove his face into her neck with a gusty sigh. She threw one arm around his shoulder and dug her fingers into the base of his neck, and wedged the other arm beneath his head as a makeshift pillow while threading those fingers into his hair and slowly petting his head. Aymeric groaned, partially relaxing into her hold.

“Was stupid,” he muttered. “Should have eaten first, especially since it was Baptistaux and Hersande’s night off. Woke up a bell or two ago, I think; couldn’t move. Hurt too much.”

She kissed his forehead and cuddled him closer, continuing to massage and stroke his head in the spots that usually helped release some of the tension. Her poor Aymeric; he’d likely need to take the day tomorrow to finish recovering. He rarely had a migraine this bad, but it was always awful when they struck, and so far, they had proved infuriatingly resistant to potions.

A trill caught her attention, and Lady Crème leapt into the alcove, landing so lightly the bedding didn’t dip at all. She sniffed curiously at Aymeric’s hair, and Synnove felt her beloved twitch—and then Lady Crème very gently draped herself atop Aymeric’s head (and Synnove’s hand), curling her paws under herself, and began purring ferociously.

Aymeric made a noise of surprise, and then an enormous sigh of aching relief escaped him, warming her throat and clavicles as he turned into boneless mush in her arms. Synnove smiled and worked her hand free so she could lay it on Lady Crème’s back while the other now pet the top of her knight’s spine.

“Good girl,” she said to the cat, who squinted her blue eyes shut at the compliment.

“Thank you both,” Aymeric said with a yawn.

“Welcome, darling.”

Mrowl.

And together, both of the Lord Commander’s ladies lulled him into a comfortable sleep.

[loadedmemory]

Silvestre materialized back in Foundation, standing close to the main Aetheryte.  He sucked in a lungful of cold air and sighed it back out in a white stream.  Far too long in Ishgard, he realized.  The suns of Ul’dah or Gyr Abania set to melt him when he visited either locale.  

Tugging his jacket closed, he pondered the day previous.  Conversations replayed in his head.  Valka, Breandan, the way she looked at him when she viewed his aether aura.  The loss of memory after that.  Breandan said Valka drank him under the table.  He decided to play along with that, it felt better than simply having a block of time missing again.  

“Lord Vigneaux,” a voice said in greeting.

Silvestre’s thoughts fizzled.  He raised his eyes, looking into the wizened face of Inquisitor Jannisoix de Dzemael.  Still dressed in his ecclesiastical garments, his staff used more for walking now than waving.   He noted a slight hunch in his back, age beginning to weigh him down.  But his eyes were sharp as knives, gazing up at the taller dragoon thoughtfully.

“Inquisitor,” Silvestre replied, “Tis been some time since last we met.”

The elder man nodded, his voice conversational as he asked, “How fares your father as of late? I so rarely see him in services these days.”

Ishgard had a certain chill to it, one that its denizens eventually grew accustomed to.  But the eyes of an inquisitor, those froze a man where he stood.  Silvestre was aware that his father had stopped attending services, though they never discussed why. 

“It’s his hip,” Silvestre replied evenly, “Tis difficult for him to travel across Foundation to the Cathedral.  He takes his prayers at home in our chapel, I assure you.  And Father Yentasent visits as often as he is able.”

Jannisoix’s head bobbed a few times as he listened, though Silvestre wasn’t sure he accepted the excuse or not.  “Ah, I shall say a prayer for his health tonight.”

“Thank you, Inquisitor.  I’m sure he’ll be warmed by your concern.”

Silvestre considered the conversation ended, but the smaller man remained in his path, still regarding him with that keen gaze of his.  “How is your friend... what was the man’s name, Breandan Ducaille?”

“Ser Ducaille is fine last I saw him, sir.”  Silvestre’s hackles rose at the abrupt change in subject.  He knew Jannisoix from services, but Breandan’s name never came up between them before.

“Well, he is a ward of my house is he not? Do not be so surprised I am concerned for his welfare.”  

Jannisoix’s smile revealed his teeth, yellowed with the years.  It reminded Silvestre of Thaldurst’s gape toothed smile, just before the dragon’s jaws snapped shut on his arm and nearly tore it off.  

“No, I suppose not,” he said cautiously, “But all the same, last I saw him, he was fine.”

“Good, good. Well don’t let me keep you, child.  I look forward to seeing you and your mother next service.”

Silvestre stepped around him, only feeling the cold knot in the pit of his stomach fade once he had space between them again.  “Of course, Inquisitor.  Halone bless you.”

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

Jannsoix watched the fleeing dragoon’s back until he had crossed the bridge, disappearing into the city proper.  The elder inquisitor squinted, a sharp reminder of his age, and that he’d forgotten his monocle in his office.  

He traveled back to the family estate, leaving behind footprints in the snow.  The snowsweeps wouldn’t come anywhere near him.  Even after so much fuss over the teachings, many did not dare cross an inquisitor’s path willingly.  He walked with purpose, even as he felt the weight of time on his spine, and the cold settling into his bones to curl them.

Once home, he dismissed the servant at the door.  He heard his wife somewhere in her parlor, and ignored her.  Straight to his study, the door closed behind him and locked from outside interference.  Outside the wind picked up, rattling the window sashes.  He set a few more logs in the fire, then lit a candle at his desk before picking up his quill, dipping it into the inkwell.

He had pages worth of information.  Comings and goings. Suspected sins and crimes.  Associates.  Witnesses he could call on.  And those he dare not, but recorded his observations of them anyway.   

It was on this page that he wrote of his latest encounter.  The candle flickered with a draft, the wind somehow whistling in through a crack in the window seam.  He ignored it, handwriting flowing across the page.  He made sure to jot down everything he observed.  The way the dark skinned dragoon’s face turned ashen when questioned.  His hesitancy.  Clear signs of sin.  Of an illicit relationship.  One he suspected for quite some time, but only now felt absolutely certain of it.

When he finally finished, the last period of the last sentence, he blew the ink dry and read over what he’d written.  He nodded to himself, satisfied, and closed it with a solid thump.

It would be a warm spring day in Coerthas before he let those heretical twins inherit anything that belonged to the Dzemaels.  Enguerran’s folly in fostering them needed rectifying. 

And he was the man to do it.

@geimhleag, @witchespromise

[starcunning]

11 kiss for temple nights

11. “I almost lost you” kiss

Ishgard was much as Odette remembered it. If the opinion of Haurchefant Greystone de Fortemps was to be believed, Odette was much as Ishgard remembered her, too—in the rare cases that she was remembered at all.

Not but a sennight before she had sat in the Camp Dragonhead Intercessory, trying to divine whether or not Aymeric was one of those that recalled her. He had given no sign as he and Alphinaud debated back and forth, and although she had done her best to pay attention to their sophistry, it had proved an impossibility.

Much as it had proved an impossibility in the days after to think of anything else. The Scions’ business should have taken her to and fro, but Colette had all but shoved her twin across the Steps of Faith and bade her take care of her personal business lest it distract her in some crucial moment.

If they did not recognize her, neither did they stop her as she strode toward the seat of the Lord Commander. There was a surety in her step—certainly he would see her. He always had. Still, she paused to knock, and after a moment the door opened.

Aymeric was resplendent in blue. She always had liked it on him—it was a lucky coincidence that his house’s colors so suited him. The crimson of House Dzemael did not wear half so well on Odette, and she had envied him when they had attended formal occasions. There was a look of surprise upon his face, and then it softened.

“Odette,” he said, and then he cleared his throat. “Is aught amiss? I had been told all was well in Mor Dhona.”“It is,” she told him. “May I come in?”He nodded, stepping back from the door. “Of course. It’s wonderful to see you again.”

That was exactly what he had said a sennight before. He had kissed her hand and then left thereafter, and although Odette had gotten used to the idea that most of her old friends didn’t remember her at all after the Calamity, it had been harder to countenance the thought that his recall had been incomplete.

Odette closed the door behind herself, and searched his face for any trace of expression that might give him away one way or the other. She found none. “Do you recall,” she said after a moment, “the midwinter masque just before my grandfather abdicated his counthood?”Aymeric nodded. “We all dressed as saints that year,” he said. “Well, the four of us.”“What else do you recall from that evening?” Odette prompted.He glanced aside, clearing his throat. Though Aymeric’s expression never lost its composure, she could not help but note the tips of his ears had tinged pink.“Ah,” Odette said. “So you do remember.”“How could I forget?” he asked, voice low and throaty.Odette pursed her lips. “The world entire had forgotten me, and you seemed not to recall our shared history.”He fixed his blue, blue eyes upon her. “Forgive me,” he said. “I had not meant to give you such a poor impression.”She said nothing, only looked at him, and hoped her face did not give her away. It would never do, Maman had taught her, to allow a man to see how much she longed for him.

“Of course I remember, Odette,” he said. “With my last breath I will remember, I do not doubt.”“But you gave no sign.”He laughed, and there was a desperate edge to it. “I warred with myself over it,” he admitted. “But what sign could I have given that would not have led me to find myself in a compromising position in Lord Haurchefant’s office?”Odette grinned. “I do not think you know Lord Haurchefant very well,” she told him. “Regardless, we are in your office now. Do you trust this lock as well as your old one?”

It was not just his ears that were flushed then, she had the pleasure of noting in the scant few seconds it took him to close the gap between them. He took his face in her hands and lifted her mouth to his. The kiss was gentle—he always was—but urgent, and in the meeting of their lips Odette felt not just the years that had passed for her since she left Ishgard, but the five more he had endured that she did not recall. If she was guarded about her longing, he did not care to be so, for she felt it in the heat of him and saw it in his eyes when he drew back at last.“Yes,” he murmured, and leaned down to kiss her again.

[starcunning]

24. Unctuous

A look all veiled in blue

For @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast’s FFXIVWrite 2019. [Title] [AO3 mirror]

She could at least walk to the tea room under her own power. That was a mercy, though Odette still favored the ankle she had twisted some few days before. Still, she dared not wear white as she was accustomed to, dressed instead in a wine-red gown that might not show so obviously if her wounds reopened. As was their wont.

Perhaps instead it was her wont to reopen them.

The servant who announced her was too obsequious for her liking—but then everyone in the house was either unctuous or callous, sometimes by turns. Maman’s influence, she did not doubt. Besides, there was no need to bow and scrape; Odette knew who her caller was. She had only had the one visitor throughout all of her convalescence. Guillaume had written, and a few had sent flowers, but none of them came in person, though she had briefly allowed herself to entertain such hopes about Rielle.

Aymeric de Borel stood, hands clasped gently behind his back, always attentive but somehow more alive when he looked upon her. “Odette,” he said, with such warmth that it could have melted the frost from windowpanes even in Halone’s own moon. “Lord Speaker,” she greeted him in turn, and if he was stung by her formality he did not show it.

Instead he merely crossed to pull out her chair, offering a hand she refused to take as she settled into it. Odette dismissed the servant with a wave. Winter sunlight streamed in through the windows, glittering on his earring and the pin in his cravat. For a moment she was abashed; the fullness of her splendor was too much to endure getting on with while she was yet recovering, but he had seen her with sweat upon her brow and poppy’s milk in her veins. The thought was less comfort than she hoped, reflecting on it.

“I am pleased to see your recovery progressing,” he said. “Not as swiftly as I’d hoped,” she admitted. “Nor the rest of the world, I imagine.” His smile was pained, and for a moment Odette thought he would ask her to come and stay with him again. She had considered the offer—not the first time he made it, but the second or third, when she remembered what troubled her in this house. She even had the sense that in some fevered state she had said yes, but perhaps that was only a dream. If she had, he had waited for her to acknowledge it first, and it bore no mention for her. He spoke not, in the end. Instead his fingers brushed a small box on the table, wrapped in glossy blue paper.

The maid came then with the tea service, and laid saucer, cup, and spoon before them. Aymeric smiled gently at her. “I’ll pour,” he said. “Thank you.” “Of course,” she said, her tone syrupy. She curtsied to him, and then to Odette. “My lady.” Then she withdrew, never turning away, and Odette found herself annoyed all over again. “Why do they do that?” she wondered. Aymeric chuckled a little to himself, and it was only then she realized the thought had escaped her lips. He took the teapot in his hands, and tipped it to pour a measure into her cup. As he poured for himself, he said, “You are a hero a hundred times over, and nearly gave your life in the defense of Ishgard and her allies. Why would they not?” “It’s not as though they’re sincere,” Odette noted with dismay, stirring a lump of sugar into her tea. “Why wouldn’t they be?” he asked, drizzling birch syrup into his cup. Odette rolled her eyes. “Maman is not happy,” she said. “She’s concerned about the scar, of course.” “So she would rather a picturesque daughter than a valiant one?” She could not help but laugh at that. “Always. Don’t you recall how unhappy she was when I chose to pursue service with the Temple Knights?” “I had hoped that might have changed, given everything else that has.” Aymeric frowned. “Estellise de Dzemael does not change,” Odette said; “she merely waits for the world to conform to her expectations.”

She could feel his concern, and the resignation that challenged it, though it would not yield. That was her gift, and her curse; she wanted to flee the room rather than abide one moment more in his pity. But she swallowed the impulse with her next sip of tea, and with it went her own reactions. It was unseemly for her to be afraid. She could not be angry instead, nor cold—it would never be winter in her heart for him, whatsoever she might wish—and so she elected instead to be greedy.

“But what’s this you’ve brought me?” she prompted, gesturing to the package beside his hand. “Ah,” he said. “A gift.” He offered it up to her, and she set her cup and saucer aside a moment to set it before her. She picked open the white ribbons and carefully unfolded the blue paper, laying it aside—whole but creased—to look upon his gift.

In one small box she found a lacquered wooden pen and a half-dozen replacement nibs; another held a triad of small bottles of ink and a block of sealing wax. The last wooden box was large enough to hold letters, and it nearly did—envelopes and stationary folded to nest neatly. Letters in waiting. Atop them was a small silver charm. It looked like an envelope, and would fit neatly on her chatelaine. She opened it to find stamps, printed with etchings of flora from the Churning Mists. She laid them out in front of her. There she espied the Seventh Heaven blossom, and there a kupo nut, and a cloud mallow. Iceheart’s Tears, too, and for a moment Odette longed to stand once more in the shadow of Zenith. Anywhere but here.

“What is this?” she asked, looking from it to him, then back down again as she folded the stamps back up into their accordion and tucked them away in the envelope charm once more. “It seems to me,” Aymeric said, “that your convalescence is drawing toward its end and you will soon resume your adventures. When I consulted your sister on the matter, she told me that you possessed no implements to write letters on your journeys, and it was my hope that in providing that which is needful, you might be encouraged to send word now and then.” Her sister. Of course. Her younger twin had said this to him. It was not a shortage of paper that had stayed her hand; she kept a logbook, after all. But it seemed far too cruel to tell him outright that she did not write because she simply did not wish to. Not when he had made his yearnings plain with this gift. Odette considered what she might say in reply, taking up her tea to sip it. She looked across the table and found Aymeric’s blue eyes intent upon her own. She came to no conclusion even as she stretched out her arm once more, teacup delicately in hand.

She dropped it. The sound of porcelain shattering echoed in the room. She never looked away from Aymeric’s face.

Footsteps out the door presaged someone’s coming, and only then did she remember to dread her mother’s displeasure. Surely she would not be happy to find the family china in shards, and Odette knew a pang of fearful regret.

Aymeric reached across the table, setting his cup on her vacant saucer, and knelt beside the table. He was there when the maid came in, looking concerned. “What happened?” she asked. “Is everything alright?” “Merely an accident,” Aymeric said, in that even way of his. “Please forgive my clumsiness.”

They knelt there on the floor, picking white shards from grey stone, and Odette looked on dispassionately. Aymeric glanced at her once or twice, but she gave him nothing. She had nothing to give. He had secured her escape from consequences with his lie, perhaps, and yet something still ached in her heart. She dared say nothing, lest she confess her crimes.

Soon the mess was gone, and the maid too, and the rest of the tea service. They sat there at an empty table, his wishes laid out between them.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. It was barely a question, a gentle entreaty to unburden herself. “What could have possessed you to do that?” She had an answer, but could not give it—certainly not while she looked into his eyes. “What would you do,” she wondered, “if you returned to Saint Finnea’s cloisters and set all the swans free, but one swan insisted upon remaining? She would eat of your table, should you offer, and shelter beneath the eaves there, and swim in the lake, but she would always peck at you every time you came near?” She stacked the wooden boxes in front of her, looking down at her hands as she worked. “She doesn’t know why, and you have done nothing wrong, but whenever you see her, she pecks you. Wouldn’t you give up, eventually?”

Aymeric said nothing for a long time. Then he said, “Well—does she love me?” “Her love for you is an agony.” His brow knit; his face crumpled. “Why should love ever be agony?” It seemed a naive question coming from him—had he never suffered for love of her? “Do you love me still?” “Yes,” he said at once. She shook her head. “It is torment enough that you love me, and torment twice over that I love you. I wish I did not; these feelings are unwelcome to me. But it is not because you are not a good man—rather you are the best of all men, and should be free to choose someone better suited to your happiness.” He looked upon her then with perplexity, though beneath it she could feel his joy. “You have not spoken of this before,” he said. “What moves you to speak now?” “I have been reminded much of late of my own deficiencies,” she said. “In what way?”

Odette considered a long moment. When she spoke, it was bluntly: “Fray and I chanced to meet again. And Gaius van Baelsar is in love with my twin sister.” Aymeric pressed his lips into a thin line. “I knew that the Black Wolf lived, having been briefed on the subject, but I remain uncertain what connects these two matters.” “It was not a happy reunion,” Odette said. “Neither of them were happy reunions. Knowing me seems to have done Fray Myste more harm than good, and I cannot see how it would be otherwise for you. And the legatus of the XIVth—though he claims to have shed that mantle; as soon part a wolf from his pelt, I think; it would go more easily.” She cleared her throat. “Van Baelsar is in love with my twin sister. We shared him once, more than gladly. Did you know this? Did I ever deign to tell you? Well, see me now for what I am.” She shook her head. Aymeric seemed on the verge of speech, but she could brook no forebearance lest she lose her nerve. So she continued, “I no longer feel comfortable with that. When last he was made to endure my affections, it felt like an intrusion where I am no longer invited. It is, though I wish it not, an affront to me. But in truth it is only the most natural consequence. Colette is a far more comforting person than I. So far as I know she has left no wounds in her wake like the ones I dealt Fray Myste, who loved me once and no longer.

“But on due reflection,” Odette continued, “what would I do, really, if he were in love with me? If either of them were in love with me? Would it be welcome to me in the least? I was forced to admit that it would not, and my envy of the love they bore others was simplest foolishness. After all, was I not tormented enough by the knowledge of the love you bore me—that you bear for me still? Why should I compound that unhappiness, or wish it upon any other person?” She turned her gaze from his face; from those blue eyes and his moue of concern. Outside the window she watched the sleet drive from the heavens into the city, and longed to feel its sting against her skin. “It gave me no great joy to consider it, and I decided that my feelings, unwholesome and unwelcome as they are, should be conveyed to you nevertheless.”

His hand brushed hers; covered it. She stared out the window. “Of course,” he said. “That all sounds very much like nothing.” “Oh, do not comfort me now!” Her gaze snapped back toward him. “This is nothing; you have agreed, and it is beneath you to debase yourself by taking my hand!” Aymeric winced, and lowered his eyes. He lifted his hand and instantly she missed its weight and warmth. “’Twas a poorly considered jest,” he said, but did not reach for her again. “I do not think it is nothing, for nothing you feel is insignificant to me. Least of all this. If my attentions are a torment to you, I will at your word withdraw and never mention my feelings again.” His throat bobbed, as though he too sought to swallow his sorrows as she had done so often. Aymeric looked upon her face once more, and said, “It has been my greatest hope that I might one day prove worthy of your love, but if that love does you harm, then I cannot wish for it. Your happiness and comfort are much more dear to me.”

Odette looked down at their hands, ilms and an entire world apart. “The swan will not leave the monastery of her own will,” she said. “It falls to you to turn her out.” Aymeric said, “If your affections are elsewhere laid, of course I shall not interfere. My greatest wish for you then would be that you might be recognized for the extraordinary woman you are.” “I don’t love him!” Odette said, balling her hand into a fist. “I have never loved Gaius van Baelsar, and I am not certain I ever loved Fray Myste! Gaius is in love with my sister—and there is no part of me that wishes for his love, even were I worthy of it.” Aymeric began, “I see—” “She is a better match for him,” Odette said. “And Sidurgu a better match for Fray, and Lucia a better match for you. Even Estinien—I sought so tirelessly to save Estinien not simply for my sister’s sake but for yours. Meager though his comforts are, they would certainly serve you better than mine.” “Lucia is a fine woman,” Aymeric said. “And Estinien is a dear friend. Still, I do not love them as I love you.” Odette let her hand fall to the table, disarmed of her anger. Of every shield she could conjure to mask her true feelings. What was left? Sorrow, and longing, and uncertainty—none of them becoming on a lady. “Why not?” she said. Her voice was plaintive. “It has been two years since we said goodbye, and since I revealed to you the unworthiness of my heart. Of my behavior. Why not lay your affections elsewhere? I had thought perhaps you would … stop, someday. I still think you will.” He looked upon her with naked wonder, innocent as a child’s, and as all-enduring. “What could ever persuade me to stop?”

“Your peers will not be kind to you,” Odette said. It was the first of the old arguments. “I know my own reputation.” “You are a hero of the realm, and people love you more than you can know.” Aymeric lowered his gaze to their hands once more. “And those that do not make no difference to me. I was a bastard adopted by a dowager, and now I am as much a patricide as a hero. But shame has never come to live under my roof.” It seemed inconceivable to her, an alien world to her own. What came next? “I would not make a good wife to you.” “We need not marry,” he said, “if that is not your wish. I would gladly forego that honor for the greater one of having you by my side.” That was what he always said, but as with the last answer he had more to add that was new to her: “What makes a good wife?” She looked at him, frowning as she considered the question. “Composure,” she said; a lady could never be allowed to be as angry nor as sad as she had proven herself before him. “And deference, and all those qualities I lack.” He smiled a little, though the expression was rueful. “Composure you have,” he told her. “You have shown it in far greater trials than Ishgardian society can conceive of, much less offer. And I do not want your deference anyway; I never have. What I have admired all my life in you is how unafraid you are to speak for your convictions. To knock me back when I am being foolish.” “You are never foolish,” Odette said. “I am more a fool than you imagine,” he said. “But I want you for an equal.” “Even if we were to wed, I am far too old and much too busy to give you children,” Odette told him, the last of all her arguments—and the one she never won. He laughed. The sound was gentle, warm, as though it was a comfort to him to return at last to the end of this road. “Should you want them, we can adopt. How could I ever object to such a thing?”

He looked at her then, and turned his hand over to offer it up to her. “Do you know why the swan always wants to peck me?” It was such a sudden change of topics that it took her a moment to recall her own earlier metaphor. “No,” she said. “It is because she’s afraid,” Aymeric said. “And there is much to fear, especially in a life as perilous as yours. But I want you to feel—and to know—that you are safe with me.” She looked at that gentle hand, waiting for her to take it. “Why?” she asked. “Why not put the swan out of the monastery? If you would but chase her away, she would never trouble you with her presence again.” He shook his head, the motion just barely visible in the periphery of her vision. “I faced once the reality of a world bereft of you,” he said. “I would never choose it.” There was so much being offered to her with that waiting hand. It seemed impossible, thinking on it. And yet … as much as it would betray her innermost feelings—a cardinal sin, her mother had taught her at a young age—didn’t she want to take it?

Odette laid her hand across his palm. “I can’t stay in Ishgard all the time,” she said. “I can’t put this life before my duties.” “I know. And I would never ask,” Aymeric said. “But if you can spare a moment, you are always welcome.” He folded his fingers over hers, and sat there, hand-in-hand with her.

[starcunning]

M I N E for Lady Odette de Dzemael at her pleasure?

 M   :   MOONLIGHT.   what is your muse’s ideal date? where / who with / etc?

Odette’s ideal date is “you show up with expensive gifts/jewelry/cash, give it to my chambermaid, and then you leave. Same time next week?” Okay, that’s not ... not true. It is true that Odette loves gifts and will be disappointed if a suitor arrives without one, but flowers or small tokens will suffice. While she resents the strictures of Ishgardian aristocratic society, she does also love society events because she likes to be lavished with attention, and, as the Warrior of Light, such an eventuality is all but guaranteed. She likes her date to show her off a bit and take pride in her choosing them as her escort. Nothing is guaranteed at night’s end, however.

 I    :   I LOVE YOU.   does your muse find ‘i love you’ easy or hard to say?

She put off saying it to Aymeric for the better part of three decades. Odette has told her twin Colette that she loves her countless times and everyone else basically never. Perhaps as a child she said it to her parents, but as she grew older and more aware of the dynamics of her household--to say nothing of the expectations upon her as a young lady of status--she stopped saying it to them, and, later, stopped feeling it either. She had a very passionate and serious love affair as an adult which could have seen her starting a family and living with her lover, and she never once told Fray Myste that she loved him.

 N   :   NAUGHTY.   what is your muse like in bed?

Answered here!

 E   :   EMBRACE.   does your muse like hugs? what are their hugs like?

No. Odette tolerates the brief, impersonal embraces between ladies in social greetings, but otherwise will not hug others nor allow herself to be hugged in public. She likes to be held by her lovers sometimes during the act, but just as often prefers otherwise. In private, she will hug Colette in a protective, soothing way and stroke her hair, and very rarely will accept the same kind of embrace from someone she trusts very much.

[starcunning]

A slender volume of poetry

FFXIVWrite2019

Thirty days begat thirty entries. The final tally:

X’shasi Kilntreader × Edna St. Vincent Millay: 11 entries

Odette de Dzemael × Marceline Desbordes-Valmore: 5 entries

Caelina Valeria ×  Alexander Pushkin: 3 entries

Zenos yae Galvus × Aleksandr Blok: 3 entries

Emet-Selch × Christopher Marlowe: 2 entries

Aris Greensorrow × Lisa Bellear: 1 entry

Fray Myste × Paul Verlaine: 1 entry

Gaius van Baelsar × Nikolai Nekrasov: 1 entry

Melloria Hathaar × Taliesin the bard: 1 entry

Menelaus × Euripedes: 1 entry

Sidurgu Orl × L. Khuushaan: 1 entry

Indexed below. Also available on AO3.

1. My heart, being hungry ("Voracious") X'shasi Kilntreader (a miqo'te Warrior of Light) & X'moru Tia (a miqo'te adventurer) × "My heart, being hungry, feeds on food" by Edna St. Vincent Millay 

2. With greater wit, or better, wealth ("Bargain") Caelina Valeria (a Garlean Warrior of Light) ♦ Nero Scaeva × "The Bronze Cavalier" by Alexander Pushkin

3. Why should you worship her? Her you surpass ("Lost") Emet-Selch & Warrior of Light; Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light × "Hero and Leander" by Christopher Marlowe An AU where the Fourteenth Councilmember's shade was found upon a reflection and uplifted to their previous station, as befits an Ascian.

4. And to knock at my heart is to beat on my grave ("Shifting Blame") Fray Myste/Odette de Dzemael (an elezen Warrior of Light) × "Parted" by Marceline Desbordes-Valmore

5. A Fear that in the deep night starts awake ("Vault") X'shasi Kilntreader/Baro Llyonesse (a legacy-only miqo'te Warrior of Light); past X'shasi Kilntreader/Haurchefant Greystone × "Interim" by Edna St. Vincent Millay 

6. Go, therefore, like the eye of an angel to awaken his courage ("First Steps") Odette de Dzemael & Colette de Dzemael (an elezen Warrior of Light; Odette's younger twin); Aymeric de Borel/Odette de Dzemael × "The Water Flower" by Marceline Desbordes-Valmore CW: body shaming; fatphobia; narcissistic mothers.

7. returned, to your place of dreaming ("Forgiven") Aris Greensorrow (a viera adventurer) × "Dear Dja Baby Boori" by Lisa Bellear

8. To lay down their reckless heads ("Rencounter"; a free-prompt day) Zenos yae Galvus × "Twelve" by Aleksandr Blok "Shasi sas Intemperatus," an AU where by necessity X'shasi joins forces with Gaius van Baelsar to defeat Lahabrea and is declared Viceroy of Eorzea.

9. Daisies spring from damnèd seeds ("Hesitate") X'shasi Kilntreader ♦ Urianger Augurelt × "Weeds" by Edna St. Vincent Millay

10. Now flooded with moonlight ("Foster") Gaius van Baelsar/Midas nan Garlond × "Who is Happy in Russia?" by Nikolai Nekrasov

11. I breathed my soul back into me ("Snuff") X'shasi Kilntreader/V'jaela Firebird (an Echo-blessed miqo'te adventurer) × "Renascence" by Edna St. Vincent Millay CW: Drug use; breath play; adult content.

12. And not in vain you’ve sent me light ("Fingers Crossed") Caelina Valeria ♦ Nero Scaeva × "Angel" by Alexander Pushkin

13. We shall die apart, shall we not? That is what you wanted! ("Wax") Odette de Dzemael & Colette de Dzemael; past Fray Myste/Odette de Dzemael × "Elegy (You, who have taken all)" by Marceline Desbordes-Valmore

14. Who will measure Uffern? ("Scour") Melloria Hathaar (a miqo'te Warrior of Light) × "The First Address of Taliesin" by Taliesin the bard

15. To be flame in the heat ("Travail"; a free-prompt day) Sidurgu Orl/Warrior of Light × "It's an Honour to be Human" by L. Khuushaan A roleswap AU where Fray lives and Sid dies, becoming the player's Dark Knight mentor.

16. And find me at dawn in a desolate place ("Jitter") X'shasi Kilntreader & Regula van Hydrus × "Departure" by Edna St. Vincent Millay

17. Brought to earth the arrogant brow ("Obeisant") X'shasi Silverhair (an Echo-blessed miqo'te adventurer who is not yet the Warrior of Light) × "Dirge" by Edna St. Vincent Millay

18. You're gone away, and I'm in desert ("Wilt") X'shasi Kilntreader/Zenos yae Galvus × "You're Gone Away" by Aleksandr Blok

19. And we will all the pleasures prove ("Radiant") "Solus zos Galvus"/Aquila jen Novius (a Garlean engineer who will later incarnate as Caelina Valeria) × "The Passionate Shepherd to His Love" by Christopher Marlowe

20. Thy mark is on me! I am not the same ("Bisect") X'shasi Kilntreader × "The Suicide" by Edna St. Vincent Millay

21. Your other sister and my other soul ("Crunch") X'shasi Kilntreader & "Minfilia" (Ryne Waters) × "Ode to Silence" by Edna St. Vincent Millay

22. This red gown will make a shroud ("Detritus"; a free-prompt day) X'shasi Kilntreader & Fray Myste × "The Shroud" by Edna St. Vincent Millay An AU where the mysterious voice heard beginning in "Prelude in Violet" belongs to a different benefactor: one who allows the Warrior of Light to rewrite history.

23. And where her glances fall, there cities burn ("Parched") Menelaus (an Ancient and member of the Convocation of Fourteen who will one day incarnate as X'shasi Kilntreader) × "Helen" by Euripedes

24. A look all veiled in blue ("Unctuous") Aymeric de Borel/Odette de Dzemael × "Flower of Childhood" by Marceline Desbordes-Valmore

25. I knew her for a little ghost ("Trust") X'shasi Kilntreader & Lensha Hathaar (a legacy miqo'te Warrior of Light from a timeline where she failed in her duties) × "The Little Ghost" by Edna St. Vincent Millay

26. And all have gone to sea in the wind ("Slosh") Carvallain de Gorgagne/Odette de Dzemael × "The Roses of Saadi" by Marceline Desbordes-Valmore

27. The easy shadow of night is softly laid ("Palaver") Emet-Selch/Caelina Valeria × "Remembrance" by Alexander Pushkin

28. My needle to your north abruptly swerved ("Attune") X'shasi Kilntreader/Baro Llyonesse × "Sonnet III (No lack of counsel)" by Edna St. Vincent Millay

29. To live again, undying! Aye ("Deleterious"; a free-prompt day) Fray Myste × "Last Hope" by Paul Verlaine Archive Warning: Major character death.

30. And You're afar—but are you real there? ("Darkness") Zenos yae Galvus & Estinien Wyrmblood × "I seek salvation" by Aleksandr Blok