#with a smidge of Alphinaud and Tataru

[riajade01]

In which Haurchefant Greystone returns to his father’s manor and gets married. 

Haurchefant never particularly liked Fortemps Manor. Oh, it was lovely enough, as all the great manor houses were. But it had always been the countess’s domain, a place he was tolerated, barely. No matter how his father and brothers tried to include him in the family, the Countess de Fortemps was the final arbiter of Haurchefant’s status in the household. Namely, he was somewhere on the level of a prized hound. Fed, trained and cared for, but not something to let out around guests. And certainly not something to share the family name.

Even now, with his father’s wife passed on to the Fury’s embrace, Haurchefant found himself moving gingerly through the house, afraid to leave too much of himself where someone might see. Which was a touch odd, given that he now had rooms in the manor, plural, for himself and his soon-to-be-wife. Silly as it sounded, just placing his armor on the stand in the corner felt like a victory, let alone the handful of books Bitter had encouraged him to bring with him, which sat in a neat stack on the mantle.

No one could mistake them as belonging to anyone else in the house. Artoirel preferred histories and treatises on military tactics, their father kept tomes on liturgical law and science, and Emmanelain showed little inclination for books at all, though he was perfectly literate. While Haurchefant shared an appreciation of the topics that so engaged his father and elder brother, his true love was for romances.

[laeorinel]

FFXIV Write 2022 - Day 8

Prompt - Tepid.

A continuation of a sort of day 4. No spoilers as such. Takes place late Heavensward/Patch 3.2. Itty bitty smidge of Wolcred I guess if you're looking for it.

----

Thancred sighed wearily, leaning back against the counter heavily as he waited for the basin of water to cool. He flexed his fingers ever so often, sensation only just now returning to his limbs as the cold fled, replaced with that all too familiar burning feeling of overuse.

At the Fortemps manor, the peaceful evening was shattered as the Scions burst through the front door. Samara was limply dangling, bloodied and broken in Thancred's arms as they rushed her to her private quarters. All he could keep thinking as he carried her was how cold she felt. As though the blood in her veins had already turned to ice.

Looking over to the large bed by the opposite wall, he could not get over how small she looked right now as she lay swaddled under an almost obscene number of blankets. How fragile.

Samara was not a tall woman even by Au ra standards. At full height, she was barely an ilm taller than the twins. Yet despite this, it always felt as though she towered over you. Her confidence, if not outright cockiness, made her seem unstoppable and would make even the bravest of souls yield to her. To see her brought low…he could not help but feel as though he had failed her again.

Alphinaud, Y'shtola, and the House Fortemps chirurgeons had declared that the danger of losing her to the cold or blood loss had passed. The people of Ishgard were naturally no strangers to ailments brought on from exposure to the frigid temperates and had several effective treatments. Alphinaud and Y'shtola had done what they could in the field, binding her wounds. No, the biggest concern now was an infection. Infection was almost always guaranteed with injuries inflicted by beasts; it was simply a matter of time.

In hindsight, he should have seen this outcome. A distance had formed between Samara and the rest of them, one he would assume she blamed herself for after the altercation at the congregation. In truth, the distance had formed mainly because each Scion was absorbed in their own tasks. Alphinaud and Tataru were helping Ser Aymeric with the next steps of reform and covering up any information about Samara's outburst. Y'shtola and Urianger were trying to find a means to keep their friend safe from further harm.

Thancred needed time to sort things through in his mind and come up with contingencies. They had been able to restrain Samara, but it took all of the gathered Scions, Ser Aymeric and Lucia to do so. Even then, it was cutting things close. The strength she had shown was both incredible and terrifying, and he was still sporting bruises and even a few burns from where the dark magic had made contact. Were she to lose control again, they needed to have a plan. Yet none of his strategems included the possibility of her rejecting this newfound power and becoming more reckless. The leather of his gloves creaked as he clenched his fists. How could she be so irresponsible as to hunt after a creature alone when a full detail of Knights had failed previously?

A muffled sound from the bed brought him out of his thoughts. Thancred lowered one of his hands to the water basin, dipping a finger inside to test the temperature. The water was at just about the right temperature. Collecting the basin, Thancred moved back to her bedside, sitting down in the chair Alphinaud had only vacated at his insistence an hour or so ago. There was little Thancred could do now other than keep watch over their fallen friend.

Thancred leaned over to remove the now dry washcloth from Samara's forehead, frowning as he felt the heat radiate from her skin. She still looked worryingly pale, her features twisting into a frown as she muttered quietly in her sleep. She sounded afraid, words coming out in an almost pleading tone. He could not make out most of the words, his grasp of the Auri tongue being next to non-existent.

Thancred soaked the washcloth in the tepid water before placing it back on her forehead. Samara's bleary eyes opened, meeting his gaze before moving around the room slowly.

He tried to give her his usual warm and confident smile. "Welcome back," he spoke softly. She still looked confused, mouth opening and closing as if trying to form words.

"You are back at the Fortemps Manor. We found you in the wilds a few hours ago. I would ask what in the seven hells you were thinking, but I doubt I will get an answer from you now." Thancred huffs as he pushes himself to his feet.

A scaled hand shoots out from underneath the blankets, grabbing hold of his wrist loosely as soon as he turns away.

"..'m sorry…" she whispered, eyelids already growing heavy again as she tried to fight off sleep.

"I know." He took her smaller hand in his, squeezing it lightly, watching as she lost the battle with sleep. Once he was certain she was asleep again, he tucked the hand back under the blankets.

"I am too."

[eremiss]

Nameday

Given how Gwen wasn’t generally inclined to share much about herself, it came as no surprise that it took the Scions quite a while --far too long, truth be told-- to realize none of them had any idea when her nameday was.

It also came as no surprise that she didn’t actually answer when asked. “Oh, not for a while yet.”

And so it was that her first nameday in their company came and went unacknowledged.

The second did as well, though that arguably had more to do with the consequences of Lolorito’s schemes and Ilberd’s betrayal than the Scions’ thoughtlessness.

The Fortemps, however, proved more stubborn than the Scions when it came to weaseling out information. Twelve know Emmanellain could wear anyone down if he was in their company long enough.

Or perhaps they were just better friends to her than the Scions had been.

Thancred bristles when he thinks about it, aggravation, jealousy and more than a little guilt clanging around in his head. 

Even Alphinaud knows, for Twelve’s sakes.

He tries to ignore those less-than-just feelings by focusing on the upside: Emmanellain can’t shut his mouth to save his life, and it was easy to steer him into telling Thancred what he wanted to know while the nobleman remained oblivious.

Gwen’s nameday is the 26th Sun of the third Umbral Moon. 

 ---

The door finally opens. Thancred tries to look particularly casual leaning against Gwen's desk, snuffing out the last of the annoyance that has been prickling across his shoulders ever since he received word the courier would be late. They’d made it, thank the Twelve, but only barely.

Gwen pauses in the doorway, the surprise on her face quickly morphing into amusement. She drawls, “I don’t recall giving you a key to my room.”

He replies with a puckish grin. “You didn’t.”

“Hm.” She gives him a playfully dubious look as she shuts the door, And yet here you are.

He spreads his hands and shrugs. “I have my methods.”

Gwen huffs a laugh and heads for her wardrobe. “And reasons, I presume?”

Thancred could assert that he always has a reason of one form or another, but decides to stick to his initial plan. “Do you know what day it is?” 

She pauses, blinking at the handles on her wardrobe for a moment before tugging the doors open. “The 26th, I think. Why?”

“Indeed.” He puts a teasing lilt to his tone that suggests he knows something she doesn’t, “But do you know what day it is?”

Gwen is shrugging out of her coat and armor, trading them for lighter loungewear that’s better suited for a muggy afternoon of paperwork. “Ah… Firesday?” she says guilelessly.

His grin flattens slightly, his hopes to build some anticipation falling utterly flat. Given how she always dodged around questions about her nameday in the past, he probably should have expected this sort of insouciance. 

He pushes himself off the desk and ambles to the wardrobe, tugging the little box out of his pocket and wincing internally when the contents shift. He might need to have a few words with that curmudgeonus goldsmith about taking more care packaging his products. 

“What? Did I forget something?” Gwen asks, clearly puzzled. She genuinely doesn’t seem to know what he’s trying to hint at.

There’s no way she could have actually forgotten her nameday, surely…

Unless the date she’d told the Fortemps was merely to appease them so they’d leave her be? Thancred hadn’t considered that option, and the idea gets discomfort worming into the back of his mind. He'd confirmed the date with Tataru, but she'd apparently learned it from them, too.

“T’would appear so,” Thancred replies without the slightest hint of doubt. 

Gwen turns towards him, only half-changed, and before she can speak he offers a plain-looking box that’s small enough enough to fit in his palm. 

She pauses, a complication of emotions flickering across her face.

Surprise first. Then happiness that’s slanted with curiosity, her eyes flicking up to his and then back to the proffered box. 

He hopes she doesn’t mind the lack of wrapping or adornment, as he hadn't had time for either thanks to the delay in delivery. That’s what he gets for deciding to go with a goldsmith all the way in Ul’dah despite being so last-minute.

A puzzled wrinkle forms between her brows as she continues to glance between his face and the box, trying to make sense of the look on he’s giving her that says she ought to know what this is about. 

Her eyes suddenly light up with comprehension, her lips parting in a silent ‘oh’ as a fresh wave of surprise washes across her face.

That momentary doubt about the date vanishes beneath a swell of smug satisfaction that has him grinning like the cat that caught the canary.

Gwen’s expression melts into something warm and soft, lips curving with a small, shy smile. Her brows are still tugged thoughtfully together, eyes bright and curious as she curls her fingers into her hair. Her lips shape a few words she doesn’t quite manage to say until, eventually, she lets out a small, astonished laugh.

She asks, utterly baffled, “But how did you…?”

Thancred leans closer and asks teasingly, “What day is it, dove?”

Gwen glances aside, smile quirking bashfully and face darkening with embarrassment at having forgotten such an obvious thing. “It’s, ah, my nameday.”

He offers the box again, shamelessly pleased. “For a moment I was worried you’d forgotten.” 

Gwen huffs defensively at him, even as her tickled little smile refuses to leave her mouth. “How did you know?” 

“Tataru,” he replies simply. And the Fortemps, he doesn’t add.

She hums and nods, attention drifting back to the box. Her eyes trace the shape of it, eager and curious about what could be inside. Then her gaze lifts to his face again, searching. Either she’s unsure if she’s allowed to take it now, or she’s trying to judge if he plans to tease her with a bit of keepaway.

He’d been leaning towards the latter, truthfully, but she looks so excited…

Thancred waggles his hand, “Go on, it won’t bite.”

She rolls her eyes theatrically and accepts the gift with the utmost care, holding it delicately like the little box itself is precious. Her expression bends with something deeply tender and grateful, and she murmurs, “You didn’t need to get me anything…”

“I wanted to,” he replies, letting a smidge of honesty touch his tone. 

Gwen’s eyes sparkle, wrinkling at the corners when favors him with a sweet, adoring smile he can’t possibly deserve. A light, fond thing blooms in his chest that makes him feel a fulm taller and a bit lightheaded. He smiles back somewhat awkwardly. 

Her attention returns the box and she turns it over in her fingers, inspecting and pondering. She’s handling it so daintily, like the flimsy cardboard is as valuable as the contents. “What is it?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” Thancred replies matter-of-factly, getting his footing again. He wonders, not for the first time, how long it’s been since anyone –even Gwen– had so much as acknowledged her nameday.

He gestures at it and prompts, “The gift is inside the box, you know.”

The way she pouts at him can’t quite disguise her relief at being given such explicit permission, hesitance visibly oozing out of her.

Anticipation tightens across his shoulders as she tugs at the lid, doubt suddenly wrinkling his confidence. He may or may not hold his breath when she finally gets it open.

Gwen lights up like the sun, delighted.

It’s a struggle to not let out an explosive sigh of relief.

Thancred watches her unconsciously reach up to tug at her bare earlobe, as if only just remembering she’s been without her earrings for weeks. She’d lost one some time back and removed the other for the sake of symmetry, but she’s never had the chance to replace them. 

In a way he’s grateful, as otherwise he would have had a much harder time figuring out what to get her.

Gwen’s smile is small, almost private, but it’s so heartfelt it makes his knees weak and his heart skip. She runs her fingers over the golden hoops and murmurs, “Thank you,” so sincerely it nearly drives him to fidget.

He’d been prepared for happiness and gratitude, but not for her to be so sweetly, genuinely touched. Not that that’s a bad thing, just… the way she’s looking at him is... He isn’t accustomed to this sort of soft, open adoration, even from her, and he doesn’t know how to react. He’s off-balance in away he’s not used to, and he’s not sure how to feel about it. 

Thancred covers his floundering thoughts with a corny bow. It earns him both a fondly exasperated laugh and a moment to get his head in order.

As he straightens up he asks, just to be sure, “I take it you like them?”

“I–? Yes!” Gwen replies immediately, still beaming. “Yes, they’re wonderful. I…” She tilts her head towards her bathroom hopefully, asking a question with her expression. 

He shoos her away with a flick of his wrist. 

She scurries off, disappearing to thread the hoops through her ears in the mirror. He uses the time to shake his head and compose himself again, taking a calming breath and clearing out all the disorienting fluff. 

It’s heartening, truly, to see her so very tickled and happy. But at the same time he can’t help realizing just how unaccustomed she is to being shown such thoughtfulness.

Gwen returns, still wearing that elated little smile and positively glowing, lightly tugging at her new earrings as if assuring herself they’re real and at no risk of falling out. The gold hoops aren’t ornate or flashy, but they’re finely crafted and just the sort of clean, simple design she favors. There's something particularly satisfying about seeing her wear earrings again, and he realizes that these last few weeks have been the only time he's ever seen her without that particular accessory.

Thancred welcomes her embrace, his thoughts threatening to turn fuzzy again when she presses her smile to his and murmurs, “Thank you,” against his lips.

On a whim, just for a moment, he lets himself get lost and indulge in her wonderful giddiness and affection, reveling in the satisfaction of being the cause.

She’s still grinning by the time they part, guiding him down to rest his forehead against hers and swaying lightly from side to side. Always fidgety, he thinks fondly, swaying with her and trying not to grin like fool himself. Her lifted mood is proving rather contagious.

He holds her a little tighter and murmurs, “Happy nameday, dove.”

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

Happy nameday Gweeeeeen <3 <3

I was on the strugglebus for this for suuuure but I like how it came out lol I was determined to get this posted today.

I forgot I made the intro so fuckin’ angsty lmao

[starswornoaths]

Something like Home

Two years ago, on the dot, I posted my first fic of my Warrior of Light and Aymeric.

Today, I won’t even clickbait you with a summary: this is the part they get together.

Word count: 4,950

Scarcely back at Fortemps Manor from Providence Point, Serella and Alphinaud had been taken aback when informed that Lucia, Hilda, Tataru, and Y’Shtola were awaiting their return in Serella’s room, intent on helping her get ready for the celebrations.

The collective snark they brought to bear, however, Serella had expected.

Alphinaud spied her hairpin, sat in its box on her dresser as she brushed her hair, and mused aloud how he had thought he had last seen it shattered on the Steps of Faith.

“The Lord Commander commissioned its restoration,” Lucia replied smoothly. “If I recall correctly, t’was as a token of his appreciation for her efforts.”

“Appreciation indeed,” Alphinaud teased. His eyes sparkled with mirth. “Purely a politically symbolic gesture, I am certain. Much thought has clearly been put into the work; I have seen engagement rings made with less care for detail.”

Y’Shtola mused that it seemed she had missed more than she had thought in her absence, and Hilda’s cackle was nearly drowned out by the roaring in Serella’s ears as they burned. Much as she might have felt a smidge picked on, she knew everyone was there to support her, good natured ribbing besides. Having so many that had grown to be so dear to her, however, felt just a little overwhelming, unaccustomed to such extensive found family as she was.

Then Lucia gently took her hairbrush from her, helped pleat her hair with her hairpin, and spoke fondly of having a sister again, and she felt overwhelmed for entirely different reasons.

Lucia’s was a deft hand, Hilda insisted on smudging Serella’s eyes with kohl, and the Paladin was ready to finish the rest herself with ample time to spare. Thus did the group usher themselves out with broad grins and wishes of luck for the night. She wasn’t entirely sure what they were even wishing her luck for.

She was relieved to already have a dress— one less thing to fret over in days both recent and busy. Black and long and flowing as the sea with an open back panel, it suited well enough. Though as she slipped it on over a voluminous matching petticoat, she realized the last time she had worn it had also been when she and Aymeric had danced in the ballroom just down the hall. Was that considered distasteful, she suddenly wondered, to use a dress a second time with the same dance partner— oh gods, but why did the term ‘partner,’ make her insides jump the way it did? It had been...nearly half a year ago, surely it was fine! She smoothed her hands down the front of her skirts, fidgeting.

Her hands seemed grotesque to her against the softness of the garment. She felt too rough all over to be in such finery. After considering the state of her scarred, calloused hands, she donned a pair of short gloves to hide them.

A knock came at the door just as she had begun to fiddle nervously with a necklace, debating on whether it would suit. She bade them enter without looking up.

“Serella?” She gasped when Aymeric called hesitantly. When she nearly dropped the necklace and spun to face him he seemed taken aback himself, his eyes widening at the sight of her. “Forgive me, I meant not to startle you—”

“No, no, I told you to come in.” He drew near, and she was transfixed by how good he looked in his suit, all blacks and blues and clean lines. “Apparently I can’t get my fingers to work for me— but I don’t want to keep you waiting—”

“May I?” He asked, and held out his hand.

Flustered into silence, she set the delicate chain in his palm with a word of thanks and spun to let him place it on her neck.

A move she immediately regretted the moment she felt his hands softly trace the sheer fabric over her neck to pull her necklace around, felt his breath caress the bare skin peeking over her collar, felt him close enough that she swore she felt his warmth against her back. Why was it suddenly so hard to think?

“There we are.” Aymeric said softly after what felt like an eternity.

Serella reminded herself that breathing was a necessity, and managed to remember how to by the time she turned to face him with a sheepish grin. His own smile looked just a touch boyish but wholly devastating.

“How does it look?” Her nerves got the better of her and bade she ask.

“Beautiful, as ever.” He replied, and much like when he had said it on that towering spire, he made no effort to pretend to look at the necklace.

Curious. 

“My thanks.” She murmured.

“My pleasure.” His tone matched hers. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “Now, pray correct me if I am mistaken, but I believe I have been charged with escorting the guest of honor to the festivities, have I not?”

“I wasn’t aware I was deemed such?”

“If not to others, certainly to me.” His smile widened, and he offered her his arm. “And it would not do to make you late besides. Pray permit me escort you, Mistress Arcbane?"

“With you, Ser Aymeric?” She threaded her arm through his with a grin. “I would go anywhere."

His laugh was bright but bashful, and he led her out of the Manor with soft steps and a softer smile. She waved off his concern for a cloak— with such a thick petticoat under her dress and long sleeves besides, it seemed unnecessary. She did, however, use it as ample excuse to help him adjust the clasp on his; turnabout being fair play and all. He was already flushed to the tips of his ears before they had stepped out into the cold.

Aymeric’s swiftness surprised her, as he skipped the few steps down and held his hand out for her to hold as she gathered her skirts and stepped onto the cobblestone street. Serella couldn’t help but feel just a little thrilled at his startled but delighted smile when she forewent decorum and laced their fingers together. Declining a cloak seemed a wise choice; she already felt overly warm for their nearness.

Their merriment maintained whilst they meandered through the street toward the forum that held tonight’s celebration. As they stepped inside and Aymeric had his cloak taken, Serella realized with a start that she had never stepped foot inside this building. With vast, vaulted ceilings, marble floors polished to a shine, and wide, ornately framed windows leading to sparsely used balconies all ensconced in a warm glow, she couldn’t help but think of the glittering castles in all those fairy tale books her Da read to her as a child. It was almost enough to distract her from the buzzing of aether and overall excitement that bombarded her from every angle, from every guest.

Before she could even think to fidget nervously with her skirts, her companion returned with a soft word spoken in her ear and a gentle hand at the small of her back, and all at once nothing else mattered, so long as he never stopped looking at her with such warmth.

“I fear well wishers hoping to speak with you will inevitably separate us.” Aymeric warned quietly in her ear. “Perhaps not at first, but—”

“If they don’t, those wanting to speak with you certainly will,” Serella mused, and he made a noise of agreement. “Much as I would love nothing more than to spend the whole evening at your side, best we keep our expectations realistic.” 

“Aye. Might I then ask of you two indulgences?” Aymeric deftly moved them through the crowd toward one of the rounded pillars surrounding the already crowded dance floor.

String music floated above the crowds like smoke, its heady yet soft siren call stirring the dancers to twirl along the floor. Loud enough to be heard, though not so loud they could not still whisper to one another, she noted when they ducked behind their chosen pillar.

“You can always ask more of me than that, dear one.”

“Indeed?” Aymeric seemed caught off guard, though he cleared his throat behind his hand attempting to — poorly — hide his blush. His ears always give him away, she noted. “...Nay, I would not abuse such a privilege. I only ask for one dance, and that you might perhaps offer me your company at night’s end.” He quickly added, “I would never wish to presume, however— you need not do either!”

Ask more of me still, she silently begged him.

“How serendipitous! I had hoped for much the same, my lord, though only if you were amenable.” When he startled at that, she arched a brow. “Is that so strange?”

“Strange, aye, though ‘tis most welcome.” He smiled. “I am far more accustomed to demands of my time for my use, rather than requests for want of my company.”

“Surely someone’s asked to spend time with you for leisure— a dance, at least?” When he did not answer and instead adopted a peculiar expression on his face, she asked, aghast, “Have you never had someone just ask you for a dance?”

"I have been asked after to seek people to dance." Was his reply.

"Not the same.” She tried, and failed, to not grimace. "Have you been asked if you would like to dance?" 

"I am unsure of the difference."

Wordlessly, she stepped in front of him, releasing her hand from his. He looked at her ponderously as she curtsied low with a swish of her skirts. 

"Ser Aymeric," she addressed him. "Would you do me the honor of a dance?" She asked as she rose from her curtsy to offer him her hand. 

Aymeric made no effort to hide his bewildered smile, nor the flush that darkened his cheeks and pulled to the tips of his ears, even as he bowed deeply in kind.

"The honor would be mine." He said, and took her hand. The hand not holding hers moved to the small of her back once he had led them to the dance floor, and the familiarity of the gesture soothed and stirred her all at once. "You needn't have done that." He whispered as he drew her close. "I would have asked you for a dance, given time."

"I wanted to— and you should be asked." She smiled as they counted themselves into the dance, slipping into the stream of gowns and galavanting nobles. "So many ask so much of you, yet not of you. Never ask you to dance, or what book you’re reading. If you’re well." She lowered her gaze to his neck and watched his throat bob with a heavy swallow. "Someone should. You deserve that."

“As you always have?” Aymeric asked, and though he had leaned some ilms closer, it was clear in the way his eyes widened slightly the moment the words left his lips that he hadn’t meant to.

The endearing fool, he had to know her heart. He had to.

“As I always will.” Serella promised him— and salvaged their rhythm when his footsteps faltered.

“Forgive me!” Aymeric laughed as he recovered, and she returned lead to him. “T’would seem my footwork is clumsy tonight— though yours has improved drastically.”

“Certainly better than toddling atop your boot, my lord.” She laughed with him as he guided them in a twirl. “Though all credit goes to my mentor. I worked with the best.”

“I recall such, ‘toddling,’ rather fondly.”

“Aymeric, please. Your toes must have been bruised for days after.” She flushed hotly when she recalled how silly she felt, her injured foot on his boot as they danced for no other reason than wanting to.

“Any moment I have with you is a moment I cherish. Bruised toes and all.” Almost imperceptibly, she felt his hand on the small of her back pull her closer and spin them just off the dance floor to hold them both still in that moment. “Have I...failed to make that clear...?”

Distantly aware of the music tapering off and the dancers skittering off the dance floor, Serella’s focus closed in until it was only them, only the warmth of his hands and the way his Kyanite eyes held her gaze. Though they had stopped dancing, she still felt as though she were spinning, moving and still all at once. She let go of his leading hand to press it against his chest to stabilize herself, to ground herself and remind herself that this was real.

“...No,” Serella admitted slowly, and swallowed thickly when his freed hand tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “Though I would not presume to know your heart. And...I don’t need to, to want to guard it as closely as I do.”

Oh, the look he gave her then broke her heart. He looked at her in stunned silence, as if he couldn’t believe someone felt that about him.

“I—” Aymeric’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat to try again, “I believe...I have a question I must yet ask you.”

“I do recall.” She whispered, thrilled and terrified.

“Would you— rather, should I—”

When a hand clapped her shoulder she nearly jumped out of her skin, transfixed as she was. Her startled, not quite choked back yelp of alarm was drowned out by the jovial cheer of the man who had done it— a knight from the final battle at the Steps of Faith, she distantly realized when she faced him...and his gaggle of friends. Uthengentle was among them, and looked stricken as he mouthed, “I’m so sorry,” to her from behind their backs.

“Slayer of Nidhogg!” The man whose hand remained on her shoulder cried. “The hero of the hour!”

“One of.” She corrected on reflex.

“Come, come! Let us share a drink!”

They seemed either too inebriated to notice the Lord Commander’s arms around her, or had decided the chance to speak with her was worth the risk of his ire. She felt cold in a way she couldn’t describe when he released her. She offered him her best “as expected,” smile and a shrug of her shoulder. A gesture he returned, though gave her hand a squeeze.

“We shall speak later.” He promised her.

She was quickly absorbed into the crowd and pulled away. Though Serella wasn’t surprised Uthengentle was among them, she was glad to have him there beside her to slip him what drinks she was given. For his part, he had no qualms emptying them each in one judicious gulp. 

Had he clearly not been having so much fun, she might have felt bad. 

There was much cheering and congratulating, and even more posturing for personal accomplishments from the knights. She just hoped her interest came across as genuine, despite feeling her nerves fray at the edges from being crowded by so many people at once, around so much electric aether and energy that she faintly felt her teeth buzzing.

When she managed to discreetly spare a glance around for Aymeric between speaking with the knights moving in and out of the group, she noticed that he, too, was now being accosted by nobles all seeking to eagerly shake his hand or speak with him in animated, low whispers. She could only guess what for, but opted to not dwell overly much; she might get even more overwhelmed than she already felt. 

Oh well. There were positives, despite having been interrupted again at such an important moment. At least the group had managed to corner her by the food table. The petit fours were divine.

When Uthengentle managed, in his inebriated enthusiasm, to see her freed from the rowdy knights by herding them away from the venue entirely with the promise of an axe throwing competition, she wasn’t sure whether to feel impressed or concerned. They stumbled out of the ballroom before she had decided, though as she popped the last petit four on the tray in her mouth and made her hasty retreat, she decided that was a concern for the morrow.

Tonight, there was a promise she would see kept. 

"There you are.” Serella turned at Aymeric’s relieved sigh. She noticed he looked a touch wearier now, though the pinch in his smile eased as he drew near. “Pray forgive me— I had thought we would have at least one dance uninterrupted.”

“We may yet,” she said with a shrug and a smile to hide the way her nerves prickled against her skin from the overstimulation. “I...I need some air. Just for a moment.” She pointed at one of the balconies shadowed by a support pillar. She turned back to him. “Would you be amenable to join me when you have a moment— only—” she caught herself in the middle of asking with a soft curse under her breath. “If you like. I’m certainly not going to demand you find me.”

“I would ever follow you, Mistress Arcbane.” Aymeric reassured her warmly. “Pray let me shake off the last of those who would speak with me, and I will be there anon.”

“Only if it pleases.”

“Very little could please me more.”

“Then I will see you anon.” She managed to stammer through the burning heat creeping up her neck.

Scarcely registering that yet another noble was clapping him on the back, uninvited, to insert themselves at his side, she spun and made for the balcony. Between his searing earnestness and her own acute awareness of how the walls seemed to close in from the moment she had been crowded by well wishers, the icy breeze on her face felt akin to a fever breaking.

She shut the gilded glass doors behind her and leaned against them for a moment, her chest heaving. The open panel at the back of her dress made her shiver at the cold of the glass, but it was welcome, bracing, and she sighed in relief. When her breathing calmed, she pushed off the door and smoothed her skirts.

Despite the small space of the balcony, it was blessedly dark and empty, with undisturbed snow dusting the stone beneath her feet and fat, powdery flakes that gently drifted down filling the balcony with soft calm. The muted quiet was a sanctuary, a bastion carved out of the revelry and barricaded thinly enough she could hear the low roar of the festivities continuing inside. 

Even the cold could not take away from the utter peace that ensconced her as she stepped away from the door and near the marble railing. As she looked out to the picturesque steeples and spires of the city she couldn’t help but marvel at how she had somehow come to call such a harsh, glacial palace of not quite pristinely preserved tradition home, even as her lips had long since forgotten how to form the word.

Though fire shards twinkled in brass lanterns about the railings and cast faint, flickering light that made the snow glimmer like starlight, it was not enough to entirely stave off the Coerthan chill. She was glad for the many petticoats she wore beneath her dress when the wind whispered wickedly; even as she shivered, she knew the cold could have bitten her much harder than it did.

When Serella heard the door click open, she turned to see Aymeric slip outside and shut the door behind him. He had gone for his cloak on the way, she realized when she saw the dark fabric draped over his arm. He gave her the most relieved smile he’d had since they arrived as he drew near.

“Forgive me for taking so long,” he said in a near whisper when he had drawn himself to her side. “I was beginning to fear I would never slip away.”

“I wasn’t waiting so long,” Serella reassured him, despite losing track of time. “I just hope your sanity wasn’t pressed too thin.”

“I am accustomed to such prodding. I am far more concerned with you, Mistress Arcbane.” 

Though his crystalline eyes were warm his scrutiny was undeniable, and he must have seen something that worried him, if the crease in his brow was any indicator. She could feel his concern— and something warmer with it— radiating off him, and despite the cold she felt only comfort for his presence. Despite this, she shivered.

Unfurling his cloak from his arm, he took care in draping it over her shoulders. She shuddered as he fiddled to close the clasp at her collarbone, its thick, soft fabric thawing her enough to make her skin prickle with sensation she had not realized she’d lost.

"Ah, hadn't noticed how cold I was." She hummed softly. The need to touch, to be reminded that this was real inspired her to tuck her gloves away and bring her hands up and place them over his just as he had pulled the hood over her head, her arms peeking out from beneath the veil of his cloak. “Thank you.”

“T’was the least I could do, for how you have cared for me.” His face flushed but he made no effort to draw his hands away. 

"Maybe," she said, thumbs stroking his skin. "Still." she lifted her head to meet his gaze. "You asked to know my heart, before," she whispered, and his hands flexed beneath her gentle grip. "If you still wished to know, I would tell you. You need only ask."

"I do," he breathed, and she watched him swallow heavily. "More than I could possibly say, though…” he chewed on his bottom lip— a rarity, as far as she was aware. “Though I would not presume to know, I fear in asking I might only hurt us both.”

“What do you mean?” Serella asked with a tilt of her head, unsure of what to expect with the turn his words had taken.

“I…’tis as I said, I have presumed naught of your heart. I will not start now, but…I hope that you feel as I do. Though...” He took a calming breath, and though Serella’s heart near felt ready to beat out of her chest she did not prompt him to continue before he was ready. “Much as I might wish for it not to be so, you will leave Ishgard. Your duty compels you thus.”

Fighting against her own assumptions and the sinking feeling in her stomach, she nodded, unable to lie to him.

“I would never want that to change— your want to help others, your compulsion to act where others cannot or will not, has been an inspiration to others. To me. I would not ask you stay— not even in bearing my heart.” He closed his eyes a moment, swallowed, and persevered with quiet conviction, “I would ask to know your heart all the same, so long as I do not hurt you in so doing. But a word from you would silence me forever on the matter.”

The ache in her chest was sweet and warm, but the agonizing tenderness in his gaze made her timid, and she lowered her eyes to their joined hands. With the care of handling a holy relic— for he was blessed by the kiss of winter, anointed in the amber glow of the lamps, in the way he burned so, so brightly all his own— she smoothed her thumbs over the backs of his hands in slow, soft strokes. 

“You are correct on all points, Ser Aymeric.” She began, and gently reaffirmed her grip on his hands when he startled with an anguished, shuddering breath. “Save for one.”

She looked up at him then, and took a moment— only ever one— to study the thousand expressions that crossed his face. His throat bobbed heavily with a swallow as he rasped, “One…?”

“You’re right: I will leave. I’ll leave anywhere I go— such is the life of an adventurer.” Not once did she cease softly stroking his hands, holding them near to her like precious, impossible treasures. Coveted, resplendent, to be cherished and cared for. “But you speak as if I will never return...and for that, you speak incorrectly.” His wide, hopeful stare emboldened her, and before she realized what she was doing she was pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “We’ve done enough dancing, dear one. Ask me or don’t, I’ll tell you all the same. I can’t hide my heart anymore.”

“...Nor I.” Aymeric admitted, his expression softening. “Though for how oft I have asked you to act in bravery for my home—”

“Our home.” She corrected.

“...Our home.” He all but mouthed the words, smiling wide with a shuddering exhale. “I think it only meet that I offer mine own before I ask aught more of you.” When she did not interrupt him, he took a steadying breath, and held her gaze with those too bright eyes of his. "I care for you greatly— more than I have likely let on." He gently slid his hands from the cloak that was clasped at her neck, cupping her face in both of his hands. "It feels as though I have longed for you from the first— though I cannot place precisely where such feelings began.” He swallowed thickly. “But know that I would never force my affections on you. ‘Tis as I said: but a word from you would silence me forever."

In the ensuing stillness, she let the confession settle gently, warmly on her shoulders, her eyes drifting shut as she pressed her face deeper into his hands. For all the palaver they had exchanged, all the walls they had built between their hearts to keep themselves safe, being allowed into the hallowed halls of his heart felt like coming home. He was waiting on an answer— he deserved one, and she was ready to give one, but she lingered in the doorway of his soul and took in the comfort of a feeling she had forgotten for so long, remembered anew thanks to his care.

"My heart beats for you. I can't put it any other way." She could have given a more verbose, lyrical confession, perhaps even admitted to how deeply she already loved him, but to wax poetic when he seemed to be holding his breath in anticipation for her response would be cruel. They both needed to breathe in this stillness together. It had been long overdue. "It's been that way for so long, I don't remember how it beat before." She braved meeting his eyes and oh, he looked so happy she wanted to weep. “I’ll eventually leave Ishgard. I’ll have to. But I’ll always come back. It’s home now, after all. You’re home now, after all.”

“And you are certain?” Aymeric asked in breathless hope. “Even after everything that’s happened?”

“Especially with everything that’s happened, dear one.” She replied in a low voice. “After everything that’s led me to this moment, in this place…from the moment I came here, I could tell Ishgard was a house with good bones, but had been neglected. We’ve torn out much of the rotted wood, you and I, that it would be a home for more than just the elite. But...but it’s more than that.” With a huff, she attempted to wrangle her words into cooperation. “I remembered what home felt like for the first time in some twenty years, the moment I realized you saw me for more than my title.”

He gave a startled, disbelieving laugh, and bent his head to gently let their foreheads touch.

“It never ceases to amaze me, how easily you can say what is in my heart back to me.” He whispered, just before tremblingly, at long last, they unmade the distance between them entirely. 

This was not the rushed, impulsive moment of weakness in the Churning Mists, nor the stuff of romance novels. It was a sigh of relief, a homecoming, a feeling of hands in hair and the understanding that neither of them would ever be warm without the other again. She let herself sink into that feeling, of the understanding that his heart had so closely attuned to hers that she had not realized she was feeling both of them falling in tandem together.

He pulled back after a moment, only just barely, their crystallized breaths still mingling, and she could sense the moment of doubt clouding his mind. 

"Should we...?" 

Such hesitation no longer suited them, she decided, and pulled him back to her for another kiss. He seemed in agreement, melting bodily against her and gathering her as closely as he could, holding her as tightly as he dared. 

She wished he dared more.

"I think," she whispered, pressing another quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. "We should."

"Ah," he breathed, and kissed her. "Good."

He kissed her again, and hummed softly when she nipped lightly at his bottom lip. His leg buckled for the briefest of moments when he broke away from her, panting heavily. "I fear this setting to be far too public." He kissed her once more as if powerless to stop himself. "I propose we adjourn somewhere more private."

"To what end?" She asked coyly, in a blissful, contented daze. 

He kissed her forehead as if to ground himself.

"What indeed." He moaned when she rocked up on her toes to kiss him again. When they eventually broke apart, he breathed against her lips, "Would you come with me, Mistress Arcbane?"

"With you, Ser Aymeric?" She removed his cloak and draped it around him. "I would go anywhere."

For anywhere was home, so long as it was with him.