rowanul-tyr

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i put my favorite chapter of my ot3 fic, the one where the exarch confesses, on it own. hope yall like!

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happy kiss day!

i allude to it in my ot3 fic, but rowan and graha's first kiss was before they got together in 5.3! i do intend to write it fully someday, and hopefully that day is soon, but to spoil it a teeny bit, it involves some homoerotic aether sharing. :)

honestly it's been knocking around in my head since ee3 revealed how graha had to use a ton of aether just to keep from fully crystalizing. and i dont regret making these two wait until post 5.3 to actually get together, but ive wanted to pose something along these lines for ages. today was a good excuse to do it <3

[rowanul-tyr]

happy kiss day!

i allude to it in my ot3 fic, but rowan and graha's first kiss was before they got together in 5.3! i do intend to write it fully someday, and hopefully that day is soon, but to spoil it a teeny bit, it involves some homoerotic aether sharing. :)

honestly it's been knocking around in my head since ee3 revealed how graha had to use a ton of aether just to keep from fully crystalizing. and i dont regret making these two wait until post 5.3 to actually get together, but ive wanted to pose something along these lines for ages. today was a good excuse to do it <3

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colin having fun at the banquet

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rynegaia redraw because they make me ill...💄

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In the sidequest "Revolting Refreshments" we learn that Urianger has feigned hating tea and cookies in order to get the pixies to prepare tea for him while thinking they're playing a trick on him. To help the Dispirited Pixie set up this "trick," the WoL is sent to get lake water to brew the tea, and fetch a "fragrant treat" from his cupboard.

Both milk and honey are available in Il Mheg thanks to the local population of sheep and bees; in fact these are both items Urianger prepares as gifts for the pixies in "Courting Cooperation," so he has ready access to them.

However, there's no mention of milk or honey in "Revolting Refreshments," nor does the Dispirited Pixie make any mention of Urianger adding anything to the "foul, brown water" before drinking it.

Therefore Urianger takes his tea black.

Thanks for coming to my TED talk.

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He's a knight. Of course he has a praise kink and low self-esteem.

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You know, I don't think as a fandom we explore what being a Dragoon WoL means the same way we do like, Dark Knight.

Because the Eye of Nidhogg resonants with the WoL when they met Estinien for the first time. The Eye that (iirc) only 'chooses' very specific kind of peoole for Azure Dragoon - If Estinien and to a lesser degree Alberic is anything to go by. Vengeful, angry people. People who have been hurt and are seeking revenge for it.

Personally, I'm of the headcannon that this is because Nidhogg (able to sense where his eye is and kinda feel things through it? Maybe even see through it) is trying to get those people worked up enough to possess them. Like with Estinien during the DRG 50 duty.

So what does it mean for a WoL who is also a Dragoon? Who has done that series of quests and had the Eye look at them and go:

"Ah yes. You. You too feel hatred and rage and pain enough that you could easily lose yourself over it. You want revenge for something, vengence. You want to make someone or something else hurt just as much as you do right now."

Idk I just think it's interesting and feel like I don't see it very much for WoL meta.

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You ever hear that old chestnut about how most people neglect the part of the story of Icarus where he also had to avoid flying too low, lest the spray of the sea soak his feathers and cause him to fall and drown? You ever think about how different the world would be if Icarus died that way instead? If the idiom was to Fly To Close To The Sea? A warning against playing it far too safe, about not stretching your wings and soaring properly? You ever think about how Icarus died because he was happy?

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few things are eternal but ur arr era crush(es) is one of them

also psst, comms are still up for grabs for the month!

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spice related thoughts.

rowan, starting with him and estinien getting it on in kugane, is a bit of an instigator. with haurche he sort of. learned to read how much someone might want to have sex in others, so he at least has a sense of when to expect stuff. so its why he is usually the instigator? him urging estinien in kugane, and since i'm writing it next, first time with graha the morning after their ishgard date before they leave.

he usually only ever does that, though. and its not because he feels the urge, but because he can usually tell if his partner/partners are wanting it. sort of like. giving permission in a way? idk its hard to explain, i just have thoughts of him being a huge tease when graha wakes up after their date so like. trying to explain.

i am supposed to be doing pelupelu quests and hutn marks not thinking about how to write the horny though :/

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Estininen, the guy who grew up poor in a war zone and lost his younger sib and also carrying the remnant soul of Nidhogg, the oldest possible brother, to a small child desperately trying to scam them to get money for their family: yeah bud you're doing such a good job scamming rich guys. I'm very scammed right now.

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so i realized i never actually posted this fic i wrote for non wol lysander (who belongs to @lysanderfels) set in the middle of shit hitting the fan in thavnair during endwalker. it is a companion piece to their fic here, but can stand on its own as well <3

basically just know that when rowan is the wol, this is generally the first time lysander actually gets involved during msq instead of remaining generally on the periphery, so this is sort of a mix of formative experience and traumatizing period to an extent...sorry lysander it does unfortunately go like this most of the time

--

Rowan is quietly glad that Lysander had not been sitting with the Scions as they discussed the next course of action. He was thankfully not terribly far away, but given how the Elezen’s gaze had been fixated on the sky above, Rowan gets the distinct sense that he would not have been paying much attention to the conversation at hand.

The Miqo’te frowns faintly, attention drawn back to G’raha and Estinien, who wait for him. He briefly takes both of their hands, squeezing them in what he hopes is a reassuring manner.

“I’ll catch up.” He promises, before tilting his head meaningfully towards Lysander’s table.

G’raha and Estinien glance over, notice Rowan’s friend, before nodding. It is G’raha who says, “Take your time, dear heart.”

Rowan lets their hands slip from his own, watches as they leave the meyhane. Only once they’re out of sight does he turn his full attention to Lysander once more.

Before approaching, he swipes a pair of glasses filled with water from the kindly woman offering them, and as he draws closer, he clears his throat in the hopes of catching Lysander’s attention. But he doesn’t move at the noise, nor does he respond when Rowan sits. His gaze is still on the sky, and when Rowan glances down, there’s a slight tremble in his hands.

Rowan’s heart clenches painfully in his chest--he knew Lysander had demanded to be allowed to assist, but if he was honest, this was exactly what Rowan had been worried about. He didn’t doubt that his friend was truly a thoughtful and compassionate person who wanted to help. But he knows Lysander didn’t agree to an apocalypse, no matter how much the Scions had made it clear just what the Final Days were before arriving in Sharlayan, which feels like an age ago.

Gently, he tugs off his gloves and sets a hand over Lysander’s. The Elezen startles, turning wide-eyed to Rowan, and Rowan can’t help but wince.

“Sorry.” Rowan murmurs. “I brought you some water.”

Lysander stares at him with wide eyes for a long moment, before blinking rapidly and turning his gaze to the glass Rowan had set on the table for him. He lets out a breath, taking the glass in hand and sipping gingerly. The tremble in his hand is not as severe as Rowan had worried it would be, thankfully, and after a moment Lysander seems to be in a better mood.

“Are you doing alright?” Rowan asks, though he can already hazard a guess to what the answer will be.

“...Yes, if I were to only consider my physical well being in general. I feel very tired, however.” Lysander says after a moment of thought.

Rowan nods faintly. “Shtola said you didn’t have many chances to catch your breath. I hope you’ll make sure to get plenty of rest.”

Lysander makes a quiet noise deep in his throat, nodding once but less as an acknowledgement and more of an automatic response to being told to rest. His expression is distant, and Rowan hopes he can help Lysander calm down further.

Before he can, Lysander finally regains enough awareness of their surroundings to think to look for the others. His brows draw together when he realizes they’d all left. “Where--”

“Off to a variety of tasks across Eorzea and the East.” Rowan says by way of explanation. “It’s important to keep these skies from spreading too much further--so they’re spreading out to alert city-state leaders and assist where they’re needed.”

Lysander’s expression is practically a maelstrom as he processes this. When he turns his gaze back to Rowan, he frowns a bit more severely. “You’re not going with them.”

Rowan hesitates for a long moment, before dipping his head in acknowledgment. “I’ve got a possible place to turn to for information. But as it’s on the First, I’ll be going alone.”

Lysander frowns more, gaze turning instead to the glass of water in his hands. When he doesn’t say anything further, Rowan takes his chance.

“It may be silly of me to ask, but…when I asked if you were alright, I meant how you were feeling.” Rowan shifts a little closer, setting a hand on Lysander’s wrist and squeezing. “How are you feeling?”

Lysander does not answer, at least not right away. Rowan watches as his expression shifts from emotion to emotion, from fear to dread to just about everything in between. Rowan wonders if he looked this way all those years ago, when he first started on this path.

“...is it…always like this for you?” Lysander says quietly, finally looking up to meet Rowan’s eye. When the Miqo’te only smiles thinly, Lysander lets out a wavering breath. “I feel as though I may shatter like glass the moment I lay down and attempt to process what has happened here let alone speak about it.”

Wetness forms in his friend’s eyes, and Rowan can only lean forward, taking Lysander’s hand in both of his own and squeezing. He does not think Lysander the type to be prone to despair, but something jolts through his veins and by the Twelve does he not want anything to happen to his dearest friend.

“That you have kept calm in spite of the chaos here is a good thing.” Rowan says. “I know that you must be…well, anything but okay, I suspect. I was that way, too. And it is perhaps not entirely reassuring, but it will not always feel like this.”

Lysander frowns again.

Rowan goes on. “I’d almost forgotten it, but the first real crisis I faced was the Calamity.” He closes his eyes, taking a breath. “Like most people who survived it, I don’t remember it very well. But I remember staring up at the flaming sky, hearing screams all around me…and struggling to stay calm. And I know I struggled to remain calm and focused for some time before being exiled to Ishgard.” He meets Lysander’s gaze evenly, offering a faint smile. “You did a lot of good today--helped a great many people. I would try to think about that first and foremost.”

“But even still--” Lysander’s jaw opens and closes a few times, and he’s unable to find the words he wants to say. So his mouth shuts and he clenches his jaw, and eventually manages to say, “Nothing is fixed. People are dead! I don’t…” He finishes, waving his free hand uselessly. “I don’t know what to do.”

Rowan is quiet for a long moment, finding he recognizes the frustration in Lysander’s words and tone. He used to agonize over how little he alone could do. What can one person even do in times like this?

He squeezes Lysander’s hand again. “Lysander…” Rowan lets out a quiet breath. “It has taken me ages to come to terms with that. There have been so many people I couldn’t help. So many things that a single person like me couldn’t do alone.” He pauses. “...The founder of the Scions, Minfilia. She had this phrase she would say on occasion, and it’s one that I have to remind myself of. For those I have lost, and those I can yet save. Even then, I have to remember that even I can only do some things with help from others. I can’t save everyone. And it is a terrible reality--but a reality nonetheless.” He turns his full attention back to Lysander, expression turning serious. “The fact that you did as much as you could is enough.

“As for what to do…I think ultimately it is up to you to decide. But there are certainly things I would want to do if I were you.” Rowan can’t help the smile on his face. “I think that, at least for now, you should go home. To Ishgard, to Doma. Remind yourself of who cares for you the most, and allow them to help you if you need it. Whether that be through talking or something else.”

Lysander’s mouth quirks up for the briefest moment. “And after that?”

Rowan shrugs a little. “If you wish to lend your aid to the Scions once more, it may be easier for you to provide support to Krile at the Annex. She’s to be coordinating the Scion’s efforts, and I am certain she could use the help. She will also be the first stop I make once I return from the First.”

Lysander makes a quiet, thoughtful noise. While Rowan can still feel a tremor in his hand, his friend seems to be steadier emotionally now.

“That is something I feel I can do.” Lysander agrees, though if Rowan knows him as well as he believes, Lysander won’t simply stand by with Krile. “...I suppose I shall just have to wait until you return, then.”

“Aye. But I will be back before you know it.”

Both rise from their seats, and before Lysander can react, Rowan pulls him into a tight embrace. Like that quiet evening in Sharlayan, Lysander returns the embrace.

“Be safe.” Lysander murmurs.

“You too.” Rowan whispers back. He releases his hold on the Elezen, letting out a breath. “And I’ll see you again soon.”

Lysander nods, at last letting the smallest smile grace his lips. In the blink of an eye, he raises the back of his hand to his lips, eyes closed, and casts his teleportation spell. And when he vanishes into the aether, Rowan thinks he can feel a chilly Coerthan breeze left in his wake.

Rowan lets out a breath, feeling slightly more at ease. He turns to follow in G’raha and Estinien’s wake, determined to make the most of the days ahead.

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WoL & WoL Week Day 6: Gratitude

I didn't forget!! This has been mostly done for a while I just...didn't have time to finish it in time and once there was no tiny amount of pressure, I had to wait til my brain worked back around to it.

Here's a little about non-WoL Lysander finishing his thesis. It gets a little sappy.

.....

It had been some moons since Rowan had heard from Lysander, though the circumstances were such that he wasn’t worried. After their jaunt across Tural had concluded amidst somewhat more crisis than Lysander was comfortable to find in his proximity, the geologist had returned to peaceful Sharlayan, to dedicate his focus to his thesis. The completion of his thesis, he claimed, and he would cloister himself in Sharlayan with his surplus of relevant data until a proper book was made of the work, and a proper Archon was made of himself, because, in his words, “one can no longer be certain when such processes will be suspended without warning as a consequence of secret machinations concealed from the populace at large.”

Rowan was still in Tuliyollal when Lysander’s voice crackled across his linkpearl, inviting him back to the Scholar’s isle. It was sooner than he expected, though perhaps he should not have underestimated his friend; Lysander had been gathering data for years, and the process of the thesis itself, he had assured Rowan, would largely be one of compilation and organization. But he returns to Sharlayan without delay—only to find himself alone at the Last Stand at the decided hour, sipping at an herbal tea and watching the sun drift towards the sea, lengthening Thaliak’s shadow.

At last, he spots Lysander striding across the harbor plaza, a harried expression apparent on his features as he approaches.

“Apologies,” he sighs as he stops beside the table, brushing a strand of hair out of his face with a huff. “The printer was being…well, not unreasonable, I suppose, but I told them I would need one copy in advance, and—” He draws a deep breath, exhales, and continues a little less frantically. “…at any rate, I have it. Here you are. This one is yours.”

He places a brown paper wrapped parcel on the table—distinctly book-shaped—and Rowan picks it up with no small amount of awe. After years of hearing Lysander’s lectures, accompanying him on field ventures, and occasionally collecting samples himself to send back to his friend, it is almost disconcerting to think that this particular project might be finished…though of course, Lysander will only move on to the next research question.

“But how are things across the salt?” Lysander says as he sits and readily pours himself a glass from the bottle of wine waiting on the table. “I hope—oh, you need not read it now—” he adds, as Rowan starts unwrapping the twine from the parcel.

But there is an odd urgency in his voice that makes Rowan more inclined to simply arch an eyebrow as he frees the book from its wrappings and flips to the title page, which reads, Metamorphic Deformation Fabrics in Crystal-Adjacent Bedrock.

And then to the following page, which reads:

For Rowan, without whom there would be no star to study and no geologist to study it. Your patience, interest, and well-timed lance have made all the difference, and I could not ask for a better field assistant, protector, or friend.

The tears do not even come gradually—Rowan just finds his eyes suddenly wet, one tear dropping to make a little lake on the stiff new parchment.

There is a sigh from across the table. “This is why—” Lysander starts to say, then breaks off with a damp-sounding huff. “Now I am going to be a mess, too. I told you already that this would not exist without you, so—”

“But still,” Rowan manages. “You dedicated it to me?”

“Who else?” Lysander replies, with no small amount of exasperation. “You—well. It is all right there, is it not? I have nothing else to add. Except perhaps ‘thank you.’”

His tone has acquired a familiar stiffness that arises when he finds himself compelled to put his sentiments into words, and Rowan decides to spare him the uncharacteristic awkwardness that seems to find him in such moments, and places the book down so he can stand up and hug him.

With Lysander still seated (and barely managing to avoid spilling his wine) he is in the somewhat uncommon position of being able to rest his head on Rowan’s chest, which he does with a resigned little sigh.

“Dramatic scene at the Last Stand,” he intones. “Warrior of Light seen embracing an unknown Elezen—”

“Quiet, you,” Rowan replies, squeezing him tighter. “If you did not want me to make a scene, you should have just mailed the thing.”

Lysander grumbles something, but submits to the embrace, lifting on hand to return it as much as he is able from his position.

“I would like to state that I do not expect you to read the entire thing,” he says after a moment. “The introduction and conclusions, perhaps, but the rest is largely just procedures and theories and diagrams—hardly beachside fare.”

“Of course I’m reading it,” Rowan says, releasing him with a frown and casting a protective glance back at the book, as though daring Lysander to take it back from him.

Lysander shrugs as if he expected this response. “Well, I have warned you.” His gaze rests on the tome for a moment, and then he abruptly slumps, dropping his head into his hands. “Oh, gods. I hope it’s enough.”

Even in the thick of the Final Days, Rowan has never known him to sound so despondent.

“Come, by now you should realize that the judgement of Sharlayans is hardly the measure of one’s worth? And if they do reject it…”

There must be something in his tone, because Lysander lifts his head with a somewhat alarmed expression.

“I feel I should emphasize that despite what I said about your lance, I would strongly request that you refrain from employing it in this case.”

“I’m joking. Mostly,” Rowan assures him as he takes his seat again. “So, where will you put your mark?”

Lysander cringes. “I feel there must be some superstition about making such decisions before anything is final.”

“Superstitions? In Sharlayan?” Rowan gasps with mock horror.

“Well, fair enough. With Thaliak as my witness, I will not allow such illogical practices to influence my behavior.” He pauses. “Just my neck, I think. I still do not understand what possessed Urianger to apply it to his face."

“That sounds like the right choice. As momentous as this achievement is…I feel like it is not very “you” to proclaim your status as an Archon of Sharlayan quite so blatantly.”

“If only because I wish for my father to be able to behold me without burning jealousy, yes,” Lysander laughs. “They are coming next week. After everything is…settled, one way or another.”

“Unexpectedly patient of them,” Rowan observes.

“Yes…my father, I believe, understands the state I am in.” He pauses. “…I have not even told Aymeric or Hien that the date is decided.”

Rowan blinks. “Wait, so…”

“You, my parents, and my advisor—and my chosen adjudicators, I suppose—are the only people who know.” He grimaces a little, as if expecting protest. “Please do not try to change my mind. It will be enough to bear if I must disappoint the four of you.”

Rowan tilts his head. “You will not disappoint us. No matter what happens.”

For a long moment, Lysander is silent—unwilling to agree, but equally unwilling to argue. Eventually, he bites his lip, glances at the book on the table, and seems to go slightly pale again before saying, “Might we speak of something else for a while?”

They do; Rowan has no shortage of tales from Tural, and Lysander listens with mixed horror and fascination as he speaks of developments in Solution Nine. Quietly, Rowan tucks his copy of Lysander’s work into his bag—Lysander seems to falter every time he glances it—and with the help of a little wine, he soon seems back to his usual self again, so when they part, Rowan is reasonably confident that his friend is going home to sleep, and not to his laboratory to pore over his data for the hundredth time.

For his part, he makes use of the rooms at the Baldesion Annex again, being sure to place Lysander’s book carefully aside so it doesn’t get mixed up with the general clutter. Once he has washed up and changed, he settles into bed with it, but when he turns to the first page of the introduction, an envelope slips out from the back of the book.

He opens it to find a letter in Lysander’s neat script.

Rowan,

I am certain I told you that the dedication speaks for itself, and I have naught else to add. But I am a lecturer, not a poet, and I feel that the three lines permitted by the publisher were far from sufficient to express my feelings completely. (And indeed, the dedication is not unique to your copy, and I admit some aversion to committing the words in my heart eternally to Sharlayan’s records.) Though I would like to believe that you already understand the depth of my gratitude and appreciation for your presence in my life, I must acknowledge that you and the star have come far too close to destruction, far too many times, for me to permit such things to remain unsaid. It is not only that you have preserved my life and that of the star to which I have dedicated my life towards studying, nor your interest in and support for my academic endeavor which frankly pales in comparison to your own feats, but in the course of knowing you, your presence has been a force that has formed me, as inexorably as those described in this volume’s pages, into a version of myself that I could not have attained on my own.

Your compassion, your willingness to choose love despite the risks, your courage, your conviction—even when you falter, even when you doubt your own strength…have no doubt that these things have changed me for the better, just as they have changed the star. Perhaps more importantly, however, your steadfast companionship has been just that: a constant and a comfort, one that I would have never realized I was missing had you not stumbled upon me in Thanalan all those years ago.

If I can claim some small measure of positive influence on you in return, it will be as precious an accomplishment as the marks which may or may not exist on my neck by the time you find this. I would beg that you refrain from acknowledging that you have seen this letter, else I will have no choice but to commit myself to its destruction immediately, and I am far too busy to suffer such a distraction.

Yours Sincerely,

Lysander Fels

----

[insert Rowan reaction here, I did sort of run out of steam....]