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fierce-in-the-forest · 17 days

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FFXIV Write, Day 8. “Wait For Me”

Char knocked on the door once. Twice. Three times. And finally from within, a woman’s voice decreed the door open. The door obliged, and Char stepped through.

“Hello, Charlotte.” Y’shtola closed the tome she had been browsing with a puff of dust. “I have been expecting you.”

Of course she had. Y’shtola knew EVERYTHING. Char tried to find the bravery that she had latched onto en route to the conversation, but stumbled over her words and settled on “H-hi.”

“You have a question to ask me, yes?”

The older woman certainly did not beat around the bush. “Y-y-yes,” Char stuttered. Then with more confidence, she repeated, “Yes. There is something I wish to speak to you about.”

Y’shtola’s milky white eyes traced Char’s frame. “You’ve changed your hair.”

She had indeed. Saoirse hadn’t seen it yet, thank god. She would lose her mind that they no longer had perfect matching waves that draped down to their butts. They no longer looked the same. Char liked it. Every time she looked at Saoirse, she saw herself—and she hated seeing herself.

“It suits you.” Y’shtola stood up and crossed around to perch on the edge of her desk. “Sit. Let us talk. I’ve been waiting for this day.”

Char did as she was told. “It does suit me,” she answered quietly. “My hair. For the first time.” And it truly did. For the first time in her life, Char had begun to—

“You want to know why I told your mother she was having a boy and a girl, and not two girls.” It was not a question.

Char nodded vigorously. She wanted to hear the witch say it. She needed to hear it.

“Most viera are girls, it’s true. But I can see deeper. I see you, who you really are. You were never a girl, my love.”

The words cut into Char so abruptly that she burst into a flood of tears. “Why would you never say?”

“It was never my place to say. But you’re no longer a teen, and it’s time for you to declare who you really are.”

“And who is that?” Char reached up automatically to twirl her long hair before remembering it was no longer present, that she’d chopped it all off with a savagery born of years of being someone she wasn’t.

“I can only say what I see, child. The rest is up to you.” Y’shtola draped a light hand on Char’s shoulder. “I believe you know the answer. Perhaps you are afraid to say?”

Char thought over her childhood. Holding hands with her sister. Braiding each others hair. Hunting smocks and dresses instead of pants. So much pink, both intentional and not. Saoirse loved pink.

Char never had.

“I…am male.” Char had never uttered those words before, in writing or in speech, but they were the truest thing he had ever said. “I’m male.”

The witch smiled, drawing the boy in for a long hug. “I am proud of you, child. And honored you chose me to be the first to tell.”

Y’shtola really did know everything.

“What do I do now?” Char drew his legs underneath him in a crossed knot. “Where do I go from here?”

“Only you can answer that.”

“But what do you SEE.”

Y’shtola turned her blank but full gaze first to the ceiling, then to the boy. “You can go home. You’ve been there, visited. Many times. They would accept you with open arms.”

The witch did not mean home with his parents. His sister. The witch meant….”The wood.”

“You belong there.” With a swish of her skirt, Y’shtola returned to the other side of the desk and sank back into her chair. “But. You must see your sister before you go.”

He did not want that. He did not want that at all. It would be better for them both if he just left. And the people of Celestria Wood didn’t treat men as poorly as they’d used to. It would be okay. Fine. All of it. “I will just go. No one here will miss me.”

“That is your choice, child, but know it is the wrong one. They will miss you. Deeply.”

Char got to his feet then and made for the door.

“Char?”

The witch’s voice ground him to a halt. “Yes?”

“You will be the one to bring them all back together. You need to know that. It is of utmost importance.” With that, Y’shtola opened her tome again and ended their conversation as suddenly as she’d began it.

Char stepped out into the night and headed into the trees. There was one particular spot where the aether was strongest and a portal could be opened. A portal in the aether to take him to the wood. He needed nothing from here. Not the clothes or the books, not anything else he had spent his entire life sharing with his sister.

Though he did wish to see his mother, Alannah, one last time. But he knew this was for the best. Just like Alannah had fled to give herself a better life as a teen, so too would Char. It didn’t mean anyone had done anything wrong, just that it would serve the person Char would become better to be in another locale. But with a glance back, a dream that his mother might appear, it occurred to him he could leave a note, however brief. He kept it simple, just a few words, and stuck it to the tree by where he always tuned into the aether. The place he had first opened a portal with his mother and sister, and visited the wood.

*It’s not your fault. I’ll see you again, someday. The witch knows.*

The magical words glistened on their parchment. With that, Char held out his hand and connected to the aether.

“Char! Char, wait!”

The connection flickered, and Char dropped his palm and spun around.

Saoirse sprinted toward him. “Wait for me!” She arrived in front of her brother, spent and out of breath, and bent to clutch her knees. “You move so fast!”

Char had no words.

Saoirse straighted then, took in Char’s new appearance. “You. Cut your hair.”

“Yes. I did.”

Tears glistened in Saoirse’s eyes, held back by a strength Char had always both admired and desired. “We don’t look the same anymore.”

“We were never the same,” Char whispered, his fingers itching to reopen the portal and escape into the aether, thereby avoiding this uncomfortable conversation.

“The witch told me you were leaving.”

Of course. Of course she had.

“She told me it was important I be here. And I didn’t believe it. I didn’t believe you’d actually—“

Behind Char, the aether opened again of its own volition, a portal born from Char’s deepest desires. “I want to go home.”

“You ARE home.”

“I never belonged here.” Char turned to face the portal, ready to venture into his version of eternity, and then glanced back to his sister.

“You are the heir to all of Doma!” Saoirse’s ears flickered uncertainly, because she knew the words she uttered were not true, in the same way that Char knew it was best they spent some time apart. Not as twins. As individuals.

“Sister.” Char turned back to her. “That was always you.”

They had both known this all along, though they’ve never spoken it out loud. For the task at hand as the heir of Doma, Saoirse was the stronger twin. She may have been only a few minutes older, but she was so much more at ease in this world. She was happy. And Char had to go where he could be the same.

Saoirse reached out suddenly and clasped his hand. “Wait, brother, wait for me. I’m coming too.”

So she had known, who he was. And he loved her for that. But all Char could do was shake his head, shake her hand off, before stepping into the aether’s light. There were no words to make it better for his sister. This was journey that, for the first time in his life, he would take on his own.

Char absorbed the pain of Saoirse’s sobs as the aether surrounded him. He did not look back, could not look back. He could not change his mind.

And he knew it was not goodbye. It was merely see you later.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/58806724

#ffxiv #ffxiv writing #ffxiv viera #ffxiv warrior of light #ffxiv wol #ffxivwrite2024

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ayafoxheart · 8 years

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An Ishgardian Ballad - Just a Story

(Screen shot by @kiskiphelone via tumblr, and used with grateful permission!)

[ A story from Aya's life in Ishgard. A story inspired by Noir - and stylistically by Cowboy Bebop (my favorite anime). I encourage anyone familiar with it to read the narrator in Jet Black's voice. If you're not familiar, I still hope you enjoy〜 ]

RPC Cross Post: http://ffxiv-roleplayers.com/showthread.php?tid=7871&pid=286681#pid286681

First Musical Accompaniment:

The maid huffed. It was a huff of indignation. A huff of curiosity. A huff that resounded with a full measure of spontaneity, but was in fact fully rehearsed; being the sort of gesture one learns through repeatedly encountering the same situation. She shook her head with a look of annoyance. People were always leaving their junk here. Sometimes it seemed they just wanted rid of it. Other times it seemed as if it were something special in search of a new owner. This was just a little wooden box. It looked like it could contain just about anything. The woman cocked her head and stared inquisitively wondering just what it was, what its story could be. Junk is junk, but most that found its way here had a story of one kind or another. Now, you might be thinking this is just another one of Aya's boring stories about tea time, or another one of those friendly conversations beneath the setting sun, or some such stupid junk like that. But this isn't one of those stories. Not at all. Its a story of family and honor. Of doing what is right, or at least what's necessary - or just your best. Oh, yeah, and its a story of young love. So, you know, if that's not your kind of thing you can just save yourself the trouble and stop right here.

The woman known as Aya Foxheart, wasn't always known by that name. Once upon a time she was known simply as 'Aya'. You know all of those performers out there known by only one name? Well, yeah, that was her doing. When she first made her name in Ishgard she didn't think she had another name worth sharing. So there it was, just 'Aya'. Somehow it stuck, and those others just want to be like her. Now you know. She's also thought of as one of Eorzea's greatest heart breakers. A darling and a delight. Or just trouble on two legs. And she'd have it no other way: you'd think the whole world would just bend over to get out of her way. But it isn't always so. She'd tell you that she can't remember just how it all happened. Or where it all started. Maybe somewhere with fairy tales of knights and damsels. Told by a mother passing on everything good in this world to her only daughter. She always said: 'When we lost everything, only our stories remained.' And here we are: her knight, at last: Charlesemile. Char, as she knew him. There he was again: tall and strong, even for an Elezen. She imagined him as a knight: no simple swordsman of the Temple, but the kind who stormed keeps and castles for true love. His long dark hair, raven-pitched, matched eyes that seemed capable of limitless depths. They were undeniably an object for the feminine gaze, and reflected affection with an effortless ease that belied his otherwise calm demeanor. She could not help herself in her admiration: his was the sort of smile you never forget. She didn't know how many times she'd seen him there back stage, or at some of the wilder parties thrown down there. He was probably just another nobleman's son, pawning off his influence for an evening's fun with the chorus girls, dancers and actresses of the lower-city stage. Their shows were more fun, and the girls themselves all-the-more entertaining, than those of the upper classes. They were also rather more appreciative of the bobbles and favors the young men offered. To young aristocrats, life down below the surface seemed altogether untouched by the frigid frost that defined the life of Ishgardian courtiers. Oh yes, she'd know just the sort. She'd seen it all before. She competed for their patronage. She wore their jewelry. She played their game, how could she not? And why not? Wasn't she enjoying herself? She wasn't quite famous yet. At least not like she would be. Just a teenager, and soon after her first starring role as an Othardian Princess in a great tale of heroic romance - you know the one. So, you could say she was a hot thing, but not quite that hot, if you know what I mean. And, with her charms, its not all that surprising that he fancied her. Weekend after weekend he went out of his way to find time with her during one event or another. We pick up again, somewhere, sometime, just off-stage. "Aya," he said with that bewitchingly soft tone of his, "How many times have I seen you like this? With all this company? With the noise? And the parties?" He offered up a disarming smile as he drew himself closer, pressing his arm to the wall just above her shoulder. He smiled with the gentleness that came naturally to his placid features. "Its you I want to see. Not them," he admitted with a hint of nervousness. He offered his deep, dark, pleading eyes to hers. "As much as I enjoy these shows, the only real reason I come down here any more is for you..." She gazed back, stunned. She'd like to remember a thousand thoughts coursing through her mind in that moment. Carefully weighing her options, and noting everything the man before her offered. That she was guarded, wondering, parsing. But that wasn't her. She was a just charmed girl in love. There were only two things she felt: relief and excitement. It wouldn't be easy. Is it ever, truly? But, this is a hard-scrabble story, you realized that already, right? Still, young lovers find a way. Their relationship was a spirited whirlwind. A torrid little thing buried in the frozen city. They spared every moment they could: walking the silent galleries of the lower city late at night. Slipping away from parties. Together, she visited the surface for the first time in years. She visited the Pillars and the Hoplon. She strolled past the villas of the rich and the famous. Well dressed men and women respectfully greeted her in his company. But, even then, the warmth of the daylight sun, and the pleasure of such easy respect, never compared to how wonderful Char made her feel. He was everything that she was not: upstanding, of station, proper, educated, and full of a poised restraint that seemed ever to personify the Elezen of Ishgard. His was a practiced manner, forged by a rigorous upbringing and quenched in the halls and classrooms of preparatory school. But in those quiet moments alone with her, he allowed the mask to slip. He embraced the warm, effortless joy that she readily offered the world. He smiled, he laughed, and together they grew to be more than either could have alone. Together they dreamed. Together they strayed. Of course, Aya was already a sought after woman. Charlesemile was not without his competition. And for her the danger was thricefold: to admiring men she owed her patronage, her fame, and so her future, at least whatever future she could make of her own. She could no more offer them a cold shoulder than she could wish away the Ishgardian cold. But even the greatest of men are prone to jealousy when a lovely young thing is involved. And so there she stood: pressed from all sides by dreams, needs, and fear. Despite her best efforts, things weren't always calm. There's one night in particular I'll never forget. I get to tell this one: I can see it now: a flurry of snow drifting down from the heavens. Descending flakes briefly caught in the lamplight of towering spires long before reaching the warm glint of lamps on the cobblestone streets of the less heavenly city below. The relative peace of the moment was interrupted by the sound of shouting voices. That age old concern: young men ready to fight over a young woman. Then, all at once, they fell silent with the sound of a 'crunch'. Cold steel striking the firmness of a young man's face. There quickly followed a second, 'crunch'. The same young man collapsing in a crumpled heap upon the snow. Several more remained standing, swords drawn and ready to taste blood. The not so poor fellow laying prone and regretful on the cobblestone was Reginald de something-or-other (its really not important at the moment). Above him, wiping the blood from sword-hilt stood Char. The others were Reginald's friends, or lackeys, depending upon how charitable you're feeling. "I suggest you three get him out of here, you've given us enough trouble for the evening." The trio looked back and forth, unsure of what to do with the sudden absence of their ringleader. In the moment of hesitation the subject of the altercation strode into the proverbial spotlight. Though slighter than the Elezen, Aya's always had a presence about her, and with her fearless poise and pose she seemed to momentarily tower over the rest of them. I can see it now: blue eyes shining with the full ferocity of highland defiance. Tensed, ready fists lingering waist-height just behind her. And she showed not a care that her bodice had been slit from top to bottom, leaving her Ala Mhigan bounty threatening to spill into plain view. She wanted nothing more than to return the disgrace that had been shown her, and given the chance she would more than pay it back. The fury of Highland women is something of legend, and once witnessed can never be forgot. Such is the lesson of this parable- or something like that. Anyway, faced with the charming knight, and his enraged damsel, the trio of well-heeled goons beat a hasty retreat dragging their barely conscious provacateur with them. And though he couldn'tt feel his feet as they banged along the cobblestones, he managed enough to hurl threats upon the couple: "You'll pay for this you wretch! And your cheap wench too!" It doesn't take much imagination to know how this scene ended. And there were more of the sort. Despite the challenges, they still found a way. And so it was. Sometime later Aya found herself at Heathrow's Emporium. It's her favorite kind of shop: the sort where you can find anything and everything. In other words: just another junk shop. And Heathrow's one of those talented old guys who always seems to know a little bit about everything. He also managed to have something new in stock most of the time: a neat trick given the difficulty of trade since the gates were sealed. I've always found it strange that the girl is drawn to this kind of place. I wouldn't say she's some sort of expert on junk, I sure hope not, but I'd believe she were Eorzea's foremost expert on the purveyor's of junk. Ah hell, there I go talking too much again, lets get back to the story. "...yes, my dear, it plays an absolutely beautiful little tune. Sweet and lilting." "The sort to remind you of a girl you love...?" She asked with a heart-warming unassumingness. He laughed, "I'd imagine its exactly that sort." Then the old man paused, bushy eyebrows twitching. "Say... its not for that handsome young master..." She nodded, silently, as the old man laughed, "And here I thought it was supposed to work the other way around. Guess I'm just old fashioned." "But, but..." he cautioned earnestly, "As I said, the box doesn't work any more." He scratched his head, peering at the little device, "I have not been able to figure out how its broken. Until it's fixed it won't play any music at all, whether for pretty girls or not." She stared at it intently. It was perfect. Small and he could take it with him anywhere he might go or travel. And everywhere he went, he could play the tune and think of her. But could it be made to work? She stared at it all the more, as if she could make it work through the force of will alone. The old man laughed, humoring the girl, "Ah... well... perhaps it just needs the power of love. You are welcome to give it a try, anyway. Its yours, just bring it back if it doesn't work..." Now, Aya's got a knack for tinkering. Anything mechanical, even magitek. If its a widget or gizmo with gears or crystals she can figure it out given enough time. I don't know where she got it from. I really don't, but sometimes its just a joy to watch. What she can't do is fabricate replacement parts. And that's where I get to have my part in the story: for that she needs a brother with a hammer and a careful touch. Well, she's a pretty amazing girl, and with my help, she had that damned little box working again. ♪Tinkle-dee-dee-dun-da-da-dee♪ sang the delicate little chimes. It was a lovely tune. It wasn't sophisticated or deep, but she knew he'd think of her whenever he heard it, wherever he might be. She wound the spring again, and flipped open the lid to listen once more. "Well, whadya know, sis. It works!" announced Osvald, her brother the smith, still wearing his smithy apron. ♪Tinkle-dee-dee-dun-da-da-dee♪ it played again and again. She grinned with the sort of excitement that only she could muster. You see that guy there? That's me, her brother.

The week came and went, and she had not been able to see Char. This was not altogether unusual. He was a busy young man: already in the final year of school and training for the military career that awaited him. It was not altogether easy for him to slip away, and she truly didn't mind. Eventually, they knew, all would be right, and they could be together like they had always dreamed. All she could think about was presenting him with the gift of the little music box. She opened it, and listened to the tune, imagining him in years to come playing the tune in some distant garrison and imagining rushing into her arms. He'd never feel alone. He'd never forget. The days came. The days went. There was still no word from him. She could barely wait, and at last she could no longer bear it. If he were so busy, then even now he could use a reminder of her love. She'd left him messages before, and this would be no different. After dinner she slipped from the family inn and into the streets she called home. This was her city. Her place. She had no trouble making her way in the dark to the surface streets, and the Pillars. There she gently rang at the servant's entrance, as she had before. The sweet-smiling butler answered the knock, and with the exchange of a few kind words, accepted the gift to deliver. Of course, a young woman's dreams rarely come so simple, do they? She slipped quietly into bed, unable to sleep with the excitement that swelled within her breast. She imagined Char's face when receiving the gift. She imagined him listening to the sweet little tune again, and again. ♪Tinkle-dee-dee-dun-da-da-dee♪

Second Musical Accompaniment:

She was helping with chores the next day when the carriage pulled up out front of the tavern. She nearly leapt in excitement, imagining a summons from her Prince Charming. She ran to the door, throwing it open and announcing herself, "I'm here!" There was quite a bit of activity within the rest tavern in response to the unexpected visit. Her cousins quickly began to look for 'Uncle', the one man in the family with enough standing and knowledge to speak with a member of a representative of a Noble House - no one else could afford such transportation. The Elezen gentleman who disembarked from the carriage offered nothing but serene disinterest. He stood at a majestic height, supported by an ornately decorated walking stick, and draped in what appeared to be a new fur coat: an extravagance. His short dark hair was just starting to gray at the temples - a gray that clung fully to the neatly trimmed beard that graced and distinguished his chin. His eyes scanned the environs of the modest inn. One could feel his silent scoff at the dimness of the light in the tunnels of the lower city, and the bare dinginess of the entire scene. Aya stared at him, agape, from the open door. At last, he took a few long, slow strides toward her before letting out a labored sigh that wiped the last remnants of smiling from her features. He brought his stick to rest, leaning lightly upon it. "You must be Aya..." His voice was sanguine, unaffected, and possessed of the cool, collected refinement of the masterly class. Uncle had been born and raised in the city, as had his father and grand father. He was a lowly inn-keeper, but still a respectable man who knew how to handle delicate situations involving men of higher status. Ishgardian was his native tongue, and despite his lower-levels dialect he could affect a proper-enough tone to not offend the sensibilities. It was this man to whom Aya would have looked for rescue, but this was not the man who arrived. Instead the sound of a heavy walking stick quickly descending the stairs announced the arrival of a fellow of an altogether different character. "I... yes...?" She answered, with a downcast stutter, "..ser!" she added with same panic. Her fingers clutched defensively at the door frame. His countenance betrayed no hint of emotion as he accepted her reply without comment, before slipping a gloved hand into the interior breast pocket of his coat. Unfolding his hand he presented to her the small, familiar music box. "And, you are the one who brought this to our home, yesterday evening?" There was a slight tilt of his head, expressing curiosity without intended harshness. The color quickly drained from the girl's cheeks. Her body tensed and then drooped. She fainted, her body threatening collapse at the sight, and the revelation it proclaimed. Only the sudden intervention of a strong grip prevented her plummet to the pavement. Her father. Harsh. Strong. Ala Mhigan to the very core. He had never bothered to learn Ishgardian. His grasp of the tongue is not just rough, but often borders on incomprehensible. He grasped her around both shoulders, fingers clasped around her arms, bodily holding her up with a gentle tenderness reflected in the worried expression upon his grizzled features. The Elezen pressed his shoulders back, folding his hands together in an entirely proper posture, while more of the family arrived in the entryway behind the girl and her father. Her uncle was the next there, but he was already too late. Her mother let out a wail of surprise, as the two of them took hold of Aya leaning her back and trying to revive her. With his daughter being cared for, the man who had-been lord, grasped his heavy walking stick and raised himself to his full height. He strode confidently forward, with the learned bearing of a fearless man of the battlefield, hunting ground, and dueling yard. He approached the unfazed Elezen with defiance: the worried expression replaced with a look grim and terrible: his heavy brow taut and furrowed, blue eyes filled with barely restrained malice. "This is my daughter." He stated, matter-of-factly. "Who do you think you are?" He turned his chin up toward the wiry, graceful nobleman, inviting confrontation. The Elezen had felt the pang of sympathy at the sight of the fainted girl, but he could not but dismiss the mockable sight now presented him. He gazed down his nose upon the might of Ala Mhigo's conceit, in all its broken glory. "A man whose acquaintance neither of you deserve." He replied with cold and patient form. Ever fiber of the old Ala Mhigan's body stood on edge. His voice growled to life with an agonizing fire, "You dare speak to us like this!" The old warrior raised his stick menacingly, glaring with rage. His interlocutor refused to flinch, he only drew his own cane slightly higher, perhaps to guard against a potential blow, but otherwise refused to budge or shout - still, exasperation shown through his voice, "I shall speak to you however I please. But I am only hear to speak to your daughter, and as mercifully brief as possible." From the entryway her uncle shouted to both of them for calm. Her father glared, but dared nothing further, just yet. He slowly lowered his cane, glowering with narrowed, threatening eyes. "You knife-eared scoundrel if you have dared to touch a hair upon my daughters head, I swear before the Destroyer that I shall strike you down!" "Twelve forfend!" gasped the Elezen in a manner that defused the situation. He folded his arms across his body, raising his head indignantly, "I know not your daughter. Nor do I ever care to. That is why I am here." The Ala Mhigan relented, if cautiously. "What the hells do you want with us, then?" The Elezen again presented the music box, "Are you aware that your daughter has been spending an inordinate amount of time with my son?" The Hyur looked puzzled, but Aya shouted from the doorway where she had recovered. "Father, its true!" Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her father knew not what to make of anything in that moment: except that this man was still terrifying his daughter. His posture quickly relaxed, and he returned to her side, speaking to her softly in their mother tongue. "Aya... what is going on?" The graceful Elezen let out a sorrowful sigh, "Now... now... I did not mean to be the cause of such... trouble." He hesitated, searching for words of comfort rather than offense. "There is no need for tears. No harm is intended for anyone today." Her father turned back toward the man once more, father and daughter staring at him hostilely, as her father replied, "I have my doubts, Elezen. Speak your business then, and begone." "My son." He started, pausing to take a breath and start over. "Charlesemile, is a man of great potential. I do not know what you are aware of, but I was not born to the gentry. Our family have been loyal retainers for generations. Centuries of carefully kept records attest to that. I was fortunate enough to marry a daughter of the family, I..." He paused, stifling a sigh while momentarily closing his eyes, "... I do understand what it is to marry for love. She became an unlikely heiress, and our son was raised with a future in her class. When she died, her title and name did not pass to me. They are his to bear. But you understand, I presume, that if he is to secure his family's position he must marry into his own station." Having finished the statement of his business, he rather abruptly presented the music box once more. "And what's this?" Asked her father, still standing by her side. The entire family watched the exchange from within the building. "A symbol of love, professed, I do believe." Stated the Elezen with clinical precision. "Now. I have every reason to believe that your feelings are sincere," he stated, with a carefully sincere intonation of his own. "And that knowing this, you will do what is clearly best for him. If you do not stay away from him he shall lose his standing, title, and every potential for his future. I pray that you satisfy yourself with once having known one of Ishgard's premier men, and one of her greatest knights." Her father rapped his stick powerfully against the paving stones, "She's not good enough for you, that's it?" He growled, before snarling a choice Ala Mhigan phrase toward the man. The Elezen bore the assault without flinching, and then addressed Aya one last time. "Is everything understood?" She wiped the tears away with her fingers, steadying herself just long enough to nod and answer him, "It is." The old Elezen was a bastard, no doubt. Glad we don't have his type as an in-law, and honestly I find myself wishing father had just throttled him right then and there for all of us. But Aya was the wiser, and we'd all have paid, in the end, for the gesture. I know she thought it over for days. She agonized. But, in the end, what could she do? It wasn't like there was somewhere the two of them could run to. Not at this time. Not in this city. "... what are you saying?" she had never seen Char so emotional as he was in that moment. "You cannot mean it!" He exclaimed, his voice cracking. "I do..." she repeated, struggling to force back her own tears as she sat passively next to him. She had summoned every last ounce of control and reserve. She was doing everything she could to be strong for him. "I do mean it." "But..." he let out an unaffected sob. The plaster-like veneer cracked before her eyes. "We are from different worlds, Char..." she repeated the carefully rehearsed words. Though they did not, and could not reflect her true feelings. "We cannot be together. I will hold you back..." "I don't care!" He yelled in frustration, leaping up from the bench as he turned toward her, his voice full of passion. "I don't care about any of that! All I want is you!" "And... you cannot..." she could not fight back the tears and longer. Her heart broke again. She sobbed. Chill rain fell from the cloudy sky with a crack of thunder. "That... this... this is it?! After... after...." he lost his train of thought, his own tears joined hers as they fell through the cracks and fractures of youthful dreams. The rain poured. It soaked them both, as the biting wind nearly froze them in place. "Char..." "Yes?" He raised his eyes, with a faint sense of hope. "Thank you. Thank you for having loved a girl like me..." It seems like that was a long time ago. So long ago. Eventually, Aya escaped this cage-like city. Found herself a new name: 'Foxheart'. You know how some of that story has gone- more than me, probably. Some, well, none of us will ever know just everything she's been through outside these cold walls. Out there, in the vast rest of the world. Sometimes I find myself wondering if she would have been the one to hold him back, or if, truly, it were the other way around. Meanwhile things here kept on, like they do. The world never stops. We went on with our lives. Never forgetting. I'm sure Char didn't either, how could you forget a girl like that? Sometimes I wonder if that bastard father of his ever had second thoughts. Ah well. Eventually, as you know, there was another Dravanian attack on us. Then, another day, they swung open those big gates. I never thought I'd see it. Had to let in adventurers, that's just how bad things had got. And then, one day, with the gates open again, she returned home... Dread. A deep-seated dread that stills the heart, and then retreats to its darkest corners as we try to forget. As we try to move on. She'd heard. But she had to know. Had to be there. Had to see it, no, feel it for herself. It was raining. That awful, awful, cold rain. Her fingers followed the indentation in the stone. The memorial engraving in that cold, ungiving, uncaring stone. "... Charlesem..." She tore herself away. Then she did what she did back then--what she always seems to do: she ran. She ran away. Away from the memorial. Away from the name she loved. Away from the memories. Away from it all. Just... away. I did say this was a sad story didn't I... I guess I probably should have... The maid stared at the little box that had been left behind like so much junk. Curious, at last, she flicked open the lid: ♪Tinkle-dee-dee-dun-da-da-dee♪ She smiled at the lovely little tune, and mused to herself "I wonder what old Heathrow will think of that...?"

#Aya #Aya Foxheart #fxiv #writing #story #Balmung #roleplaying #RPC

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