#douceline de dansereau

[ascalonsmercy]

the night at thaumazein

[lunarosewood23]

FFXIVWrite2022 Prompt 21: Solution

Raven is dealing with particularly stubborn nobles. Thankfully Charibert knows how to deal with them and offers his own solution to their questions.

Or: A public callout to the nobility that the Inquisition isn’t the nobility’s to manipulate and pit against political rivals.

Thanks @prettyparadoxes for the inspiration for this, and for letting me write it.

~~~

Raven pinched the bridge of her nose. She knew the nobleman had a point, that there were a few factions of heretics that were still dealing in human trafficking. She was aware of several that were taken while on the road and while they escaped, they didn't escape without being force-fed dragon blood. However that didn't mean every single heretic was acting in this!

"I understand your concerns, but that doesn't mean-"

"May I offer a solution?"

Both Raven and the nobles looked over to see Charibert, and Raven internally gulped. Her brother was always a wild card with these, his reputation would make nobles think he was on their side and while he would use such to his advantage, he would always cause a little chaos with his reformed opinions since he woke up from being untempered.

"Ahh finally someone who understands our concerns." One noble breathed in relief. "Ever since my niece had been kidnapped-"

"My sympathies, my lord. However..." Charibert started, but Raven knew that tone. 

He was about to call the nobility out on something she knew to be the case for millenia.

“Don’t you think it would be prudent for the Inquisition to be more focused on vetting each of these claims than blindly following the nobility’s whims in taking out their political rivals or paying these human traffickers the means to get away with such?”

Raven covered her mouth with a taloned hand to cover the laugh as the noble erupted in outrage. “How dare you?!!”

“No, how dare you for using your niece’s tragedy to further your own political agenda.” Charibert countered with a glare, his piercing gaze making the man flinch. “The young Lady Dansereau would be disgusted.”

The man sputtered as Raven thought about the case involving the Dansereau’s daughter. If she recalled it correctly, it was a political scam that left her with an awakened inheritance (manifesting differently than her own) and the need to escape Coerthas for her safety. She’d long returned to Ishgard, but she knew the former baroness, a leader of the Church, didn’t handle her forced change well.

She shook her head as Aymeric called for an end to the meeting, much to her relief, she felt a headache coming and she wanted to be at home before it got worse.

“I hope you know brother dearest, that you just caused a massive shiteshow.”

“I am aware, sister, and I hope you’ll forgive me for my intervention, however that has bothered me for some time.” He replied with a sheepish grin.

Raven gave him an incredulous look but sighed, he wanted to change, and she wasn’t gonna keep dragging up the past. He ruffled her hair when she didn’t speak more on it as they exited the Vault to head towards the Crozier to get a few things for their mother, passing by the Scholasticate on the way.

“Besides, I had been going through my notes on past cases and with a clearer mind I’ve noticed more of the abductions covered were like Lady Dansereau’s. I hope we can make it to where she and many others are more welcomed at home.” He explained as they spotted a young noblewoman with beautiful rose gold hair and a sleepy expression that widened in terror as they passed, her hands moving to pull her cloak tighter to her. She stared at them, particularly at him, to which he simply said “Fury keep you, my lady.”

Her mouth opened to say something back but she nodded slowly as they left, and Raven sighed, this was going to take time, and she knew the history books wouldn’t let his horrific deeds go, but she would see this city changed for the better.

They all would do their best to see Ishgard heal.

[frostsong]

9—06: ONEROUS.

adjective: (of a task, duty, or responsibility) involving an amount of effort and difficulty that is oppressively burdensome.

rating: t

characters: archombadin de dzemael, original characters, douceline de dansereau

tags: archombadin/douceline, pre-endwalker, the wol finally gets to take her bf with her on her travels

summary: it was high time he saw things the way she saw it—or at least, saw things up close.

wordcount: 786

“...i’ll need to leave again soon.” 

“where?” his brow furrowed. there were many reasons that signaled her lie, her half-truth—regardless of what it was archombadin knew it all to be the same: deception. he would’ve thought her to know better. after all, it hadn’t been so long ago that they—that she—had uncovered the greatest deception in their lives. he could always count on douceline to be sincere, and he liked to think he was one of those who could see right through her when something else was on her mind.

“...dou. what’s happening now?” archombadin couldn’t hide the growing irritation in his voice. it wasn’t meant for her. rather, whatever it was that would inevitably cause her strife once more—these days it seemed like all of eorzea wanted something from her, at the risk of—well, everything. the two of them had discussed her obligations before, face to face and over the linkpearl and through countless letters that he kept locked in a lacquer box she’d sent his way from her time in kugane—

it had to be one of those things easier said than done. 

“...sharlayan. i told you about what happened at stillglade fane…” focused were her eyes as she raised her head to look at him once more. this time, he sensed nary a breath of hesitance—the way he wanted it, the way he knew her to be.

“...with leveilleur.” he nodded. 

“they have the answers. whether or not they’ll tell us, we’ll find out.” douceline’s breath fell to a hushed whisper as he felt the gravity of her situation, the drum of her heartbeat—and his own mimicked in turn, right down to what weighed heavy on his chest—pure, wretched trepidation. he would have to settle for the faint scent of lavender on dried ink, for the crackle that came with her voice from malms and mountains and seas away. 

“...this is a purely diplomatic visit, is it not?” it slips off his tongue too fast for him to think—foolish, utterly foolish, and he knows that—but the repercussions, he thinks, are worth the risk. the rising desperation that suddenly made it difficult for him to even raise his tongue was at a boiling point. archombadin would simply be at home and await their next correspondence, all the while managing the affairs of the dorm and the student body along with the others. he knew this, he’d lived this, and yet—

(he doesn’t realize his gaze has fallen from her dusky-rose hues and onto her pendant—his earring—chipped from her encounter with the crown prince of garlemald at ghimlyt.)

“it’s…meant to be.” she closed her lips and swallowed tight.

“i hope we don’t need to resort to anything more…drastic.” she sighed, knowing full well that they had done so before—and would do so again, if needed.

“do you plan on crossing paths with that man again. sevestre,” his teeth bit the name of the pale-haired hyur who had seemed all too enthusiastic about ending her and the others from the astrologicum. 

“i don't plan on it—but i’ve a feeling it will happen regardless…lev—lord rufin said he was a member of the forum.” he blinked, but let it slip, for he was still too occupied with the topic at hand to entertain a tangent.

“i’ve a few choice words—”

“then i simply cannot take you with me.” her sweet lips dipped in a low scowl, that her prominent cupid’s bow became the high-point of her small mouth.

“that’s what you were going to ask me, wasn’t it?” he froze, tongue stilled behind lips slightly parted. in his efforts to try and unravel her thinking, she had turned his tactic against him, right at his moment of vulnerability. 

he sighed, the quiet humiliation doing its part to humble him once more. dearest douceline was unchanged in some things—arguably improved in said things, even.

“...i concede.”

“that you will. but i need you to promise me you won’t do anything to jeopardize this. you know it’s—”

“—of the utmost importance.” he nodded, curtly—already he was making a mental note of what to pack, what to delegate, what to tell his parents, the student body—not that it would be difficult to have anyone understand the very serious business of accompanying the warrior of light on her travels. before he hadn’t a proper excuse—much less a proper reason—to join her, but now was the long awaited chance that he simply couldn’t afford to miss.

most importantly, she initiated it—she wanted him there. no matter the reason—whether or not he could contribute in a way that was useful—all of it came second, selfishly so, to her wanting him at her side at those pivotal moments, far away from the land they called home.

[deardouceline]

❛ if  you  ever  find  a  moment ,  spare  a  thought  for  me . ❜

“It’s not a matter of if.” Her smile pressed wider, something brightening in her eyes. Something like the light caught in budding tears.

“When.” He corrects, raising a gloved finger to the edge of her eye, which she refused with a shake of her head.

“Not even that. You’re always on my mind, whether you like it or not.” At this, he scoffed, lips barely parted in a subtle smile.

“I suppose this helps.” A downward jut of his chin at the pendant that hung from her neck—a charm identical to that of his earrings. 

“Even without it.” 

“Now...I wouldn’t want to be a distraction.” A half-truth, evident in how he could only chuckle instead of laugh at such a conclusion.

“It’s all I have instead of you right there with me.” She blinked, and for a moment her smile ceased. The lordling felt guilt rising in his chest, reminded once again of his own limitations, due in no small part to the sheltered, narrow-minded upbringing that had been the imperative for a boy of his peerage. Douceline would be leaving-not forever, of course-but for a poignant, pivotal time. Regardless of who and what all this was meant to support, he had a feeling their homeland would feel some after-effects of whatever was to take place.

“...And besides. Not everyone is as fit for stimulating debate as you.” At that, their mouths mirrored in a coy smile. Not many beyond the Scholasticate knew of the competitiveness that had brewed since the day they first met, from bitter to sweet and bitter again-to the intoxicating blend that they could no longer deny.

“I’ll pass that onto the others, thank you very much.” His hands came to rest at her back, and by reflex, hers went to his chest. Surely she must have felt his heart thudding under her palm, though he supposed any closer and she might as well have heard each quickening thud.

“Don’t oversell yourself.” Her smile sunk in a feigned pout, chin atop one polished button of his uniform overcoat.

“You know that’s just what Cramm would want you to do-right before he reveals something meant to catch you off guard. Something he wasn’t supposed to see.” He clicked his tongue and drew her closer.

“This is the fifth time I’ve had to hide the dorm keys elsewhere.” 

“I think it’s the servants this time.” Douceline tilted her head.

“Blaisie was asking me about the grape and your cousin’s dog. That was at the Rook.” 

“Wha-”

The chime of the bell at the airship’s counter turned both their heads back towards the landing, where the area that once held heaps of packages now stood vacant. He swallowed, turning to face her once again, and her eyes lingered on the airship for a little while longer before she met his gaze. Though he’d initially dreaded—detested—the slits of her pupils, the faded rose-pink was the same color, as was the heart-shaped curve of her face, the blush of her nose, the sound of her voice...

He would grow to miss it all, as even his praiseworthy memory could only account for so much-at least, compared to having her there with him in the flesh.

“Fury keep you. Hale and whole.” Before she could respond, he brought her right hand to his lips. 

He couldn’t even bring himself to say goodbye. All things considered-he never got to the first time they parted, and by some incomprehensible fear he held himself back from saying so again, as if it would bear the same ill-fortune.

What he received instead was a kiss—on his lips, warm and soft and featherlight in way that he could only compare to the snowflakes that fell even in a bright, kindly sun—

When he opened his eyes, her arms were wrapped around his neck (to hoist herself up, as to reach his mouth)—and his hands cradled her face, and he tilted her head backwards ever so slightly as to look at her longer, drinking in the image of her as if she were the Fury herself, glorious in the vibrantly-colored stained-glass of the grand cathedral.

“I’ll be back sooner than you know it.” She spoke, softer and quieter than usual, as if the touch of the kiss was something she wanted to remain on her tongue for as long as possible.

“...It wouldn’t do to hope too often, then. Lest I delay your return.” Archombadin smiled, gloved thumb tracing the dip of her chin to the crease of her mouth’s edge, and she exhaled softly, and her eyelids sank halfway as her hand remained on his wrist, counting the seconds before they inevitably parted.

He didn’t dare to dwell longer at the landing once the airship was out of sight. 

There was still work to be done, and he would do his part. 

He would do it better than he had before.

[winterwedded]

douceline in thavnair 

[ascalonsmercy]

[ascalonsmercy]

in the unholiest of places

[ascalonsmercy]

& i'll keep you in my prayers

[frostsong]

9—18: (EC) ACCEPTED.

verb: regard favorably or with approval; welcome.

rating: t

characters: original characters, douceline de dansereau

tags: post-heavensward, not too long after the final steps of faith, being reclaimed by the very people that wanted you dead, thank you to @soulsow for the prompt! 

summary: a tale about a painting found in the black market.

wordcount: 373

“we thought it best to leave it in your discretion—” the bespectacled man turned to her, tongue halted as if unsure how to address her. ‘miss’ far too casual, but what of ‘my lady’? either way it seemed inappropriate—insufficient for the savior of their beloved city.

but she smiles nonetheless, warmly so that it creeps into her eyes—she didn’t know how she could manage it in spite of the feelings that still raged war in her heart: whether or not her countrymen (the vast majority of whom she’d encountered—and a great many faces had indeed come to greet her upon her return from the desecrated bridge) had truly accepted her, again, as one of their own, or whether it was merely conditional. she toed the precipice of wanting to believe and holding her hopes back, and for someone who had very nearly seen the world come to an end, the thunder of her heartbeat was still heavy in her ears.

“you are very kind.” she isn’t lying. not in full. it’s only been three days and yet the man had the odd consideration of bringing this—an oil portrait she remembers sitting down for, years ago. it had signs of wear and something else—something that makes her hesitate all over again.

a dismal ‘H’ in blood-red, sprawled across her face.

she nodded, closing her mouth tight as she did well to hide her tight swallow.

“i will…handle things from her, good sir.” certainly one of the more eye-catching of the myriad of gifts she’d received. the poor man dipped his head in a hasty bow before he was escorted out by one of the sentries, leaving her alone in her bedroom once again. 

she spent a good while staring at the oil portrait that leaned against the wall, with a few packages swept to the side, some wrapped ornately and others carved, sown, crafted by hand. her eyes seemed so different back then—not because of how her pupils had still been full and round rather than the slits bestowed by the dragon’s blood—and maybe that did account for how she felt fiercer than she had looked before all that had transpired.

even with that awful, late addition—she supposed there was merit in keeping it.

[frostsong]

9—15: ROW.

noun: a number of people or things in a more or less straight line.

rating: g

characters: archombadin de dzemael, original characters, douceline de dansereau

tags: post-endwalker, doudou people-watching bc she’s bored at church

summary: observations made on halone’s holy day. 

wordcount: 177

he sits poised beside her, eyes forward and lips sealed—attentive in the way he was during lectures. (she catches him looking over the edge of his opened enchiridion every time). 

their row had traditionally been behind that of the dzemael’s main line, though as years passed there were seats left vacant, leaving a dwindling line of succession (as was seen with many of the noble, let alone high houses). but in light of many things that had occurred relatively recently (such as their engagement) the descendants of saint sylvetrel had experienced a renewal in power, even with the social upheaval that slowly crept throughout the new republic.

the childish yearning would occasionally arise in her as the priest droned on with the sermon; at the corner of her eye she sought her classmates—her dear friends—in their respective seats. blaisie and janchette were the ones most likely to return her stare: others like theomocent kept their attention fixed upon the man at the pulpit, basking in the multi-colored glow of the morning light through the ancient stained glass.

[frostsong]

9—03: TEMPER.

verb: act as a neutralizing or counterbalancing force to (something).

rating: t

characters: grinnaux de dzemael, paulecrain de fanouilley, original characters, douceline de dansereau

tags: the heaven’s ward survive-au, un-tempering, my wol’s sister was fwbs with both grinn and paule, wowee the angst of the singularity reactor and thinking your big sister’s hated you since then

summary: as the warrior of light, douceline is no stranger to mediation. takes place after 5.4.

wordcount: 860

the doors of the guest room were shut tight—whether or not it was locked, it might as well have been. 

but when douceline ignored the fearful, stifled warnings of the maids in the corridor and knocked, only to be met with silence after three attempts. she found an empty room when she entered—and, fearing for the worst, had sent word throughout the household, both indoors and out—to ensure that their esteemed guest was hale and whole and most importantly, out of plain sight.

douceline was due to leave for old sharlayan quite sooner than she’d hoped: she realized this was a familiar theme in her travels, the wishing for more time. and while home would always have her heart, this was something she wanted to seek out herself. to her, she held half the blame that came with slaying the heaven’s ward, and the late archbishop—the primal king thordan—carried the other, with surely far less remorse. 

with angelo afloat beside her, she continued her search for the two entrusted to their care. she did the right thing in putting herself in their shoes: the wide hall used for both the display of all their heritage panoplies otherwise not for show elsewhere throughout the manor and for training when the weather was too inclement (though the calamity had made familiarity with the constant cold a necessity). 

two tall silhouettes—bereft of armor in loose-sleeved tunics with the laces that strained over the broadness of their chests, the breeches and the boots—glared in her direction. 

“…have you eaten yet?” far from the best choice of words spoken to two men whose lives she’d ended not too long ago, but far from the worst. before all of this, douceline had done well to keep her distance, fearful of becoming collateral damage to their tendency as belligerents. 

as fate would have it, the possibility of being struck was no longer the greatest thing she had to fear. far from it, actually.

grinnaux sneered, slinging his axe over his shoulder. truth be told, the axe was theirs and not his stampede—part of the deal included ceding it and paulecrain’s winter to the count, and in her sister’s eyes it was an insignificant price to pay.

“if it isn’t the hero of the hour.”

he scoffed, and turned away from her—only to stop halfway at the sight of a flying pig at her shoulder. the look on his face was something between perplexed and annoyed; douceline might have giggled if it hadn’t been for the gravity of the situation pressing heavier and heavier against her chest. 

paulecrain broke the silence with a snort and a jut of his chin.

“are we to carve lunch?” the growing smirk made her scowl as angelo remained where he hovered, without so much as a squeak. 

“...if clay’s to your taste, then.” she shrugged her shoulders. she would smile, but her dusky-rose eyes remained wide, fixed on both men—observing, studying. before she was hydaelyn’s chosen she had been a scholar, and a scholar she remained: the process of tempering mesmerized her as much as it horrified her, and the rediscovery of the cure gave her hope on a personal level.

it was paulecrain’s turn to be perplexed—and grinnaux hissed, his patience wearing thin—lacking as it was to begin with.

“so. come to gloat, have you?” he returned his attention fully upon her, hardened-jaw and wicked-eyed. 

“i’ve come to check on you. lest you’ve forgotten…” her scowl returned, deepening.

“most of ishgard thinks you’re dead.” both men seethed, not simply at her words but for what they implied. the city in which they had roamed free for the better part of their careers in the knighthood, from barracks to banquets and a brawl in both and everything in between—was no longer accessible to either of them. 

“it’s likely it won’t stay this way.” she offered an open, white palm as she spoke—ever the diplomat first in such tense situations. she had suffered through her sisters, magloirienne and euphemie—her schoolmates,  archombadin and leigh—merchants and their clients alike in ul’dah, sellswords and tavern-keeps in the shroud and beyond. 

“but we need your cooperation—i know we ask much of you both in doing so…but to rush into anything is out of the question.” she didn’t intend to speak for long—she knew their kind, euphie’s kind—unable to sit still and not so secretly against the authority in-place.

“…then leave us be.” paulecrain raised a gloved hand in a dismissive wave, his focus already wavering as he sought another of the spare polearms at hand. suddenly she worried for the pages and the attendants who could be subject to their whims. that, or they would steer clear of everything and everyone as long as they were guests. there was only so much douceline could infer from all this; after all, it hadn’t been her who had known them for years prior to their admission into the heaven’s ward.

seething, grinnaux turned to face him once more in battle-stance, though she caught him glance once again in angelo’s direction. she nodded, and left the hall with the loaned porxie in tow. 

there would be time for questions later.

[deardouceline]

❛ the  world  wants  you ! ❜

“I don’t want to think of it. Not now. Not ever.” By the plush of the chaise did she spring forward, hands balled into fists as she strode to the window on angry feet. The tightness in her shoulders, in her chest—it had all lain dormant fury knew how long, and perhaps its manifestation had only made itself known now, in front of the person she’d only accepted to cross the hard boundary that had grown around her heart. “It wants me dead one moment and the next it begs me to stay.” She hissed, tucking her hands in the crooks of her elbows as she faced the murky night sky. 

“I wish it would make up its mind.” 

The snowy-haired lordling at her door stood dumbstruck for a moment, as the impact of her words sank in. He had been one for debate, primed for years by both the insistence of his Dzemael kin and by the maintenance of his lofty position in the Scholasticate—he could very well treat this as such. But that competitive nature, paired with the unfortunate sense of entitlement he’d only recently learned was quite the dreadful tool to harness and wield—had been greatly at fault for what had transpired not that long ago.

“...What you choose to do is your decision alone.” He resisted the urge to cross his arms as she did. Instead his silver gaze set upon the oil painting that hung on the wall to his left, a bouquet tucked in a white pear-shaped vase. While he would usually deem this as cowardice for not looking directly towards whom it was he was speaking to, Douceline herself faced the window and not him.

“Nothing—and no one—should keep you from what it is you wish to do.” 

At this she turned her head sharply, her small mouth pried open for a retort that never came. Their eyes met, if only for a poignant few seconds, before she looked down at the floor. Ordinarily he would’ve felt even a modicum of satisfaction that he’d won the conversation, but instead her uncertainty worried him further. 

“Douceline. Douceline, listen to me.” At this he dared a one, two steps forward. He could only imagine what sort of disparaging thoughts had crossed her mind to say such a thing. To imply that she questioned her presence in this world—he dreaded all that could have led her to such a conclusion. And yet here he was seeking that very thing—perhaps it was futile to know what those things were. Not everything could be conveyed through scripture, through the written word, and as he was still beginning to learn: the spoken word. What Douceline must have borne witness to, must have experienced beyond the stroke of ink-tipped quill, beyond the stone walls of their holy city—perhaps it was beyond his own understanding. 

But still, he had to try. To pursue. It was his in his nature as a student to inquire, was it not? To attempt that which he knew hardly of before, and to put head to rest at night knowing more than he did when he arose.

“You have done—far more than I—than anyone—could ever comprehend possible,” Archombadin corrected his posture, for there was a strange weight that threatened to heave at his chest if he didn’t do well to keep his countenance in check.  “You have brought to light the truth of a thousand years’ war—and with that, the end of it.” At the very least, he wasn’t the only one who recognized the feat of her actions. The Dragonsong War had imbedded itself into the very core of every Ishgardian, whether it be for better or worse. 

“It’s no wonder why they would require your help elsewhere.” He nodded. To her or himself, he was unsure—she had ventured beyond Coerthas more than he had, but it seemed even she knew little of Gyr Abania other than what was written (and permitted).

He watched her listen, digest his words, fingers bent and pressed against her mouth so that only the muted rose of her hues were visible. There were many things about her that had remained—he hoped that her propensity for reason, even past the thick wall of stubbornness she was occasionally prone to (so often was he involved in the occasion) was one of them.

“...It just. Feels so sudden.” Her voice was a few breaths quieter than before, when it threatened to rise higher in a rare fit of rage. Focused on the floor beneath her feet, it was only now that he realized how close he stood to her, for the individual strands of rose gold that strayed from its place behind her ear now swung above her nose-bridge.

“I...wanted to stay a little longer. With the others. At home—a-at school, a-and—” 

She gasped, soft and surprised, when their eyes met once more.

“...Just when things were starting to clear up.” Now she spoke so low, so tender that it remained barely above a whisper.

“But you won’t be leaving...right away.” He reminded. She nodded, taking the chance to return the wayward strand back into place at her ear.

“Mhm...there’s still things to be done beforehand.”

“And things can still be done amidst them.” He crossed his arms. The guise of dorm-master fell into place. It would be up to her to organize, to schedule, to prioritize. Moreso for the things far beyond Saint Endalim’s, for the things which an unfortunate number of people—of nations—depended upon. 

“Right.” Another nod, the listlessness in her eyes proving that their talk was coming to an end.

“...You’re welcome to write. I’m sure the others would be thrilled to hear from you.” Sentimental value still did wonders for morale. Let it be correspondence from family or friend, his peers did tend to perform better after receiving them from loved ones near or far. 

“I’ll try to.” This time, a soft smile—closer to the one she was known best for. More subdued by what their conversation had entailed but, to him it was a step in the right direction. Some sense of normalcy in a world where the very definition of the word was being challenged.

He smiled in return—subdued like her own. But with a touch of warmth nonetheless.

[ascalonsmercy]

9/08: SHED.

verb: (of a reptile, insect, etc.) allow (its skin or shell) to come off, to be replaced by another one that has grown underneath.

rating: g

characters: wan non, chanduciel de dansereau, euphemie de dansereau, prince haldrath (mentioned)

tags: oofie parenting 101, the dragonblooded heritage (& more) is showing & it jumpscared oofie, & nonnie is being herself (being no help at all)

summary: what a way to ruin a splendid morning. 

wordcount: 413

“Are you sure it won’t peel off?”

“I said no such thing.” Nonnie huffed, eyeing the toddler who seemed entirely oblivious to the distress that wrought terror into his mother’s lovely features. 

“I’ve been in a human body for less than a—” She paused, and sighed a beat after the boy cooed.

“...less than enough time to figure out how exactly man takes track of it!” Euphemie scowled as her manicured fingers attempted to make sense of what she could only describe as scales shedding from her darling boy’s cheeks. The lump in her neck bobbed as she swallowed in trepidation—dead, transparent skin—her boy’s skin—is on her fingers and she doesn’t know why. 

That’s a lie. She thinks she knows why but she can’t be sure—for once she hopes her uncertainty will be a good thing.

“Anyway. He seems to be ok. For now.” “And we don’t know how long that lasts!” 

“You’re talking to the wrong person.” Nonnie shrugged, and by reflex, almost clapped her hands and motioned for the little one to come closer—but she restrained herself at the moment, instead keeping her arms crossed atop the back of the chair from where she sat looking at the lady and lordling of the manor. The sun had only begun to rise and they had only found themselves in this questionably dire situation during breakfast time, and this sort of discord was not the kind Nonnie wished to begin her day with.

“I’ll have to talk to someone. Anyone—” She muttered, gathering the boy in her arms.

“That fellow Marcelloix. O-or—”

“Why not Dou?” She bit her lip, and tasted the tinge of rolanberry from the blossoming pink gloss she’d applied just a bell earlier.

“She…must be occupied.” “Not occupied enough for an emergency I’m sure.”

A pregnant pause fell between the two women, and somehow being fixated on Chanduciel’s bubbly smile made it worse. Years had passed since Douceline’s fateful return yet Euphemie had never truly wriggled out of the overreaching spotlight that her younger twin had made for herself—accidentally or not, something about it had been meant to happen, and the more she had discovered in the years following just pressed the knife deeper into the wound, for the more it became clear to all of them how fate must have played a hand in this somehow,

“I’ll give her a call.” Her free hand flew to the linkpearl tucked in her ear, but not without a begrudging—but not defeated—sigh.

[ascalonsmercy]

9/02: BARK.

noun: to make the characteristic short loud cry of a dog. 

rating: g

characters: donatien de dansereau, archombadin de dzemael, douceline de dansereau (mentioned)

tags: post-heavensward, character study, chomby pays a visit and finds donny instead of dou (unfortunate)

summary: an unexpected social call. 

wordcount: 733

The end was sure to come for anyone—or anything—that would part Donatien de Dansereau from a good night’s sleep. Regardless of how many bells had passed since he laid head to rest the night before, the lordling was wont to spend as long as he could in the comfort of his bed and the several layers of furs and sheets that practically cocooned him through the cold Coerthan night. He had finally received respite from his work at the offices housed in the Tribunal—albeit a forced one—and since he and his peers were unsure of when their duties would resume with even a modicum of what they once knew it to be, he was sure to make the most of his free time doing as he pleased. 

The hounds of Cygne Cross thought otherwise.

He groaned and bent his ample pillow over his ears. Jean-Luc led the charge with a bark that outdid his underlings tenfold and the others—the rumbling growl from Aubergine and the short but rapid-fire yapping from Nougat. Something—or someone—had stirred them awake.

Not long after came the hurried feet of the House Steward accompanied by what Donatien assumed to be two of the servants. 

His lips pressed thin for one, two seconds before he swept the sheets and furs off of him, braving the cold floor with his bare feet. Maybe ‘gonde had brought a new pet home and the rest of the household had come to bid it welcome—or Dou had brought home a dragon, and their hounds were simply doing as hounds in every Fury-fearing house was wont to do. Even then, old habits were hard to break—and seeing as none of his siblings had come to properly greet their guest, he ought to share in some modicum of responsibility with their mother still indisposed.

In naught but his sleep clothes and deep-blue robe he peered down at the staircase with its subtle-spiral, noting the wag of tails and the flurry of newly-brushed fur at the entryway as the figures by the door became clearer as he took one, two, three steps down. Almost halfway down the staircase and Donatien found his earlier assumptions by ear correct—all but the snowy-haired Elezen 

Donatien smiled. His morning was saved after all.

“Lord Dzemael! What brings you here so early on this fine day?” Few would know the delight in seeing a scion of House Dzemael taken aback like a cornered rabbit. And Donatien would enjoy it in full.

“...I wanted to.” He cleared his throat. 

“Congratulate the Lady Douceline—”

“I’m afraid there’s a bit of a queue.” Donny grinned.

“Though I would hate to put you through such efforts for nothing. Care for some tea, perhaps?” At the word Thibault turned to have the refreshments made ready—perhaps a bit too quickly for their guest’s liking. The hounds aside—there was only him and the youngest Dansereau at the base of the staircase, and no dear Douceline in sight. Archombadin knew there was no winning to this situation. He was in a home not his own, after all—the only slim advantage he held was that the Dzemaels ranked higher as counts rather than the baronial Dansereaus. But, as all of Ishgard knew—the status quo had changed so swiftly after certain events—and the validity of their so-called ranks were now called to question. Also, Douceline would no longer be a mere lady of House Dansereau—she had now been dubbed the Savior of Ishgard. Much more was now at stake for an otherwise spare heir, even from one of the Four High Houses—a fact that Donatien relished. “Tea would be lovely. Thank you.” The welcomed guest cleared his throat as he acquiesced, still unable to look directly at his host For better or for worse—these last days had been an exercise in learning to swallow his pride.

“Shall we, then?” Donatien extended his hand, his mood soaring to new heights. He hadn’t bothered to change out of his sleep clothes and robe and now he had no intention to. Archombadin had entered his house, high-necked overcoat and buttoned boots and all—and Donatien would appear as effortlessly comfortable in his own environment. Once in a while the petty power games so prevalent in the Pillars were fun to play—especially if he held the higher ground. 

With a subtle nod, Archombadin followed the younger man suit, with the dogs eager and wanting at their heels.

[deardouceline]

originally written for ffxivwrites2021. reposted from here. 

rating: T

characters: original characters, douceline de dansereau, archombadin de dzemael, jannequinard de durendaire

tags: polyamory (jannequinard/douceline/archombadin), pre-endwalker

summary: part of her wants to believe she’s not the reason why they’re coming along in the first place. the other part of her wishes for nothing more.

wordcount: 2920

And so it’s come to this.

Douceline, the Warrior of Light, the Savior of Ishgard, the Pillars’ own prodigal daughter—was to be accompanied by not only one, but two scholars of Ishgard: one, a son of the High Houses and current prefect of Saint Endalim’s Scholasticate, Archombadin de Dzemael—and the other, another (thankfully) lesser heir, belonging to House Durendaire, Jannequinard of the Athenaeum Astrologicum.

Neither took no for an answer in spite of her attempts at rebuffing them, and so she eventually conceded, while her fellow scions looked on with varying levels of amusement and exasperation (the latter notably belonging to a certain snow-haired dragoon, arms crossed and back pressed to a pillar while trying to keep the two lalafells at bay with their pestering questions as to what he knew of these two men).

Of course neither man intended to be a hindrance to their cause. Both were fervent in what they could bring to the table. Jannequinard’s was perhaps the most obvious, given his years spent studying (regardless of how productively he’d spent them) in Old Sharlayan, he would be a boon to their group in the know-hows and social etiquette of their destination.

Archombadin sought to have a more diplomatic role, as one of the best minds the Scholasticate had to offer, and while his role was more subtle in contributing to their efforts, he—and a few vocal individuals in the House of Lords—wished for diplomatic relations between the two nations. Archombadin knew it would be a daunting task, for the Sharlayans chose to be removed from the world stage by policy, if their motto wasn’t enough proof of their stance. But clearly, it was the outsiders that needed to act first in their case—at the very least, some sort of trade or recognition could be had, and no matter how miniscule of a success they would achieve, he was adamant on being there to see it happen.

(Such a speech was one he’d given on three different occasions: one, to himself in his bedroom—two, to his elders at the dinner table—and three, to Douceline and the scions, under the Fortemps gazebo).

And how did she feel about all of this? Douceline divided her time between the Rising Stones and her home city, assisting in whatever ways she could (which were many, and for that her spare time suffered) while fulfilling whatever obligations she had promised on the way back and forth. Who would’ve known that in the approximate week she’d spent away at the Source could leave so much unattended business, so many requests-bordering-on-demands, all awaiting her attention.

The people that knew her, loved her best, saw her less and less, and whatever chances she had to spend time with them were never enough.

So she supposed that having them with her could be a blessing in disguise. Douceline had revealed to them both the extent of the light’s damage on her body: the way her formerly pure-white scales were now veined in gold, and how that gold crept all the way through to the under-layer of her rose-gold hair. Bared under direct sunlight, Douceline shimmered and she hated it. As if the dragon blood that had been forced upon her years ago, bringing with it the scales and sharp canines had been a foretaste compared to what agony the light’s corruption had been to her.

And of course they still took her in with open arms (or in Archombadin’s case, a tight squeeze of his gloved hand around her own) and asked of her safety, her well being. For even though she had been home at the moment, both men were smart enough to know not to depend merely on what they saw. After all, she had only been gone for a relatively short amount of time, only to return physically and mentally changed.

And she answered them, elaborated for them, about the things she couldn’t say abroad, alone, or even amongst her other companions. About how she didn’t know whether or not she was doing the right thing. About whether or not she could do anything to help.

About how she was actually very, very afraid.

(Part of her wants to believe she’s not the reason why they’re coming along in the first place. The other part of her wishes for nothing more.)

Douceline raised her head, blinking as the doors of the Scholasticate library were thrown open.

Jannequinard, with his feet at a hurried pace under his alb, bore a widespread grin as he approached the two at the long table.

“I say, if we’re to work amongst one another, we ought to all meet together in one place.” Dou offered him a soft smile over an open book, while her pale-haired companion grumbled something that most certainly wasn’t on the page he was facing.

“Sorry, Janne—I was just helping Chomby with something.”

“As is your wont, dearest!” The so-called astrologian’s praise caused Archombadin to clench his jaw, irritation spiking another notch higher. He could never comprehend what she saw in him. Insufferable, incompetent and incessantly talkative—at the most, he could only respect the fact that she cared for him. And unfortunately, her feelings were requited in full.

It takes all the restraint he has not to slam the book shut.

“If you need her for something—”

“As a matter of fact, I’ll be needing you both.” The Durendaire’s lithe fingers are on the edge of her seat from behind, aiding her to rise from the chair.

The prefect quirked an eyebrow in suspicion.

“Both.” He echoed, feeling the little strength in him seep away as he faced the man in full, grim scowl meeting a widening grin, with Douceline standing befuddled in the middle.

“Both. No time like the present for tea and collaboration.”

“I said I’d teach you both a thing or two,” Janne lowered his teacup, meeting the matching plate with a delicate clink.

“because you are both ever so dear to me—and with your well-being comes the well-being of our fellow countrymen!” He took a deep sigh, elated in the apparent righteousness of this odd arrangement all three of them found themselves in. Archombadin tried to focus on his reflection in the tea while Douceline nibbled on a checkerboard cookie, while the bespectacled astrologian continued his monologue:

“And to have you both at my side on my glorious return to the city, is a privilege I wouldn’t dare deny!”

“I’m glad you’ll be there too, Janne.” Dou parted from the lip of her cup with a tender smile, the tenderness evident all the way up to her eyes.

“I was talking to Alisaie, actually. About what it’s like…”

“Ask away, dearest! As your escort it’s only my bounden duty to be of service in whatever way I can.” And they carried on, while the fair-haired Dzemael attempted to fill his mind with other things. A handwritten list he was in the middle of finishing for Theomocent and the other prefects to use as a guide in his absence. A mental note to remember what items to forward to his servant to have brought as part of his necessities for their upcoming trip. And of course, whatever there was left to tell Lebrassoir next he visited, even if the door was closed and his former friend’s still turned the opposite direction…

“…but that is mere speculation. Archombadin, my friend, what say you?”

The man in question blinked back into reality at the mention of his name. “We were talking about whether or not claw jewelry could be weaponized.” Douceline, the savior, elaborates before Jannequinard can guess that he wasn’t paying attention.

“…I suppose.” His brow knit in quiet contemplation, thumb and forefinger once again around the teacup handle.

“Though it would depend how much of a claw it would resemble…there is a difference between aesthetic and functionality.” Being the son of a heritage credited with the foremost skill and resources in developing their city’s architecture, he should know.

“Oh, there’s no need to consider whether or not they’re pleasing to the eye!” Jannequinard blinked, as if perplexed at his companion’s assumption.

“They wind the fingers intricately. Like lacework. But with metals–gold and silver, I should imagine. Bronze is much too heavy for something on the fingers, no?”

“But Janne, you can use it as a weapon if they’re sharp enough, right?” Knowing all too well that her lover was prone to wandering off topic, Dou leaned in closer to bring him back to the matter at hand.

“Like the Ixali! Or the Amalj’aa. Or the dragons, even!”

“Yes, of course! And we all know what damage they–” A screech of wrought iron against stone pavement, and Archombadin’s gaze shifts from the tea to the table in an instant. His eyes widened when he saw Douceline slumped from her chair, hand shielding her face and knees failing, sinking into a circle of rose-red fabric on the cold stone beneath her. Jannequinard stooped to her level first, hand on her back in both a protective and comforting hold, the merriment of his voice falling to a hushed, gentler tone.

Bending to his knee, Archombadin cursed between clenched teeth–she’d complained of these sudden headaches happening more often, and absurdly requested for him not to worry. He could only guess how worse they had become since her return from that realm, where she claimed that a week in Eorzea felt like months in the place she’d been to.

“H-here, darling–don’t worry, we’ll take care of you–” Jannequinard hoisted her up, one arm against her back and the other beneath her legs, where her skirts bunched thick and crumpled as he rose to his feet, sending Archombadin a look of what the silver-eyed seminarian could only perceive as badly-masked fear. In any other situation, he would’ve taken it for a sign of weakness–something he could dwell on with smug delight once alone. But now the Dzemael son wouldn’t dare, for he felt that same fear mirrored in the way he shuddered, lips parted in quivering breaths as he followed him back to the Belfry.

He sent a linkpearl message home explaining that he would be delayed.

Now, he and Jannequinard remained in the sitting alcove, not far from the guest room where a house chirurgeon examined the sleeping Douceline. Archombadin couldn’t find it in him to simply sit, though he stood perfectly still compared to the maddening pace at which the other man strode to, back and forth as far as the walls would allow him.

“Fine, fine, she’ll be perfectly fine.” He uttered under a shaky breath, earning him a scowl from his sharp-eyed guest, who remained cross-armed and back to the wall adjacent to the window.

“We have the finest chirurgeons under our employ!” As Janne ran a hand through his slicked red hair, Archombadin knew he could have been arguing with no one but himself. Not that he expected anything else of how Janne would react under pressure.

“…But, who am I to talk?” Jannequinard’s silver hues suddenly weighed with something he hadn’t seen in them before. Remorse? Regret? The Archombadin of the past would be reeling in ill-gained joy at seeing the black sheep of the Durendaires so beaten, so dejected. But now he was genuinely concerned for whatever it could be that ailed him. Not that he was no longer irritated with the man–but seeing Douceline collapse and being able to do nothing but wait behind a closed door for the chirurgeons to do their work left him a tad unsettled, for the lack of a better word.

“…All I can offer is what I’ve seen and done. Nothing by the lectures, or the texts I was given. Astrology is an art that can heal, and yet all I could do was hurry her inside and have someone else do it for me.” Jannequinard’s head felt heavier by burdens of his past failures coming back to haunt him once again, the words of his elders and numerous detractors rearing their ugly heads and bringing back a sting to a wound he long believed was on the mend.

“What if–no, no I can’t–” He stops himself, stumbling into a cold and bitter laughter, his hand finding its way to his forehead.

“…I can’t allow myself to–” Archombadin can do nothing but listen, blinking in confusion and interest at what could be going through the astrologian’s mind at this very moment.

“It’s…the next time. We won’t be here. You know,” Jannequinard licked his lips and swallowed hard, facing the carpet of the floor at their feet.

“…we’ll be in Sharlayan soon. We’ll have our friends, yes–but we’ll have our fair share of enemies, too. Heavens, maybe more of a share than we can chew–not again, no, I can’t-”

“It’s perfectly understandable to have doubts.” Archombadin tries his best to reassure the man, who looked on edge of a breakdown. And he wasn’t looking forward to carrying him, especially when the man was in his own house.

“We’ll be going somewhere unfamiliar. Maybe to you it is, but we have reason to believe that much has changed since then. Or have you not paid heed to what the scions were discussing the other day?” He couldn’t help himself from falling back onto sarcasm once again, though this time it seemed to work a small bit, as Jannequinard nodded–though it seemed more to reassure himself back into a relatively healthier mindset than it was an answer to Archombadin’s question.

“Yes…yes, you’re right.” A trembling sigh, and though no smile appeared, the light in his eyes was a tad less dimmed than before when he turned to look at his companion.

“I just–I must become stronger. Though I’ve wasted years, it was thanks to the efforts of Douceline and Leveva, along with others that I’ve begun to truly learn and practice to my benefit–and more importantly, to that of others.”

(With every word he seems to encourage himself, and perhaps that non stop tongue of his can be good for something, Archombadin thinks.)

“The stakes we faced were high. But because we overcame them, we are braver–stronger, because of it. And we’ll need to do even more of those things–and others–in order to face what awaits us in Sharlayan.”

“I plan to do the same. Am in the middle of it, actually.” Could they really have found a rare plane of common ground? Wonders never cease.

“You use…the tomes, yes?” Janne blinked.

“Yes–amongst other things. But primarily the tomes. Grimoires…”

“I heard something about summoning soulkin. Is that the sort you do?” Archombadin cleared his throat, shoulders relaxing. At least they were on a less emotionally taxing topic…and one he could better contribute to.

And so he did well to explain the main points, starting broad and painfully narrowing to the finer details, enough for the other man to remain on track without going off on a tangent. Both had lost track of time when the door finally opened, and the chirurgeon reassured them of her state. To their relief, Douceline would only need rest and sleep, water and food.

And of course, someone to make sure she was recovering just fine, though Jannequinard was generous to allow him to stay for the night.

Late into the night, she was yet to awaken.

Changed into sleep clothes, both men lay as borders to her sides: Archombadin on her left and closer to the wall, Jannequinard on the right facing the door. The three flames on the candlelabra flickered feebly as the still-conscious houseguest flipped idly through a borrowed book he’d found on the shelf, though the contents of the text itself dulled with Douceline’s sleeping face ever in his peripheral vision. Archombadin was ever wary of any subtle changes in her condition, and refused to act as the second pair of eyes while Janne had one arm lazily draped atop her waist, eyes half-lidded not from fatigue, but of an odd comfort. Archombadin knew that he must have been awaiting her all this time, as well–before, her visits to Ishgard had been few and far-between, and now they all had the extraordinary chance to finally come along with her.

Though not from the best of circumstances, this was time he valued.  All three of them, having found mutual agreement and definition of what exactly was between them, could find a source of comfort in one another. Before all this happened, Archombadin could have never imagined himself  in such an arrangement, but he was beginning to see what good could come of it, and what good he could do beyond the roles he’d defined for himself.

When her mouth twitched at the corner, both men’s hearts practically stopped.

One, two, five and ten seconds later, her eyes failed to open; but her mouth opened in a wide, wide ‘o’, breathing a content yawn as she tucked her head back into the pillow, fingers loosely bent against the fabric, the rise and fall of her chest at a steady rate.

Janne gave him a knowing, quiet smile as he shifted closer up against her, but much to the pale-haired heir’s surprise he nudged her closer to where he lay.

“‘Tis not every day.” Short and sweet, for both knew the implication far too well than they’d like to.

With the candles snuffed out, Archombadin allowed his fingers to brush ever so slightly against her own, for sleeping mere ilms away from her face was already more than he could ask for.

[frostsong]

9—03: scale.

rating: T 

characters: original characters, douceline de dansereau, archombadin de dzemael

summary: in which douceline reveals a secret.

tags: painfully ishgardian man finds out his gf has scales, acceptance

wordcount: 658

warnings: mentions of past self harm.

.“...This one.” His first and second finger trace the edge of a patch, the pure white scales slightly charred at the edges. 

“What happened here?” His eyes, gentle for her and a select few, turn a touch sharper at the implications of what and who could have done this. Douceline’s mouth opens, but the words still before they leave her tongue. Her brows knit, and she swallows--she has to do this, or else all those words she promised him will be as empty as she fears them to be.

“...I--tried,” It’s a start, though the way his eyes widen down at her doesn’t help her one bit.

“to...get rid of them.” Archombadin grimaces when the meaning of her words seeps in deep, and deeper. There was a reason he tried so fervently not to think of all she had experienced in the time they all thought her dead.

“As you can see,” She breathes a laugh, bitter and cold.

“it didn’t work.” In fact, it made it worse, she wanted to say, but held back for his sake more than her own--she had made him uncomfortable enough, not only bearing witness to but feeling what had been deemed sin by scripture, and false doctrine as some of it may be, there are things that simply don’t go away.

“...Whatever it may be. You’ve done more than enough to prove you’re still--” He stops, hesitant with his next choice of words, hesitant to let her go.

“...am I?” Instead, she fills up the few seconds he leaves lingering in the air between them, her hovering hand falling back to her side, and to keep herself from suddenly shivering she uses her free hand to brace it. One would think that, given all that had happened--all that she had risked life and limb to see through to the very end, such doubts would fall away like the snow in spring. 

But still, they remained—in the way Lebrassoir never turned back to look at them while being led away, in the way Cyr vowed never to set foot in the city as long as he lived, in the way her mother could only bear to look at her for a mere few seconds before hastily turning away.

If these few things so near and dear to her heart were left broken, unfixed—had it all been for nothing at all?

“You are.”

It’s his voice that breaks her out of her reverie, and she blinks once, twice, turning her eyes from the floor at their feet to look up at him, returning his gaze. He looks so much stronger than usual—in their debates, and all the others through which he had looked down on their peers in his false entitlement, Douceline realized how much he really had been mimicking a certain breed of their elders, the staunch Fundamentalists, set in their ways of superiority. Had it not been for the discovery of Lebrassoir’s plot—and the unraveling of everything that all of them had known to be true—that the look in his eyes began to change, chiseled into a strength all his own. 

“You are still Douceline. You can change, as I and so many others have, and still remain who you are.” Usually he would flush at such sentimentality, especially if it was coming from his own tongue—but for now, there was a truth that needed to be said, a comfort that he had a good feeling she was desperately in need of.

“...Sometimes it is as necessary as you say. Painful, but necessary.” Not unlike the Halonic discipline in which he’d taken years to fervently know and abide by. 

“But in the end, much good came out of it.” He gives her a smile--kind but knowing. Knowing that it was something she couldn’t argue her way out of.

“And if it’s the Inquisition you fear--”

“Not them. No longer,” She laughs, shaking her head.

“I know they know better.”