#ffxiv fic

[stars-and-clouds]

All of Coerthas Map (pre-calamity)

I was using this as a reference in my fanfic for Estinien’s backstory and thought it might help others too!

The picture is from this blog page. It is not mine. The blog also has some 1.0 information that might be useful for some writers.

Edit:

Map is originally by: @chrysalisthoughts

[trarioven]

✨The Sorcerer and the Moon Bride✨

Story by @sheepwithspecs

Link https://archiveofourown.org/works/54502924

My entry for @fauxlorexiv together with amazing B, who made my heart go happy but pain too when i read the story! Oh the tragedy between Urianger and Moenbryda (cries like idiot).

[azems-familiar]

"Can you just- for a minute, can you pretend that I mean something to you?'

this. uhhhhhh. got a LOT longer than i intended it to, and also had a lot less angst, though if you consider the other pov there is definitely so much more. and also with literally all the context. anyway. have 5.6k words of emetraha, because i have brainrot and the prompt worked so well for them i had to choose between multiple options.

The Exarch being away is the last thing Emet-Selch expects when he arrives at the Crystarium for their usual discussion and debate over tea. The man is bound to the Tower; while he can leave, it weakens him, and thus in all the time Emet-Selch has known him he has only left Lakeland’s borders on the rare occasion, usually to treat with Eulmore (prior to Vauthry’s birth, of course) or in the event of some emergency. According to the Captain of the Guard, however (who had seemed faintly amused when he asked as to the Exarch’s whereabouts), he left the Crystarium three days ago to make the trek to Rak’tika to meet with the Night’s Blessed. The matter of this meeting, she informs Emet-Selch, is something the Exarch himself can decide whether or not to disclose to a non-citizen, and he is not expected to return for another four days, but she can offer Emet-Selch the approximate location of his destination, should he so desire to bother their leader directly.

He does, in fact, so desire. The endless waiting is the most intolerable part of any Rejoining, and while the millennia have gotten him quite accustomed to patience, he is terribly bored, and there is only so much he can do. Should he push the shard too quickly, the Light could consume it entirely before the Source is prepared, leaving a hollow void as useless as the Thirteenth - and Emet-Selch has no intention of repeating Igeyorhm’s mistakes. Thus the necessity of filling his time with activity unrelated to his plotting - and the draw of his weekly meetings with the Exarch. It has been some time since he sparred with someone near his equal in intellect, after all.

Of all places near a Warden, Rak’tika is less burdensome than others; beneath the boughs the shadows are deep enough to provide some measure of relief from the omnipresent Light and its burn. Thus Emet-Selch does not particularly mind teleporting to a location just outside the Night’s Blessed’s fort and asking after the Exarch once again from their sentries. What he does mind is being informed that the Exarch is late and has yet to arrive, and that they’re considering sending scouts out to search for him if he does not arrive within another few hours.

Emet-Selch sighs. Their scouts are near-guaranteed to be ineffective fools, and he is admittedly curious as to what could delay the Exarch, which means the solution, while distasteful, is an obvious one. “No need,” he informs the sentry, a slight bite to the words. “I will find him myself.”

Truly, how frustrating. And all because he desired a cup of tea and a stimulating conversation.

With the star as shattered as it is, his sight is without equal, and though the presence of the Light somewhat hinders him it takes very little effort all the same to find a shadow to hide in and look into the aether, with a range that far outstrips his usual vision. There’s a glaring brilliance in the sky that reflects off the currents in the ground and air, fragmenting his sight and making it difficult to pick out specifics, but after a moment of squinting against it he catches a hint of the Exarch’s familiar aether, far away and fluctuating with some kind of stress. It could simply be the knowledge that he is late for his meeting, Emet-Selch allows, but there is something…a greater concentration of Light around him. Sin eaters, perhaps? It would be unfortunate indeed were the great Crystal Exarch to be so waylaid.

…Emet-Selch has yet to have an opportunity to see the man in combat. His skills as a mage are whispered about in the Crystarium, but much of what he has accomplished can easily be attributed to his command over the Tower - which, Emet-Selch has to admit, does make him a mage of some high caliber. The Exarch is capable of directing the Tower to perform feats Emet-Selch had not expected from a Sundered soul, and his attempts at turning Allag’s voidgate technology into a summoning spell speak to his grasp on the theoretical. Combat magic, however, is an entirely different beast, and Emet-Selch is curious. And perhaps any observations he might make could unlock some of those secrets the Exarch so furiously guards.

Thus decided, he spirits himself away through the shadows, off in the Exarch’s direction. It takes four attempts for him to actually reach the man; when he finally does, he steps out of the rift into the scene of a small massacre. An overturned wagon lays sprawled across the major path through the Greatwood, crates of supplies and possessions scattered about, some torn open. Several bodies, viis all, have been flung about, deep wounds across multiple of them, marked by claws and swords, no life left in them whatsoever, and scorch marks litter the ground, patches of grass smoldering still. Smoke is heavy in the air, smoke and the spark of fading Light aether and the metallic tang of blood, a rather unsavory pall, and without any wind there is nothing to disperse it.

Emet-Selch arrives just in time to watch the Exarch, standing in the middle of the carnage, gesture with his staff and send a bolt of flame through the last remaining sin eater.

For all that he makes a heroic figure, robes bright and staff gleaming, his body language is anything but. His shoulders are tense and hunched, his fingers too-tight around his staff, his skin pale where it is visible, his legs trembling slightly. And curled against his side, held there by his flesh-and-blood arm, is a tiny viis child with wavy grey hair and small ears pressed flat against the sides of her head, her fists clinging to the Exarch’s robe, an expression on her face that is the kind of fear that has passed through the event horizon of utter terror and morphed into stillness again. Blood streaks her cheek and one arm - a gash in her forehead, another on her bicep. From her size she cannot be any older than three or four years.

“Well, well,” Emet-Selch murmurs, sweeping his eyes over the bodies - yes, that one, with the similarly-pale hair, bears enough resemblance it could be her mother. “So it was sin eaters that delayed you. I wonder, did you involve yourself before or after you knew the child yet lived?”

He takes a few steps out from behind the tree he’d teleported up against, carefully skirting the edges of the Light dappling the ground, bringing him within two or three yalms of the Exarch, though he has to pick his way around the detritus of this family’s existence as he does. The girl’s eyes snap to him as he does, but she doesn’t move except to lean her cheek against the Exarch’s shoulder. There is a rather worrying glassiness in her gaze, if he were to concern himself with such things.

The Exarch’s breaths are coming in short, shallow pants, he notices absently. Pain? “...before,” and the man’s voice is tight, raspy. Emet-Selch knows him well enough by now to know when it is in fact pain that burdens him, and this- despite his lack of visible injury, he must have put himself in harm’s way. “I would not chance passing by if someone yet lived and abandon them to such a fate.” He breathes out, shakily, and returns his staff to his back, brushing his crystal hand gently over the girl’s hair. “...you’re safe for now, little one.”

The child does not respond.

“I believe she may have a head injury,” Emet-Selch informs the Exarch, though he has no particular reason to do so. Why should he care if a single Sundered child lives or dies? And yet…it would be too easy to recall the terrified children on the streets of Amaurot, fleeing the beasts they could not contain. “You may wish to tend to it, should you desire her survival. Considering your boundless compassion for these poor creatures you consider mankind, I assume you do.”

He paces a few more steps away and crouches down to absently rifle through one of the crates - dried fruits and meats, a sack of nuts, a small store of root vegetables, nothing particularly interesting. Behind him he can hear the Exarch murmuring a quiet thank you before the aether ripples with the telltale shimmer of a healing spell; Emet-Selch does not watch, just moves on to investigate the rest of the supplies, half out of curiosity and half because it gives him something to do while he waits. Perhaps the Exarch will be more inclined to conversation once the child has been seen to and calmed.

Perhaps, Emet-Selch considers, he ought to offer the Exarch healing for whatever injuries he bears - but he has never been much of a healer, and there is a difference between providing some oblique aid to his enemy that they may continue their game and directly intervening in affairs that could hinder the Rejoining. The Exarch may be the most intriguing and capable enemy he has had the chance to face in quite some time, but he still stands solidly against the Ardor, and he has never entertained the delusion that the Exarch would set aside their enmity to join with him, no matter that he would make such an excellent addition to their cause. No matter that Emet-Selch has of late found himself wondering more and more what the Exarch would be like, were he Unsundered, soul as bright as it should be. As clever as he is now, Emet-Selch can only imagine what sort of mind he would have were the star whole - enough intelligence to rival Azem and their greatest researchers, he would think.

…it is a futile thought, he knows. But he does not intend to forget the soft rose color of the Exarch’s soul, and should he chance to see it again, when he and his brethren have succeeded- well.

For a few moments, the only sounds are Emet-Selch’s footsteps and quiet rummaging and the Exarch’s breathing, still too harsh and short. With little left to investigate, he eventually stands and stretches absently, turning back to the Exarch - as he watches the man finishes casting another healing spell and the last of the wounds across the girl’s skin close and fade. Not something one with no healing training whatsoever could accomplish, and Emet-Selch raises an eyebrow, musing. His power comes from the Tower, of course, but the knowledge of how to use it - perhaps it was found in the archives. The Exarch does seem to have few hobbies beyond studying and assisting his people.

Before he can question the Exarch, however, there’s a rustling of brush, the sound of wings on the air, and four middling-sized eaters wander out onto the path, drawn straight towards the Exarch and his living aether - and perhaps that would mean little at all, but one of the large winged eaters, bearing sword and shield and the ability to force a transformation, Light pulsing through its white-marble body in waves, descends from the sky, sword held in front of it and gilt wings spread to their fullest extent. The Exarch spits a curse, drawing his staff once again, and sets his feet, and the little girl whimpers and closes her eyes.

Emet-Selch leans against the overturned wagon and watches, untouched by the eaters. Their Light is antithetical to his Darkness, indeed, the brush of it burns like hot oil, but so too is his Darkness more than enough to quench their Light, and they have the intelligence to know his aether would not sate their hunger. He is of no danger as long as he does not come face-to-face with a Lightwarden.

The Exarch does not have that same assurance, and the tension in the corners of his mouth, his pursed lips, speak to his own knowledge of such. But Emet-Selch wishes to observe, and he would truly be a fool were he to intervene now, when this will give him an excellent view of how his enemy handles being pressed and when actively fighting back against the Light, within the Light, would exhaust him far more than he is willing to extend himself for a Sundered soul who would oppose the Ardor.

The Exarch takes three steps back, dodging clawed swipes from two of the lesser eaters, and casts a spell - ice that freezes one of the eaters in place, something far less intensive than the fire he had been calling moments ago. The trembling in his muscles is more pronounced now, as is the sweat beading on his plaster-pale skin, and Emet-Selch takes a step of his own forward despite himself, unease stirring low in his gut. The Exarch is meant to be his opponent in the long game, not to get himself killed by sin eaters over a mere child unlikely to survive to adulthood before the shard is lost-

The greater eater swings its sword in a wide, sweeping motion, and the Exarch grits his teeth and raises his staff, summoning a shimmering barrier into existence around him, a spell clearly adapted from the Allagan defense technology he uses to defend the Crystarium. An impressive display of skill - and though the lesser eaters throw themselves at it, it continues to hold, even as the Exarch shifts and begins to mutter a teleportation incantation under his breath, gathering his aether to spirit himself and the child away. A wise decision, in the face of this threat, Emet-Selch thinks, though it leaves the eaters free to advance on the nearby village. The Exarch’s vaunted compassion, it seems, does not extend to risking his own life.

The greater eater floats back a couple of fulms, raises its sword again, and with little fanfare slices the blade through the air again - and this time, a bright bolt of Light sears forward off it, sharp enough Emet-Selch is momentarily dazed, his sight vaguely scorched by the intensity. The Exarch’s barrier distorts, twists, and collapses in on itself in a rush of aether, the distraction enough to break his teleportation spell before he can execute it, and though the lesser eaters hiss in something that approximates joy, they do not move. Instead they leave it to their seeming commander to lunge forward with a blinding rush, sword held at the ready.

The girl screams, terror so all-consuming Emet-Selch can nearly feel it. Something cracks-

A sound claws itself free from the Exarch’s throat that sounds nearly inhuman. Emet-Selch blinks, then blinks again, and - the Exarch has thrown his crystal arm, claimed by the Tower, between the eater’s sword and the girl he carries, and the tip of the blade is embedded in the sapphire crystal, leaving fissures spreading up the arm from the point of impact and a deep gouge in the flat of his arm just above his wrist. Emet-Selch sucks in a breath despite himself, because the Exarch may be tied to the Tower but that does not mean he cannot feel pain, and the force it would take to shatter the parts of him he has given over-

“Emet-Selch.” The Exarch’s voice is hoarse to the point of near-unrecognizability, taut with pain and desperation, stumbling along the edge of begging. He has never, ever spoken such in Emet-Selch’s presence. “Can you just- for just one moment, will you please pretend that I mean something to you?”

For- for some reason, Emet-Selch feels the words like an impact hard enough to steal the air from his lungs, like a constriction around his throat, like the knife of his loneliness he has lived with for so long has not only driven between his ribs but twisted. The eater draws its sword back once again, raising it for the kill - or to attempt to turn both man and child, more like. He thinks of- afternoons spent deep in debate over the minutiae of the Tower’s function and the technology the Crystarium survives on, Allag’s history and the actions of Emet-Selch’s own order. Of the lounge they typically take their tea in and how it has been Umbrally-aligned for decades, despite the extra drain that would put on the Tower’s resources in this climate. Of how eager the Exarch is to present Emet-Selch with new volumes of theater, whenever one of his people manages to find or pen one. Of the indisputable fact that this enmity between them, this game they play, has caught and held his attention in a way nothing has since his son died and he once again gave up on the Sundered entirely.

…he is here, in this Light-suffused forest, is he not?

Pretend that I mean something to you.

That is truly not so difficult, in the grand scheme of things. The Exarch yet has secrets Emet-Selch has not divined, after all, and it would be a shame to strike him from the game board before they are revealed.

In the breath between heartbeats, Emet-Selch steps through the rift and puts himself neatly between the eaters and the Exarch. A simple twist of his will brings up an unwavering shield of translucent violet - the greater eater’s sword bounces harmlessly off it, the lesser eaters’ claws are a barely-noticeable scratching, and he could maintain this indefinitely, as long as no great amount of Light was brought to bear against it or him, but considering the sound of the Exarch’s ragged breathing and the quiet, poorly-stifled noises of pain, he doubts the man has the focus to teleport at the moment, and- well. Perhaps he finds himself annoyed, and the loss of five eaters will hardly matter as long as the Wardens remain. To truly fight back will drain him, yes, but it is difficult to care.

He musters his aether against the heavy, suffocating Light, lifts his hand, and snaps his fingers.

It’s an easy visualization. Large, dagger-shaped blades of shadow leap forth from him and slam into the eaters, then burst in a rush of Dark aether that instantly vaporizes the lesser eaters and sends their commander crumpling to the ground, sword and shield both falling from its hands and fading into the aether. Emet-Selch takes a step forward, extends his hand, and summons a bolt of Darkness to send directly at its chest, and that last pulse of aether is enough to dissipate it as well - for which he is grateful, because the moment he drops his hand and lets go of the shield he can feel the drain, can feel the Light on the back of his neck, as hot as the desert sun, burning his bones. 

Heavens. The things he does for-

Emet-Selch shakes his head, rubs at his temples, and breathes through the discomfort. Brushes invisible dust from his palms. Turns back to the Exarch and crosses the space between them to take the man’s crystal arm in his hands, shifting his vision to that second sight to peer at the aether currents within. They’re pale and distorted, entirely broken wherever the cracks have spread, and he grimaces at the sight, absently running one finger carefully over the edge of the gouge where the blade impacted.

“This will be difficult to mend, Exarch,” he murmurs, low. “You have done a great deal of damage to your aether.” He sighs, shaking his head. “Give me the child.”

The girl is crying, tiny little hiccups muffled by the Exarch’s robe, but she doesn’t fight back when he hands her over, and Emet-Selch takes her carefully in his arms and settles her against his hip, the motion familiar. Relieved thusly of his burden, the Exarch seems to- shrink, almost, resignation and exhaustion and pain weighing him down until he is but a fraction of the man Emet-Selch knows. “...if you decide our enmity ends here-” he starts, his voice rough with emotion and agony, “at the least take her to the Crystarium, so she can live what life she has left.”

For a moment, Emet-Selch ignores him entirely. “Shh,” he murmurs to the girl instead, drawing on old memories of the mortal children he’s raised - both those he loved and those he did not - of children from long-ago Amaurot which he had on occasion been made to entertain. He had not minded, in truth; they had been discussing having children of their own, once. He lifts his free hand to gently stroke through her hair and over her ears, swaying her back and forth and humming snatches of an ancient lullaby until she quiets, the sniffles fading into shaky breaths. Only then does he carefully cast the lightest of sleep spells over her small frame - she seems unharmed, between the Exarch’s healing and protection, but distress will only keep her compliant for so long, and better to deliver her into the hands of her people docile than clinging to an injured man - or worse, him.

He does not- care about one lone child. He does not. The Exarch merely asked him to pretend, and thus he shall.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he finally says, directed at the Exarch, and heaves a sigh, turning to look at the other man again. “Come, then. There is little I can do for your physical injuries - I leave the frailties of your mortal flesh in the hands of your fellow mortals - but I believe I can do something to mend your arm, if only in part. But make no mistake; you will owe me for this.”

The Exarch laughs, pained and cracked, wincing and curling forward over his ribs as he does, the breath wheezing out of him. “...I shall have to break out my stash of emergency plays from Voeburt, then,” he manages after a moment, and Emet-Selch raises his eyebrows.

“You have plays from Voeburt?” he asks, torn between impressed and irritated that the man has never mentioned this before - and then he shakes himself. This is hardly the time. “Never mind that, I am not so easily distracted by theater as you believe me to be. A favor, Exarch, though I will allow you this: as I did not endanger mine own people in this intervention, neither will I ask you to risk yours. Now come with me before you collapse. I have no desire to be the target of your head chirurgeon’s ire when your heroic, self-sacrificial bent is certainly no fault of mine.”

“...then it must be before the endgame, I would think…” the Exarch rasps out, leaning heavily against his staff and taking a few shaking steps. “I look forward to seeing what you will demand of me. And to watching the chirurgeons yell at you shortly.”

Emet-Selch rolls his eyes and bites the inside of his cheek to keep from retorting, though he would dearly like to. Instead he shifts the girl in his arms to free one hand, reaches out, and wraps his hand around the Exarch’s upper arm - his flesh-and-blood one - and unceremoniously yanks all three of them through a rather rough teleport, which he would feel slightly bad about were he not annoyed. The moment they appear in the Crystarium’s infirmary, the Exarch is staggering sideways into his chest, and it is a sign of his exhaustion more than anything else that he simply stays there, trembling and wan, leaning heavily with his face tucked against Emet-Selch’s shoulder.

Emet-Selch lets him, and does not think about why.

The head chirurgeon, as it turns out, does not yell at him, though only because of the sleeping child in his arms. Instead she scolds both of them in a furious but low voice before guiding them to one of the few private rooms and immediately fussing over the Exarch; another one of the infirmary’s staff comes to relieve Emet-Selch of the child, whose name, according to the Exarch, is Lyna. Emet-Selch accompanies them to put her to bed in another room where they can examine her, and he suggests with an idleness he doesn’t quite feel that they leave her in the care of the Exarch, once he is fit for it. She is a terrified child, after all, and she will want the familiar. Beyond that, she is likely to consider the man who saved her life as safe, a courtesy he doubts she will be so willing to give strangers.

The chirurgeons seem surprised, but they do not disagree, and he is quite satisfied with that. The girl thus dealt with, he returns to find the Exarch with some faint color returned to his cheeks, enduring a lecture from his healer about what sorts of movements and magical exertions he’s allowed while his ribs and aether reserves recover. It is not a lecture Emet-Selch has been on the receiving side of in quite some time, and for that he is quite grateful. Eventually, however, the Exarch is free, and Emet-Selch convinces him to return straight to the Tower rather than checking in on Lyna mostly by not giving him a choice in the matter, a quite useful and effective strategy. The Exarch is too exhausted, it seems, to truly argue back.

It is not until they are ensconced in the Umbrally-aligned lounge - which finally eases the strain of holding his essence together under the Light’s endless onslaught, given the energy he’d expended - and the Exarch is seated on the couch that Emet-Selch sighs. “Well, very well then, let us get this supremely unpleasant business over with. I do not ask you to trust me, merely that you do not intervene; if this does not work as I intend I will be the one most suited to undoing it, and should you distract me in the moment of casting I cannot predict what might occur. It takes only a passing thought to disrupt this magic.”

“...might I know what it is you’re doing?” the Exarch asks as he drops down to sit next to him on the couch. Even with the cowl hiding most of his face, he is clearly exhausted beyond belief and still in no small amount of pain. His voice is thin and strained, wavering. 

Emet-Selch takes his crystal arm into his lap, running his fingers over its surface, carefully tracing the bumps and textured surface, bringing to mind the complex web of aether currents the Exarch has over many years bored into the crystal. He thinks of patterns and fractals and facets, the structure of crystals, the wholeness of the arm itself, and he draws ever-so-slightly on the Lifestream itself, unwilling to pour his own Dark-aspected aether into this. “Weaving the fabric of reality,” he murmurs, only half-paying attention to the words, eyes falling closed. Creation without a set concept is a risk, especially without an encyclopedic knowledge of that which one wishes to create, but beyond the cool weight of the crystal in his lap right now there are things Emet-Selch knows that will make up for the lack.

He knows the way the Exarch moves - the way he writes, the way he gestures, the way his fingers curl around a mug of tea or a pen or an Allagan relic. He knows the gentleness this arm is capable of, as evidenced by how tenderly he’d healed Lyna; he knows, too, the strength in it, as unyielding as the stone it is made of. Near seven decades he has watched this Exarch, has seen the transformation progress as the Tower takes its due for the magicks he wields, and beyond all academic knowledge he knows the essence of the man in front of him. They are but two sides of the same coin, after all, bound by duty to be in opposition and yet terribly alike, he and the Crystal Exarch.

The power of the Lifestream is a bright, raging thing, a river even he, with his rare gift of control over its eddies, only skims the surface of unless he has no other choice. He lets the pulse of life itself swirl around him, pool beneath his hands, and he holds the fullness of his understanding of this broken limb in his mind and snaps his fingers.

When he opens his eyes, exhaling slowly to let the energies of the Lifestream fade away, the Exarch’s arm is whole and unbroken once more, only a faint cluster of hairline cracks remaining where the worst of the breakage had been. For a moment he pays them no mind - he had not expected the magic to entirely mend the arm, after all, considering he was treading the line between working from a concept and working from belief - instead focusing to once again study the aether. The Exarch’s exhaustion means the flow of aether through his arm is sluggish at best, not ideal for confirming the recreation worked correctly, and- well. Emet-Selch has done this once before, has he not?

He pours a small fraction of his own aether into the man’s arm, watching as it bolsters the flow - there are a few minor hiccups but with some time those will, he hopes, smooth out - and the Exarch lets out a heavy sigh of relief and slumps sideways, tension leaving his body in a rush as he drops his head to rest against Emet-Selch’s shoulder. Foolish of him, Emet-Selch thinks, to let his guard down so around an enemy, whether they have been playing this game for decades or no. He sweeps one thumb absently back and forth across the now-smooth crystal, shifting slightly to let the Exarch’s warm weight settle more comfortably against his side, and shakes his head, reaching one hand up to carefully adjust the Exarch’s cowl before it can slide too far back from his face.

Perhaps it is the state he is in, pushing him to think so little of being vulnerable. It would be unsporting to take advantage of it.

For a few moments there is silence. Emet-Selch lets his aether settle and taper when the Exarch finally stirs again - which is good, he had begun to worry if the man was falling asleep - and sighs once more. He does not straighten, but he does extend his arm and twist it carefully back and forth, testing. Most of the motion is smooth, but his wrist hitches when he rotates it, and Emet-Selch frowns.

Ah, of course. The remaining cracks will need to be filled in if they are to be kept from causing problems. He looks more closely at them, admittedly curious - it is strange, as much as he had not expected the magic to fully succeed, for it to work as cleanly as it had only to leave such a small blemish behind - only for a cold weight to settle low in his stomach as he does.

Because he recognizes the pattern. The lines of it are thin and simplistic, barely visible against the veining, but there all the same - a constellation cut into crystal with such perfect precision it cannot be anything but a mark.

A constellation. His constellation, the sign of his seat.

Perhaps his mind had wandered during the creation after all.

He exhales heavily through his nose, swallows, and does not say a word, and the Exarch must be too tired to notice, because he simply rubs his flesh hand over the constellation and stays tilted into Emet-Selch’s side. “...thank you for this kindness, Emet-Selch,” he says very softly, his voice still somewhat raw but much of the pained tension from earlier missing.

“It was not a kindness,” Emet-Selch reminds him pointedly. They are enemies; it would not do for the Exarch to forget such, not when they yet have all the endgame to play, and he remains deeply curious how the Exarch intends to thwart his plans. “I will expect you to repay the favor when I ask for it, Exarch. You have ever kept your promises. ‘Twould be a shame indeed for that to change now.”

“I do not intend to let my debts go unpaid, or any kindnesses go unanswered, Emet-Selch,” the Exarch answers in a similarly deliberate tone. “Regardless of which they were meant as. But this was a kindness even if you did not intend it to be such - I would have been in pain for the rest of my life without your intervention.” This, Emet-Selch knows to be true - there would have been no other way of healing or regenerating the crystal without creation magicks, and thus the wound would simply have remained, and while it would not have killed the Exarch it would have always been a hindrance. “So- thank you.”

…if the Exarch wishes to think of it as a kindness, then Emet-Selch supposes there is little harm in allowing him to. Perhaps he can leverage it for some kind of knowledge or further concession later on. When playing such a tense game against such a clever and focused foe, with the eighth Rejoining as the stakes, he would be a fool to discard any potential advantage.

(Even if he is only doing what the Exarch asked of him. Pretend that I mean something to you. How could he act any other way, in the face of such a plea? It does not mean anything - not for them, not for his purpose here, not for his duty.

Perhaps, if he reminds himself enough times, he will not risk forgetting that truth.)

His people, his city, and his star hang in the balance, after all.

But for the moment, he can allow the Exarch to remain leaning against his side, a warmth that eases the ever-present ache of grief and loneliness in his chest, and perhaps the Exarch is not the only one who would like to pretend.

[yukiotacon]

Elf husbands poly Valentine's day hcs

You can bet your ass they are gonna have every important meeting about this

Aymeric does the impossible he ........ takes a break * audience gasp *

They have a very thoughtful discussion on what to get you

Unfortunately Aymeric ends up becoming the voice of reason for both Haurchefant and Estinien

Haurchefant going way overboard on the idea of showering you with gift

To which both Estinien and Aymeric have to remind him of last year's incident

Poor Haurchefant unintentionally was the cause of all the delivery moogles to be super tired

Estinien on the other hand is of course terrible with money

Haurchefant literally had to tackle and drag him away from a 200k ribbon for your hair

Aymeric was the one who came up with the plan

Which included

A nice stroll around Gridanian ( Estinien)

Participating in the sweet heart even( Haurchefant)

A nice home cook feast in the Borel manor

It semi when off without ay hitch

Fortunately or unfortunately Haurchefant channeled his inner 2014 heavensturn when he spoke about his partners

Yeah, all three of you were red as a tomato

The dinner was delicious and plentiful

Aymeric made sure to include everyone's favorite food on the menu

When the food was eaten, Haurchefant leans in and whispers " My love do save room for dessert ~" Haurchefant says in a sensual manner

Let's just say dessert was eater inside your shared bedroom and it involves a nice chocolate fountain and fruits platter and three still hungry Elezen men

To all Warriors of light I salute you because good lord you ain't coming out of that bedroom any time soon

Happy valentine's day guys ♡♡♡♡

[lavampira]

kiss prompts!! what about 46 for alia & minfilia?

ty sydney mwah!! 🖤

46. a lingering kiss before a long trip apart | ffxiv. wol x minfilia warde. vaguely set during the post-2.0 patches. 895 words. [prompts]

The Solar greets D’alia with the all-encompassing warmth of the fireplace as she steps past the heavy door. Her eyes skim the stone room for the Antecedent, gliding past the armchair where she has spent many a late evenings dozing with her nose in her grimoire and a low-stoked fire for comfort, and settle on the familiar braided blond updo belonging to the woman hunched over a spread of parchments on her desk.

A testament to her focus, Minfilia doesn’t even look up at the reverberating footfall of her boots on the hard floor. At least, not until D’alia comes to a halt right in front of her desk and leans on splayed palms, rosy hair falling around her shoulders. Her lips twitch in the hint of a smirk as the other woman’s head snaps up at the realization of company.

She does not allow herself to dwell on an older fear, one rooted in bloodshed and kidnapping amidst their last headquarters, knowing it to be illogical to be vigilant at all bells while simply attending to her bureaucratic tasks. Nay, she suppresses those thoughts—they would not do when she is soon to depart on a task of her own. Instead, she releases a shaky exhale before widening her teasing grin.

“Minfilia, you wound me. What must I do to earn your attention before I leave?”

“Oh!” Eyes widening and a flush of pink blooming over her cheeks, Minfilia meets her gaze. “Forgive me, Alia. I seem to have lost myself in all this correspondence.”

“Naught to forgive. I know full well how busy you are, too.”

Minfilia grimaces as she rises to her feet. “An unfortunate truth.”

Weaving around the corner of the wooden desk, D’alia moves between her and the source of her distraction, and hoists herself onto its surface. As always when she does this, Minfilia’s laugh echoes light and airy through the room before she covers it shyly behind her hand. D’alia reaches for it, unfurling her fingers to lace with her own and place into her lap, and glances up at her with an unbidden smile.

Her hands have roughened with her years of adventuring and felling primals, but Minfilia doesn’t seem to mind as her thumb rubs idle circles into her bare skin. A soft sigh escapes her, enclosing D’alia’s hold with her other hand as well, their own entangled form of comfort in spite of the knowledge that they must part for a time. Again.

“It pains me to let you go,” Minfilia admits softly, squeezing her hand.

D’alia bites back the I despise leaving you that threatens to spill past her lips. ‘Twould only add to Minfilia’s guilt in having to remain behind in Revenant’s Toll, she knows, and the simple fact is that duty pulls them in separate but necessary directions, as oft the case and such as they have known since fitting themselves into each other’s lives this way. But in the deepest part of her very being, D’alia loathes to disappoint her.

“I shall return in no longer than a moon,” she assuages, dragging the hand still in hers to the silky pink ribbon that she had opted to tie around her thigh that morning, and she can’t entirely blame the warmth spreading across her skin on the nearby fireplace. “And you’ll be the first I see when I do, darling.”

And this, too, is a confession: Minfilia releases her only to cradle her face between her palms, an earnest and open desire in her gaze, and presses her lips against hers as she closes the gap between them. D’alia arches into her and her tail winds around her lover’s leg, stricken with fervent need to have her close with the deepening kiss. If she could hold onto this moment, and merge them together to carry in her heart on her journey, she would without hesitation.

‘Tis a crueler truth that her heart will remain in the Rising Stones when she departs.

D’alia allows her hands to roam, finding purchase on the soft curve of her waist and back of her neck to draw her nearer. She’s rewarded with a low hum that she feels more than she hears, and Minfilia breaks away with the quirk of her lips into a shadowed smile, leaning her forehead against her, almost as if unwilling to completely part, drawn by sheer magnetism. Their noses brush with the movement to prove the point, but it bothers neither, content to sit with the lingering breaths between them.

“Pray return to me hale and whole.” Minfilia’s lips ghost over hers when she finally speaks again, still not quite able to fully pull away from her, even as her fingers rake the rosy hair away from her face. “And spare me no details of your latest adventure.”

“As you wish.”

Another kiss to the corner of her mouth follows, her lover’s gratitude for granting her the boon of her promise, for she has never broken her word to her. And another, this one meeting the curved line of her jaw, hands gently tilting her head, and D’alia follows her guidance, pliant to her touch. Every lingering kiss trailing lower threatens to make her late, but she finds it more difficult to care.

For she would much rather cling to the phantom of Minfilia’s lips on her skin in the days to come.

[redwayfarers]

survivor - for the random word generator prompt!

hello! sorry for the wait, real life got the better of me and i didn't write, but i was reading gide and this came to me like an angel, so i had to write it! if it reads like les faux monnayeurs, i'm so sorry lmao, this is why they tell you not to write immediately after reading (affectionate)

a flickering light, or a tale of two survivors

Fandom: FFXIV Ship: Cassander/Stephanivien (implied), Nika/Minfilia Characters: Cassander Inteus (aka a Cass AU), Nika Perseis (WoL), Stephanivien de Haillenarte Rating: Gen Words: 1759 Spoilers: ARR patches, if you squint. dividers by @saradika

Set during early Heavensward.

The Skysteel Manufactory gets stupidly creepy at night. It’s not lit by torches or something, like some parts of the city - Stephanivien saw to that, he’s too avant-garde for torches, how dare the world not use every technological advancement ever! - and there’s a few of the lamps that go on and off, like a broken clock. Stephanivien is too busy to see that of all things, and we’re all far too enthralled by the creepiness to tell him. 

Some of us have weird tastes. 

The workshops on higher levels are a mess of metal parts, wires, cogs, magical devices and whatever the fuck machinists need. There’s a beauty in that too, in a way. It feels lived in, like a childhood bedroom you can’t yet leave even though you’re getting married tomorrow. Except that I was an adult when I first saw this room, and that I’d have no idea what a beloved childhood room would look, let alone feel like. My childhood bedroom - or the room where I spent a large part of what people call a childhood, anyways - is pristine, devoid of personality, rich, opulent. It’s a stage more than anything. Only thing remotely lived in in that whole fucking room - no, the whole shitty house - is the bright, orange pillow with Dzemael sigil sewn on it. 

It was embarrassing, packing your childhood pillow, the first time I left to spend the night in the Manufactory. But maybe I am embarrassing, deep down, so I get to keep my little pillow with me and go freeze in the messy, lived in workshops overnight. The more I got used to that, the less embarrassing it felt. 

One day, I might even go take it to Coerthas and drown in a river there. I’m sure my mother would be happier for it. She found the pillow rather tacky anyways. 

“It was very.. Kind of you to let me in,” I told Stephanivien one night, seated beside him to watch him work. His eyeshadow bore the signs of wearing, a little messy at the edges. His forehead gleamed with sweat. The lamp was dying, but he was too engrossed in his work to notice and I was too engrossed in him to tell him. 

“Kind? Cassander, your mother is an absolute bitch. Even if you weren’t as pretty as you are, I would have taken you in regardless. Between us, darling, you’re wasted in that house.” He smiled, widely. “You look much better with a gun in your hand, I will say.” 

“You will,” I laugh, looking at my hands. My cheeks were burning. “I think I like guns. Long ones in particular. Elegant. You may think I’m referring to something else, but no, I am referring to metal objects you use to shoot things with.”

“You’re funny,” Stephanivien shakes his head. “I can make you one, if you’d like. Golden, to match the pillow.” 

“My future gun has a bed now, who would’ve thought.” I reached out and grasped his gloved hand, dirty from the work. Stephanivien smiled, and it seemed brighter than the dying lamp above our heads. 

Maybe I’m also a little fond of that struggling, dying thing. I go up sometimes, when it’s cold, or rainy, or everyone’s simply too busy for me and my jobless ass, sit beneath it and look at the gun Stephanivien gave me. A nameday gift, engraved with a little dagger. It’s in pristine condition, but I clean it anyway, with all the care you afford a priceless, porcelain vase; the light flickers, on and off, but I don’t need it to see the little dagger engraving, the nooks and the crannies and the long barrel that feels like something my mother would hate. 

That, too, brings me joy. Theokleia de Dzemael hates machinists, on principle. The fact that I not only own a gun, but can shoot with it, is a kind of pleasure I wouldn’t have thought myself capable of some 5 years ago. 

This particular evening, I climb up the stairs to the workshop, coffee in hand, ready to clean it from the last practice from earlier. A curl that the goggles aren’t holding up tickles my temple, but I’ll be damned if I let my coffee spill just because of one stray piece of hair that refuses to sit still. I kick the door open. 

“I like your gun,” someone says before I can fully register them. A pair of mismatched eyes moves from the weapon to me and my coffee. “Did you also drink the last of the coffee?” 

“I’m not a coffee maniac,” I grumble, frowning. “I can’t drink all of it. What kind of question is that, for fuck’s everloving sake?” 

Nika looks at me with an equal furrow. However, that’s his MO, and mine is decidedly not. I have been known to grin maniacally once or twice. “One that needs answering.” 

The light flickers above our heads. It casts a sudden light onto his face, and shines a weak light onto the hazel eye and the scar on his nose and cheek. Ouch. His lips are pulled in a tight line, his short, black hair in disarray, a stark contrast to the finery of the clothes he’s wearing - courtesy of his hosts here in Ishgard. 

For a Warrior of Light, he is very gloomy and dark. An asshole, too. You’d think the Warrior of Light, of all people, would be a hero, but no, we’re stuck with a perpetually frowning asshole. What a joy. 

“What do you want? Move, I need that desk.” I place the overfilled cup down as roughly as I can. “There’s no fucking coffee here except the one on the table, and that’s mine.”

“I paid you a compliment,” he says, unmoving. “You could at least say thank you. You nobles should have manners.” 

“Je suis plein de gratitude. I know you paid me a compliment, but the question later made no sense so that had to be addressed first.” 

Nika looks at the gun again. He taps his fingers against the wood in a rhythm, three taps forward, one tap backward, three strong, one a glide, then in reverse. He then looks at his feet and takes a deep breath. “Minfilia is better at this sort of thing. She knows how to talk to you higher classes.” 

“Minfilia?” Who the fuck is this Minfilia woman? I readjust my goggles, and push the tickling curl away from my skin. Is she his lover, his sister? His friend? I can’t imagine him caring about anyone, including himself. From what little he’s been here in the Manufactory, a stray taken in by Stephanivien’s brightness much like me, all he did is make nonsense sentences and antagonize everyone. 

“Someone very dear to me. But she isn’t here, and neither is Alphinaud, so you’re stuck with me.” 

Alphinaud? Oh yeah, one of the other wards. The elezen kid. Whoever did his braid deserves to be fired because it’s needlessly messy and terrible. “Which would be fine, if you stopped speaking in riddles. Now can I sit, Warrior of Light, or will you clean my likeable gun for me? I’m not making you coffee.”

“In riddles? I’m not–” Nika frowns yet again. “Have your gun, whats-your-face.” 

“Cassander. Cassander de Dzemael.” 

“Cassander,” he says, like he’s testing the name. I look down at him. 

The light flickers. Something crosses his face, and his eyes look painfully vulnerable for a moment, and he’s tapping his fingers in the same rhythm again. 

“Why are you here, Nika?” I ask. I don’t know why my voice becomes so gentle. Maybe because I’m towering over him, and if I kept the hard edge, it would scare him off, not that I care about that. Maybe if I spoke gentler, he’d buck less under every question. Maybe he’d even start making sense. 

Or maybe the images of my mother’s hard voice echo in my head, like a hammer to the anvil. Now it is my turn to grip the table until my nail beds go a little pale. Her shouts and her yells, her derisive comments, her hard eyes and her pointed anger, and her looming, Halone’s ass, the looming! Do I sound like that? Do I sound as rough as she does? 

Nika’s quiet for a while. He keeps looking at his hands, rough and harsh. “That’s none of your business,” he rasps, but moves so that I could sit. “If someone needs me, they don’t know where to look.” 

I sit and take a long sip of my coffee. “Just mind the pillow, then. And try not to interrupt. This is something of a sacred ritual, you see. Halone-ordained. When you go to church, they tell you you must clean your gun or else she will smite you, or something.” 

He huffs. 

“Or so I hear,” I add with a shrug. “I’m not frequently in church.” 

The light flickers. 

“Minfilia would also laugh at that,” Nika says. I still have no idea who this Minfilia is, but she’s welcome to laugh at my jokes, wherever she is. “Will they fix the fucking thing?”

I take a sip of coffee. “Don’t think so. It’s rather cute. On and off. We all like weird things, I think, and my particular weird thing is this broken little lamp. Besides, I’m sure Stephanivien will notice at some point or another. When it dies, probably.”

“He’s the one making these guns, I’d rather he didn’t make me a faulty one,” Nika shrugs. “But if he sees, it’s whatever. It’s just annoying. You asked me earlier why I’m here. I was drawn to the gun. I think it has a nice shot.” He pauses. “I’m sure that the Fortemps family can pay for one of these.”

“Pretty sure they can, yeah. This one’s mine, though.” 

“I’m not in the habit of stealing people’s weapons.” 

I lift a brow. “Never said you were.” 

Nika shakes his head and heads for the door. The light flickers and he looks up. “Someone should really fix the damn thing,” he says, a little less angry than before. He’s then gone, tucking his waistcoat tighter for warmth, and I watch him go before he’s part of the shadows and I can take out my tools. 

We all like weird things. Some of us like long-barreled guns. Some of us like women named Minfilia, and speaking in riddles. And who knows? Maybe this broken little lamp refuses to die because it likes us, too. 

Halone works in weird fucking ways. 

[ransprang]

Thancred/fem!WOL sex pollen for kinktober?? 🫣

Kinktober 2023

Thancred - sex pollen

The wind was blowing hard, whistling through the fields as Thancred practiced swordsmanship on a dummy. He was sweating, heart beat fast, muscles contracting at the repeated action of his arm moving back and forth slashing the dummy in front.

The windows and doors made a loud sound, shutting with a thud as the wind slammed against them. He finally broke rhythm to notice white tiny particles being carried by the strong gusts of wind. The air was scented of sandalwood, and the concentration of the particles made it seem foggy. As people rushed back into their houses, Thancred paid it no mind. He had training to complete for the day.

As Thancred continued to slash, he felt a jolt of electricity that went down his spine. His belly muscles began contracting, he hunched over groaning. A warmth began rising between his legs, Thancred was orgasming. He felt viciously ecstatic, looking around as his body became hyper sensitive. The sweat against his skin felt much more prominent as he could feel his chest move up and down to breathe. Thancred searched around for someone, something to ejaculate in.

Thancred started moving around chaotically, he ran began banging on doors for someone to open up, but no one did. He finally reached the nearby pub as he rubbed his dick between his legs, wanting to squirt his cum out. He ran in and banged at the countertop, “please someone, fuck me”, he said desperately. Just then he heard the door of the pub open again behind him.

You stumbled upon the entrance step, barely gaining balance holding the table nearby. You looked around as you hyperventilated, finally seeing a someone stand before you. The minute your eyes locked, Thancred and you ran towards each other like animals. The moment your bodies clashed into one another, he bit into your neck, leaving a hickey as he began grinding his dick on your groin. Wasting no time you both pulled, tugged and yanked off your clothes in a jiffy. Standing completely naked in the middle of the empty pub Thancred put you on the table and pierced you with his throbbing dick. He pumped as you groaned, humping back with your hips to match his pace. The walls echoed loud thumping, as Thancred reached out and squeezed your breasts tightly. There was a glaze over both your eyes, and a pain in your groans to climax. As Thancred used his strong muscles to pick up incredible speed, you touched your clit. Rubbing it, faster and faster. He pushed his hips deep till you could feel his balls against you. As your clit throbbed, releasing heat through your groin and chest. Thancred released his semen inside, you felt wet and warm in your pussy as you moaned your relief.

Just as it was over Thancred and you looked at each other confused and red in the face. Immediately turning away from each other’s bodies, frantically wearing your clothes back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know what I was doing”, Thancred said sheepishly. You turned around embarrassed “No please don’t apologise, I was the same”. Thancred laughed, “Well at least I know someone in town can match my pace”, making you giggle.

[killingdove]

Elf boys request, their morning routines. Getting out of bed, shaving, getting dressed, eating etc

ishgardian trio ➳ — 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒

A/N: hi anon!! since you didn’t specify which elf boys, i chose the ishgardian trio :) i hope you enjoy these headcanons as much as i enjoyed writing them!

𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐘𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐄

this little ray of sunshine is—to no one’s surprise—a morning bird. has no problem rolling out to start his day. after all the day is full of opportunities to seize!

is one to quickly dress to get it over with

never misses leg day and does his morning squats for 45 minutes

is on top of his facial grooming. sees to it that every dastardly hair is gone

gives himself a pep talk in the mirror

“alright haurche, today’s the day! the warrior of light will be here soon; be cool”

dorkily does the Haurchefant Thing (aka his emote) before leaving the restroom to devour a big hearty but nutritious breakfast

despite his (impressive) musculature, haurchefant has a huge appetite and fast metabolism

probably whistles the whole way to his office

𝐀𝐘𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂 𝐃𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐋

being in such a high, significant position as he is, there is no time to waste in the mornings. is up and at em’ sometimes despite the few hours of sleep he got because he was working late into the night (…again)

usually gives a big yawn (due to his lack of sleep) as he stretches while sitting upright in bed

drags himself out to take a quick cold shower and also takes the time to meticulously shave while in the shower

always drinks his coffee; 9 out of 10 times it works and he’s now a productive member of ishgardian society

always makes sure to wear his earring as he considers it a lucky charm

takes a morning jog on the rare days it’s not snowing in foundation (and is oblivious to all the eyes that openly check his lithe, beautiful physique out) if he can’t, then he does his personal exercise regime inside

returns to his quarters or goes on to don his usual full Lord Commander Attire™️

strictly sticks to the diet lucia devised for him

power naps if he didn’t sleep well enough and time permitting (like when he finishes his morning routine early)

practices his cordial, politician mask in the mirror and makes sure it doesn’t slip as he goes about his day out in the public

𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐘𝐑𝐌𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃

is another early riser. wasn’t one growing up but has grown accustomed to the ways of being one due to his rigorous training over the years

most likely grumpy because it’s 6AM and nidhogg’s fury is furying

sleeps commando so he makes sure his curtains are drawn the night prior when he gets out of bed

being the azure dragoon, his physicality had to remain in tip top shape so he lets his bloodlust for nidhogg and the dravanians motivate him to exercise

foregoes breakfast in favor of the eorzean equivalent of a protein drink typically because his schedule doesn’t permit enough time to cook (not that he can cook that well anyway unless squid is involved)

contrary to popular belief, he does shower and like aymeric, cleanly shaves during it

takes the time to care for his hair with the proper shampoo and conditioner and takes the time to brush it thoroughly when out of the shower

polishes his armor carefully before wearing it

makes sure his dried squid snacks are in his pockets before taking on the day (??? why is he like this)

[buoyfriend]

The WoL Catches A Cold *a-choo* - feat. The Ishgard Elf Husbands, G'raha Tia, Ardbert, Hien & Zenos

@eidechsejaspis asked:

Hello again:)

As new season of coughs ans sneezes approaches I have a question of how would Scions (choose any you like), Aymeric and Zenos (where would we go without him?) react on WoL catching serious cold? Time period is at your liking from Heavenward to adventures in Garlemald:)

Thank you in advance:)

It is sniffles season again! Thank you for asking, this was a really fun one to get back into HC writing with!

Aymeric

In moments you think he's not watching, he is. He adores the way you wince when reading an unpleasant part of a book, how you fidget in Alliance meetings, even the little whistle of your snore. Aymeric notices your first sneeze. It's hard to get allergies in Coerthas, and he recognizes the hacking from your lungs a few days later. This comes for everyone sooner or later, and politely asks you to quarantine yourself for a few days.

He isn't one to miss work to care for a sick partner or spouse but has a very attentive nurse stationed nearby

He has given his full itinerary for the next several days so he can be alerted as soon as you wake up from a much needed, multi-day sleep

Aymeric wouldn't argue that he knows cooking well, but he does make a point to assist in the kitchen after work to make sure that you have soup recommended by the best chirugeon available

He will dodge kisses from you for days to avoid becoming sick himself, but it's too late anyways

When Aymeric finds himself bedridden for a few days, he decides that it was worthwhile to give you that forehead kiss as you slept

Estinien

Estinien is familiar with sickness. Long campaigns through the newly snowy Coerthas as a young knight taught him much of seasonal illnesses. He's seen many a friend drink their weight in bitter root soups, gnaw on wild herbs, and the like to push through it until they can get home. He's seen you sick before. Still, he has some lingering anxiety. You looked far worse than a little aetheryte sickness. He's lost much and more, the thought nags at him that more concern might be warranted.

Estinien has his hands full with travel these days and assures you that he will indeed make it to tea with Vritra tomorrow afternoon

He does not make it to tea with Vritra

Estinien deftly slips into the bedroom but there was no need, you had been out cold for hours by then

He would like to keep his friend from waiting, but not until he's sure that your breathing is steady and your temperature not too high

What a sight to see! Had you been awake, you might have heard Estinien's dress shoes pacing along the floor, his hand nearly to his linkpearl while paralyzed by indecision on whether to cancel or not

He cautiously leaves a glass of water and your linkpearl on the bedside table, just in case, though he may never admit that it was he who placed both there

When he does return home, perhaps an hour earlier than expected, he denies all concern as he settles into bed beside you

Haurchefant

While he's not a sadist, Haurchefant absolutely loves the sight of you ill. You're always off somewhere, but for this small bubble of time, you're here. You're sipping hot chocolate and letting him read poetry to you rather than mailing it off to some distant locale. He can watch your tired face grin and sigh rather than imagining it alone from Camp Dragonhead.

His favorite thing to make for you, of course. Hot chocolate, every day you're sick. No matter how hard it is to get chocolate in Coerthas, no matter how many tall tales he must tell to provision it, you wake up to hot chocolate beside your bed every morning.

"You don't need caffeine, anyways, you need something calming and a smile."

He knows he'll get sick if he sleeps next to you every night, but he's forewarned Camp Dragonhead. Emmanellain can hold his seat for a fortnight, it could be good practice for him.

Haurchefant watches you sleep, sliding his hand under the covers to grasp yours. For once, the cuts and bruises all over you are starting to heal. Days off the road, finally given rest. He wishes you both had more days like this.

G'raha Tia

Just as your new adventures together have begun, you fail to keep up. You run a little slower, stopping after a few paces to lean into a cough, heavy sneezes punctuating the blows you attempt to land on monsters. G'raha is quick to notice but slow to bring it up.

He frets, wringing his hands beside you as you ready yourself for the day, struggling to put on your clothes. As you sigh in failure, dropping yourself onto the bed, G'raha can't help himself.

"You can admit you're sick. I know you've been on the road for a long time. Even with the help of your friends, the path you walk is a lonely one. But you're not alone this time. Let yourself rest and let me take care of the other things that come along?"

G'raha fields the many requests sent your way, trying his best to fulfill them, wondering how you do it all at full health.

In quieter moments, he finds his way to The Last Stand to get your favorite dinner, absolutely purring as he watches your sleepy smile. Alas, your sense of smell is back! You knew exactly what he'd brought you as soon as he opened the bag!

He can't help but laugh to himself as you find yourself exhausted from the walk from your bed to the dining table, cracking jokes about his hero losing the greatest battle thus far.

G'raha's excitement knows no bounds when you announce that you're well enough to continue your travels together. The ruddy cheeks, the soft ear wiggle. No sickness can stop his hero for long.

Ardbert

(Assuming Ardbert is no longer a ghost!)

Ardbert is restless. He hasn't seen an open field, a forest, an ocean in days. He wonders if it's unsupportive to ask if you'd mind if he pops out for a fishing trip tomorrow. Perhaps if you're a little better in the morning?

He's not heartless, he left some hot tea beside your bed and made sure your medicines were in reach.

Though he did have some guilt by the third hour of his fishing adventure. The pangs of guilt grew until an idea sprouted from them.

He racked his mind as he navigated the markets. He had enough fish, but the right peppers...which peppers were correct. Tomatoes. Cream. Potatoes. Something was missing, some spice.

Ardbert has made a mess of things. He has put out the kitchen fire, somehow there are no more clean pots and pans. Yet, the soup is complete! It was his mother's recipe, it always had him right as rain after a day or so.

Though you tried your best to hold a straight face, the soup was...I don't know if it's fair to call it a soup. He looks absolutely crushed.

You fall asleep while he strokes your hair, his head pressed against yours as he told you stories. About Kholusia, fishing for cod with his father, his mother's miracle soup. He asks what they made where you're from, but it's too late. You've already drifted off, dreaming about magic fish.

Oddly enough, from a couple of sips of Ardbert's attempted soup, you feel some measure better. He, on the other hand, has the same horrible wheezing cough you had a day before.

Hien

Hien is not the biggest believer in staying bedridden in a sealed room while sick. He frowns, hating to see you suffer, but a thought springs to mind as he twirls your lank, sweaty hair between his fingers.

The clean air of the Azim Steppe is just as promised. During the day, he haggles in the markets for the best Dzo to make stews, the best leaves to make tea. All while you watch the clouds pass from the hammock outside of your yurt.

It's hard to leave the hammock, not only for the comfort. Where else could you see so many stars? Hien points to his favorites, the brightest, the funniest shapes some constellations make.

There wasn't much for entertainment, but watching Hien in the distance sparring with friends was a welcome sight.

After a few days, he encourages you to come with him. On a little walk, at least. Another day, just a little spar. How do you know you're well if you don't test your skills?

The break from all the noise, the responsibilities, becomes intoxicating to you after some time. Hien never has to rush to some meeting, you never need to leave to be flung at a new problem.

You've been better for a week now, finding yourself testing your sharpness with Hien and his friends every morning. Though you may have been hesitant to travel while sick, the time spent together was precious. Perhaps next time you won't have to be sick to convince yourself to take a break.

Zenos

He's seen you weakened before, brought to your knees by your own frailty. It disappoints him and yet, he's fascinated by it in a way he doesn't quite understand. How could someone so pitiful occupy every hour of his day?

Zenos doesn't agree with the chirugeon, you could power through this with sheer force of will and merely shrugs as the medicines are set on the table.

This could not be what ends the object of his obsession, his first friend. He regularly checks that you're still breathing. He leans in too close to hear that your heart is still beating, only to be rewarded by a wheezing cough into his hair.

His size is quite the advantage, it's not a challenge for him to carry you from place to place. He leans low to the ground, scooping you up as the sight of you exhausted from standing up only leaves him with disgust.

Still, when you fall asleep each night, he leans his head to your chest. Your heart still beats, your skin glittering with sweat. He knew he would see you like this on another day, performing the great feats that brought him to you in the first place. Though he never understood your reasons, he knew you'd be back to fighting the mesmerizing fights that led the two of you here. To share a bed, a home, a life.

[alfonce-astrida]

On Hope and Family

A character study of Artoirel during Heavensward

If you had told Artoirel de Fortemps that one day the Warrior of Light would be his sibling, one of his closest most trusted companions he would have hesitated to believe you.

It's not that he didn't believe Haurchefant when Fortemps Manor received his first letter all but begging for you to be allowed access to Ishgard, when he'd called you "hope incarnate". Its just that, well, Haurchefant always has been a touch dramatic, has always worn his heart so openly, always given it so freely. A trait that Artoirel has always been somewhat envious of, if he was being honest with himself.

And then you arrived and you were... not what Artoirel was expecting. He remembered briefly reading of the events that led to your arrival, being publicly accused of murder, running for your life, how many allies lost. Perhaps that explained the subtle hollowness to your eyes, the way you seemed to only really half smile, the way you clung to Haurchefant's side. For a god slayer you looked... tired.

This is part of why, Artoirel tells himself, he is so displeased at being forced to work alongside you. That and Artoirel is a knight of Ishgard, does his father really think him incapable of aiding the efforts at Falcon's Nest alone? But he did see the way your eyes seemed to light up at being given a role, a purpose, even one so temporary. So he didn't complain. Much.

Whilst in Falcon's Nest, the two of you find a knight injured by heretics. He feels a pang of guilt sending you off on the dangerous task of finding the heretics while he collects reinforcements, but you do not hesitate. You have always been happy doing the hard tasks, the dangerous ones, if you do them alone then no one else can get hurt. Artoirel watches you go and perhaps he is beginning to understand why Haurchefant called you hope.

He finds you later, having single handedly fought through the heretics, though their leader, Lady Iceheart escaped. You offer him a smile, and he finds himself smiling back.

Artoirel learns later of your efforts to rescue his brother from his own foolishness. Though of course, people were generally more focused on the new primal, he did not miss Honoroit's story of how you threw yourself into enemy territory alone to protect Emmanellain. Casually, he mentions this thought to Haurchefant who just smiles and nods as he looks over at you from across the room.

Unfortunately, this moment of peace is quickly broken by the news of Alphinaud and Tataru's arrest. The events that unfolded were nothing more than contained chaos, but Artoirel saw once more how willing you are to protect others, how selfless you are, and how you were, above all else, kind. So very kind. Haurchefant was of course there to celebrate your victory.

It is now that Artoirel begins to open himself to you. You care so deeply, perhaps not at openly as Haurchefant, but just as honestly. In the time you spend in Ishgard, staying in the Fortemps Manor, you slowly but surely begin to feel like family. He sees how you laugh and joke with Emmanellain, how you always make sure Honoroit knows he is seen, how tightly you hug Haurchefant after you haven't seen him in a while. How you spend time with him, talking softly, listening genuinely, how you don't care for the expectations of Isghard high society, how you don't judge that he does. And when you leave for Dravania with Estinien and Alphinaud, on some mission you cannot tell him of, Artoirel finds himself praying to the Fury for your safe return.

You come home as often as duty permits. Staying for a few days after reaching a brick wall (or barrier) before being whisked away to Ul’dah. And then you're home again only briefly before you make the journey to slay Nidhogg. Strange, when did Artoirel start to call Fortemps Manor your home? He worries for you each time you are gone, and is so very relieved when you return safely, but he trusts your skill. He knows you will be fine.

When you leave to fight Nidhogg it's different. You leave with Estinien alone. On a task none know if you will survive. Though Artoirel worries for you greatly, Haurchefant and Alphinaud are beside themselves. In your absence, Artoirel offers what comfort he can, words of praise to your skill, your past triumphs, you have slain gods so what is a dragon? You and Estinien are among the greatest warriors of our age. You will make it, you will win and you will be fine. Safe. Artoirel does his hardest to believe in the words he says.

And then the Dravanians attack. If your duel with the Heavens' Ward had been contained chaos, well then your return to Ishgard was pure unadulterated chaos. Artoirel later learns that you returned to the city with Lady Iceheart in tow, how you ran into Haurchefant on the way, and how the lady turned the invaders away. She spoke of a lie. A lie the very city of Ishgard had been built upon. It would have been too much to believe if any but you had spoke it. You would not say something like this if it had any risk of being wrong. He trusts you. And so does Ser Aymeric.

It is this trust, and the desire to do good, that leads Ser Aymeric to be arrested. That leads you and your allies to fight your way through the vault to rescue him, to stop the ArchBishop.

Artoirel is not there when Haurchefant gives himself for you. When he lies dying in Ser Aymeric's arms. When he asks to see you smile one last time. When his bright light flickers and goes out.

Artoirel is there though when you return to the manor after, your voice shaking, tears in your eyes, trying so hard to be strong. In the quiet moments in between you sit close to one another. You, Artoirel, Emmanellain, Honoroit, you all sit in silence pressed against each other as tears fall and bodies shake with echoing sobs. There are no words to be said. No words of comfort to give. You all know what you have lost.

He watches you leave the next morning, a terrible grief and a terrible rage within your eyes. He understands. He feels it too. He just prays that you do not lose yourself to it. That you come home safe. Artoirel does not know if he could take the loss of another sibling.

When you leave once more, to stop the ArchBishop, to take revenge upon Ser Zephirin, Artoirel watches you go. He watches long after the Excelsior has disappeared into the clouded sky. He prays once more.

"Please let them come home. Please."

You do. Thank the fury, you do. But Estinien does not return with you.

Still though, there is hope. You are safe and the moment you are alone with Artoirel he pulls you into the first hug he has ever given you. You wrap your arms around him in return. The both of you holding each other tightly, there is no need for either of you to speak. You both understand. He may not ask you in as many words to be your sibling, but you both know it to be true. You have both loved and lost, you would both do anything to protect that which you love. You are family.

You stand together with the Fortemps, a signet ring heavy on your finger, as Ishgard rejoins the Eorzean Alliance. As Ser Aymeric smiles at you, Artoirel's mind returns to the words Haurchefant once wrote.

"Hope Incarnate."

Artoirel turns his face to the sky allowing himself a small smile. "You were right, Haurchefant. You would be proud."

[house-fortemptations]

An excerpt from my little word doc of half-written fics. This is one of the more finished pieces, thought it does still end rather abruptly. Apologies ; w ; I also haven’t written in a while, so this is rusty and very self-indulgent. Basically just written word flânerie. Enjoy!

GN!WoL/Reader x Haurchefant

The soft sound of crunching snow alerted you to his presence before he even uttered a word. This was becoming the norm, it seems—a cold and blustery Coerthan day, the muted chatter of the camp from below, two mugs of hot chocolate, and the unlikely pair of them—the Commander of Camp Dragonhead and Eorzea’s Champion.

“You needn’t have troubled yourself, my lord.” You said, your words belying the truth as you graciously accepted the warm mug from the Elezen knight. “T’would be remiss of me to use up the camp’s supplies. Pray however will your men fare without your lovely hot chocolate?”

His boyish laughter filled your heart fit to burst with unadulterated fondness. Haurchefant took his place beside you, the steel of his chainmail clinking against the cold stone wall as he leaned back.

“Perish the thought, my friend! You are the camp’s most esteemed guest, and as such, I will personally attend to the long and arduous expedition of replenishing the necessary provisions if it pleases you.”

Though his tone was overtly joking, both of you knew the underlying truth to the jest. As scandalously flirtatious as the man was, no one could deny the special attention he lavished upon you at any opportunity.

You craned your neck to look up at him, a soft smile forming on your lips to which his gaze unabashedly lowered to. You felt your chest swell with an emotion so strong and unbidden, the beating of your heart loud and fast in your ears that you were certain the other could hear it too.

Haurchefant’s lips held a smile of his own, his gaze lifting briefly to meet yours before allowing them to drift back down. A silent plea. The air around you two seemed to thicken, further blocking off the din of noise below you. You two were in your own little world, free from the demands of your stations. Free to just…

“Haurche..” His smile widened at the breathy way you said his name, at the way your body seemed to tremble naught from the cold as his one hand found its way to your hip, just barely touching.

You were so close, just mere ilms apart, all he’s ever wanted within arms’ reach. Finally. Finally.

“Commander, ser, a missive from Ishgard.”

And just like that, you were pulled back to the rest of the world, the intimate moment slipping through your fingers as Eorzea beckons her champion and her knight to its aid once more.

[elfyourmother]

"Forgive me love, for I do not intend to pry, but...what did she mean, when she said to remember well what she said beneath the stars of Zenith?"

For years, a simple question with no answer, until now...

[azems-familiar]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Emet-Selch/G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch, implied past Azem/Emet-Selch/Hythlodaeus/Original Character Characters: Emet-Selch (Final Fantasy XIV), G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers (Final Fantasy XIV), what's gayer: gay sex or whatever these two have going on?, Brief Mentions of Named Azem, POV Emet-Selch (Final Fantasy XIV), Enemies With Benefits (The Benefits Are Tea And Gossip), i genuinely don't know how else to tag this tbh, set during the century before the wol gets summoned to the First, it's canon compliant in that you can't prove it DIDN'T happen Summary:

In truth, though, there is only one question Emet-Selch wants answered by this place, and it is thus: from whence have you come? All other quandaries posed by the Tower, its keeper, his eight-times-Rejoined soul, and what he truly means to accomplish by dragging himself and it across the rift to a doomed shard can, Emet-Selch believes, be explained by that single answer - or if not explained, at least further opined on, and if there is something he is singularly good at doing, it is having opinions. And yet five decades have passed since Hydaelyn’s irritatingly-well-timed interference and the Tower’s appearance and he has gained naught. Not even a hint of the Crystal Exarch’s past.

Thus Emet-Selch’s unannounced materialization in the Umbilical at half past four in the afternoon, when a cursory inspection of the Exarch’s other usual haunts, including his favored sitting room, turned up nothing but scattered papers and a long-cold pot of tea that must have been brewed and summarily forgotten.

[myreia]

DIVERGENCE OF THE HEART

CHAPTER ELEVEN: HEART OF STONE

Chapter Rating: Teen Characters: Aureia Malathar (WoL), Aymeric de Borel, Thancred Waters, Hilda Ware Pairings: Aureia/Aymeric, Aureia/Thancred, Thancred/Hilda Chapter Words: 2,851 Notes: Set during the Heavensward patches. Summary: Aureia Malathar may have made a name for herself in Ishgard, but her deeds come with a hefty personal toll. Despite her victories at the Grand Melee she has never felt more unsure of herself. Her relationship with Thancred—the person she thought knew her the best—is strained, yet she cannot abandon him. Aymeric is falling for her harder with each passing day, yet she cannot bring herself to accept it. All may be fair in love and war, but at least war is predictable. Love on the other hand… Chapters: 1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • 6 • 7 • 8 • 9 • 10 • 11 Read on AO3

They leave the Borel Manor in silence.

Hilda sets an easy pace, striding with purpose, head held high. She huffs when her long ponytail catches on her jacket collar and pulls it out, flipping it behind her. Her carbine rests heavily on her back, the metal looking all the more worn in the bright sunlight. It is uncommonly bright today, not a cloud to be seen. Aureia can’t remember a sky so clear since the day Haurchefant died.

“I suppose thanks are in order,” Aureia says. She isn’t sure what she wants to say to her friend, but something is better than nothing.

Hilda flashes her a sympathetic smile. “Any time.” They walk a little further, their pace slowing as they turn onto the Pillars’ main thoroughfare. The Vault dominates the skyline, its soaring spires reaching up to the heavens. “You know, Aur, I’m not going to pry into personal matters, but you all right? You seem a little…”

She gestures empathetically, leaving the word unsaid.

“I’m fine.”

She arches an eyebrow, but does not press. “So, I understand dinner went well,” she continues, flashing her a grin.

“Dinner? I—” Aureia blushes. The dinner feels like an age ago. “It was nice.”

“Mhm.”

“It was! What’s that smile for?”

Hilda’s grin widens. “Can’t I be happy for you?”

“You’re teasing me.”

“I’m teasing you because I’m happy for you.”

They round the corner and patter down the stone steps into the Jeweled Crozier. The marketplace is bustling, the midday sun drawing out the crowds. Highborn and lowborn both stand shoulder-to-shoulder, pursuing merchants’ wares with flushed faces and bright eyes. Considering the stringent Ishgardian social divide, it is heartwarming to see them gathered here. Perhaps Aymeric’s reforms are finally making change.

Hilda catches the eye of a large, beefy Elezen loitering in a corner. She gives him a cheery wave and his face breaks into a wide smile. Chortling to herself, she pulls Aureia through the street, weaving their way through the chattering crowd.

“So,” she says, her eyes dancing mischievously. “How was it?”

“How was what?”

Hilda clears her throat and shoots her a knowing look. “How was it?”

“Oh!” Aureia’s flush deepens. She may as well have lit herself on fire from the way she is burning. “Good.”

The dam breaks in her chest, relief rushing over her. Somehow confiding in someone other than Aymeric, someone normal without the concerns of the Ishgardian aristocracy, relieves the stress and worry she has been building in her head. There will always be politics involved in this relationship, she knows that, but Hilda brings a relieving sense of perspective. “It was good. Nice.”

She chortles. “See? I knew you needed someone to help take the edge off.”

Aureia smirks. “Yes, well… Aymeric is quite good at that.”

“Is he now? Fury, I’d hope so, considering he’s been pining after you for moons. I reckon I’ve never seen a man quite in love with anyone as he is with you. One would think a politician wouldn’t wear his heart on his sleeve.”

She pauses, a spike of annoyance stabbing her in the gut. Though the words are different, the point is familiar. Too familiar. “Been talking to Thancred?”

Hilda shrugs. “Saw him in brief last night.”

Her heart pangs, an open, heavy throb. She doesn’t want to think about what that means when who he spends his time with doesn’t matter to her. So why—after everything—does she still care? “At Saint Vaindreau’s Grace?” she asks.

“Aye,” she replies. “At Saint Vaindreau’s Grace. Alphinaud’s little sister is well, if you were wondering.”

Aureia makes a face. “Best not let Alisaie catch you calling her little or that might be the end of you and the Hounds.”

Hilda snorts. The crowd thins and they exit the market, passing below grand sweeping arches as they follow the curve of the street down, down, and down again. Aureia’s legs ache. Why this city was built into the slope of a mountain, she will never know.

“Right,” Hilda says after a moment, throwing her ponytail over her shoulder once more. “Reckon I should have told you sooner considering the two of you are friends and all, but here I was thinking it wouldn’t amount to much in the first place—”

“What would?”

“A bit of fun.” She shrugs again. “Getting a bit bored, if I’m honest.”

Aureia holds her tongue and stares dully ahead. Foundation’s tenements rise high around them, casting the road into shadow. The flagstones are slippery here, puddles clinging to the stone where the sun has not yet hit.

“I worry for you Scions, you know. So concerned with the fates of gods and men, do any of you give consideration to yourselves? It’s hard work, ain’t it? Championing the belief in a better world. Eorzea needs good folk like you, just as Ishgard needs the likes of Ser Aymeric and the Brume needs the likes of the Hounds.”

“Where’s this going, Hilda?”

“I’ve never seen a man quite as wretched as he was last night. Blamed it on guilt over the little sister’s injuries, but I reckon there was something else on his mind. Now this is none of my business, but did something happen with the pair of you?”

“You could say that.”

“Let me guess, he was a fucking fool, yeah?”

Aureia pauses, eyes wide.

Hilda grins at her, eyes shining with mirth and understanding. Linking her arm with hers, she resumes her purposeful stride. “Did you really think I wouldn’t have your back, Aur?” she says. “Listen. If you want my advice? Fuck him—”

Aureia chokes, laughter bubbling out of her. Her shoulders shake and she leans into Hilda for support. This is not where she thought this conversation would go.

“Maybe not literally,” Hilda continues, her lips twitching with amusement. “Definitely not literally, the man is a mess.”

“I know.”

They exit out of the shadows and turn down another street, heading for the Forgotten Knight. Aureia’s stomach is growling. It will be good to return home, take whatever food Gibrillont has on offer, and touch base with Tataru. She will no doubt know the logistics Alphinaud and Count Edmont have planned.

Guilt twinges in her gut. Though some tiny part of her is proud of putting her personal life first for once, she chose the wrong night to do it. In a way, she has let them both down. She hates to imagine Alphinaud, pale with worry about Alisaie and with dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep, taking command of the situation and formulating the plan. Too often logistics have come down to him, and while she trusts him with her life, he shouldn’t have to shoulder that burden alone. Edmont, too, has stepped up in her absence, playing his role as the responsible and generous noble benefactor.

She’s being too harsh, she knows she is. Edmont is a good man. House Fortemps will always stand by the Scions. She should be grateful for that. If he hadn’t offered, Alphinaud or Aymeric would have asked for his aid regardless. No airship can make its way to Xelphatol. The only way up the mountain is to fight their way through hordes of Ixali and the Fortemps knights are well-trained in that regard.

“Aur.” Hilda’s voice interrupts her thoughts, gentle but firm. They have reached the foot of a bridge, its span arching across the twisting city streets. “I should take my leave. Take care, yeah?”

Aureia smiles.

Hilda unlinks her arm and pulls her into an embrace. “Me and the Hounds will be waiting for you when you get back. Drinks on us this time, the whole crew. Don’t keep us waiting for long, you hear?”

She chuckles affectionately. “I hear.”

“Good. Say, you should stop by the Skysteel Manufactory sometime. I think Stephanivien would be pleased to me you, give you a lesson or two in how our firearms work. I reckon you’d make a fine machinist.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“If you ever feel the need to shoot something, say the word.”

Hilda releases her and draws back, a mischievous smirk on her face. She raises a hand in farewell and departs, disappearing across the grand thoroughfare. Smiling to herself, Aureia sets a foot on the bridge and climbs. There are few people about, and those who are pay her no heed. The sun shines brightly, the wind all but calm. If she didn’t know better, one could say it is as close to a spring day as Ishgard can get.

A shadow waits for her at the apex.

Her heart plummets. Thancred’s figure is unmistakable as he leans against the thick stone railing, arms folded across his chest. He watches the thin foot traffic with a narrowed eye, his eyepatch returned to its customary place. The hilts of his dual daggers glint in the harsh light. She doesn’t need to ask what that means—he is prepared to escort her to Camp Dragonhead and beyond, if needed.  

A creeping sense of déjà vu settles over her as she crests the bridge. She brushes it aside and squints, shielding her face with a hand. A day ago, she would be annoyed—angry, even. Now she feels nothing. Anger would be better than nothing.

“Thancred.”

“Aureia.”

The faint breeze tugs at her hair. She slows to a stop a foot away, arms folded and hands tucked into her armpits. She must keep things civil. Treat him normally. Perhaps if they pretend nothing happened, they can keep their working relationship intact. “How is Alisaie?” she asks.

“She dances on the edge of consciousness, straying in and out,” he replies curtly. “But the chirurgeons report that she has taken to the antidote well. She will recover. It is only a matter of time before she is on her feet once more.”

“I see. Is someone with her now?”

“Tataru has relieved us of infirmary duty, if that is what you ask.”

Her jaw clenches. “I only wanted to know if someone she knew was nearby. I would hate to be in her shoes, awaking in a strange city, no friends in sight. Or worse, a Fortemps brother.”

A measly, half-hearted joke. One made at the expense of Artoirel and Emmanellain. Haurchefant would chastise her gently for it. Gods, what is wrong with her?

He snorts. There’s no retort. No witty repartee. Instead, he stares intently at the bridge and the tenements beyond and the mountains beyond that. There’s a terrible yearning in his face, desire turned desperate. He may be here physically, but his mind is elsewhere. Ishgard is no place for him, not after his year in the wilds. Then again, perhaps there has never been a place for him. They both once called Ul’dah home, but it rang true for her in a way it did not to him. A city of import, yes, but he was only ever a passerby. He is a wanderer, always on the move. If he could up and disappear now, where would he go? He vanished and found Alisaie. Perhaps he will do something of the like again. Yda and Papalymo are still missing after all.  

Her heart pangs with grief. It has been so long since they were all together, gathered in Minfilia’s solar at the Rising Stones. A different age. A different life. Even should those who remain be reunited, it will never be the same.

“You were not at the meeting,” Thancred says.

She grimaces. “I wasn’t aware there was a meeting.”

“Perhaps you would have had you not disappeared.”

“Perhaps I should be free to go where I please and not where I’m expected. I’m not bound hand and foot to the Fortemps Manor.”

“Quite. Though you are not above aristocratic hospitality when another manor has caught your eye. Or so I hear.”

How the hells…? Not even day. Not one day and already he knows. Not one day and already he is judging her. Does his envy truly go that far? Did he expect her to chase him down at the infirmary after what happened in that alleyway? He gave her leave not to. He told her that if she did not come, that would be the end of it—

There it is. The anger, surging up out of her like a burst of mana.

She bites her tongue, desperate to keep her temper in check. How easy it is to simmer in her fury. Anger is powerful. Addictive. It is satisfying to ride the waves of her righteous anger, to give into it utterly. But behind the pleasure lies exhaustion.

Why is she angry? What does she blame him for? Fucking her friend behind her back? What happened between him and Hilda isn’t any of her business. The misguided kiss the night before? She fell for it as much as he did, it would be hypocritical to fault him for it without blaming herself. The cold shoulders and bitter remarks? Natural responses to the way she needles him. If he knows exactly where to press to make it hurt the most, she knows, too. Perhaps even better.

To try to unravel who wronged who first is impossible now.

Her heart seizes. It is as if a hand has reached directly into her chest and wrapped its fingers around it, squeezing tight. “I’m sorry,” she manages, the words rasped and raw. It isn’t good enough.  

“Thank you, Aureia darling—”

She scowls at the epithet, but says nothing. Either he forgot her request or he has ignored it on purpose.

“—I am certainly not the one who merits an apology. That would be Alphinaud. From what I hear the poor boy almost made himself ill with worry. For someone who fancies himself quite the leader, he was certainly discomforted with the notion of planning this endeavour without your gracious input.”

“Well, then I’m sorry for making Alphinaud uncomfortable.”

“He wished to stay at his sister’s side this morning. But a Scion’s presence was necessary, and so a Scion attended.”

“And you could not have attended? Your presence is as valuable as mine. If anything, you have a far more tactical mind than I.”

He glances sharply at her, brows drawn together. “A tactician? Hardly. Not after the mistakes I’ve made.”

“Give yourself more credit. You have a plan. I’m the person they send in to execute it.”

A pained look crosses his face and he turns away, dropping his gaze to the ground. He stares determinedly at the flagstones, shuffling his weight from foot to foot. She half expects him to shove off and abandon her then and there.

But he remains. Restless and fretting, deep concern plain on his face, but he stays all the same. For her.

“I know,” he says after a moment. “And I know how heavily the burden weighs on you.”

She pauses, hand brushing the hilt of her rapier. “I’ll stop them. I promise. I haven’t forgiven them for kicking your ass in Dravania—”

“Hey now.” He makes a face and runs a hand sheepishly through his hair. “I seem to recall events quite differently. I dealt them a blow that time, not the other way around.”

His fingers catch on the knotted tail at the nape of his neck. She remembers all too well what it felt like to rake her fingers through his hair, the elated feeling of tugging that tie free. A memory she should set aside along with that blasted kiss.

Her feelings for him are a dead end. Unwanted and unjustified. Why should she chase the fleeting remains of their broken friendship when Aymeric—good, kind Aymeric—is in love with her? He offers her something that Thancred is incapable of giving. She cannot relinquish her one chance at happiness. Not when she is with someone who has shown her so much grace and compassion. She can’t imagine anyone doing for her what Aymeric did last night.

She is lucky to have found such fervent love in this bitter, wretched world. It may never come again.  

There is nothing Thancred can give her. No desperate touch can mend their relationship, no fervent kiss can restore them to who they were that night in the waterways. If he wanted her then—if he loved her then—he should have said it.

It is too late now.

She exhales a long breath. “If you say so.”

Aureia and Thancred fall silent, neither one keen to look the other in the face. The bright sun beats down on them, happy and hopeful, oblivious to the tension between them. To the outside observer they may be no more than passing acquaintances engaging in idle small talk, awkwardly waiting for an opportunity to exit the conversation. But to someone with a keen eye and an ironshod heart, they are no more than two sides of the same coin bent on moving in divergent directions.

This is an ending.

It will be a long time before either of them understands the truth of it.

Notes: I’ve had this fic spinning in my head off and on since January 2023 and I’m really happy that I’ve finally been able to bring it to fruition. Aureia and Aymeric near and dear to me—even though they have their issues and it’s not going to be an easy ride since the fundamental problem with their relationship is that he loves her more than she can love him in return. I’m excited to explore more of their dynamic in the future; they have a whole saga throughout the rest of Heavensward and all of Stormblood and I’m ready to dig my teeth into it. As for Aureia and Thancred... there will be a few more bumps in their journey before they get there. Thank you so much for reading! This is my favourite fic I’ve written in a long time, I’m very happy with it. I hope you enjoyed. 💖

[pangolinheart]

Last Dance In Ishgard

I finally finished my 2nd FFXIV OC Swap gift for the lovely @waldwasser! They requested a fic surrounding the Swap's themes of "Masquerade" or "All Saints Wake" and gave me a few starting ideas that grew into this fic. I hope that it was everything you were expecting! Thank you to the organizers of the swap, and to the people who helped me beta-read the final cut of the story! This was a lot of fun to think about and write, so I had a blast! Go check out Waldwasser's OCs on their blog!

[gothmiqote]

splintering.

in which the famed warrior of light resents her internal response to saving the world. rated M for themes to be safe, but nothing explicit. wol/estinien. endwalker spoilers probably.

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Her body aches, and it's the first time she hasn't put a concentrated effort into being the most dazzlingly charming version of herself possible for the benefit of onlookers.

It's really okay. The only people on the Ragnarok were her fellow Scions, and those insufferable Loporrits. Varha's pretty sure that Venat went out of her way to create something that would specifically get on her nerves as a joke. If that was the case, then it was painfully successful. Still, she didn't find herself feeling the usual ire towards them. In fact, she was fairly content to sit there and allow everyone else to do that talking. Unusual, and she wasn't oblivious to the concerned glances intermittently swapped between her friends. Given the circumstances, she figured it was understandable.

Of course, there was no option to discreetly disembark. Landing in the harbour edged with hundreds of people anxiously awaiting news of victory, she'd had to keep the mask on for a little longer. That's all she can think when the doors open and the sunlight washes over her. Never mind the fact that she'd spent most of the trip unconscious, being healed from the worst of her injuries. Adrenaline was apparently one hell of a drug, because she certainly didn't feel much of anything once she'd collapsed beside Zenos.

I'll believe the bastard's dead when I see the paperwork, Varha thinks dryly as she presses down on the massive bruise covering her thigh. It hurts, and she winces, because of course she does. She's alive, and her nerves are working just fine to prove it.

At her side, she can feel Estinien's half-questioning, half-disapproving look. She doesn't need to hear it to know it translates to an unimpressed 'Why are you doing that?', which is probably for the best. She has no idea what the answer would even be.

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