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redwayfarers · 8 months

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AFFRONT

Fandom: FFXIV Ship: Nika/Artoirel Characters: Nika Perseis (WoL), Artoirel de Fortemps, Lucretia Fiore, Mina Fiore Rating: Gen Word count: 1696 Spoilers: minor StB spoilers. part 2 - read on ao3 divider by @saradika

He’d been warned, of course, how difficult this would be. Nika is far from an easy man to get along with on the best of days, let alone in what appears to be the worst state he’s found himself in as of recent history, mentally and physically. He’d been warned, yet he’d insisted, because he couldn’t simply watch as they organised the transport to Ishgard and not offer to help. He couldn’t watch as they carted Nika, fragile and unconscious, away to the hands of Ishgardian chirurgeons, and away from his vigilant eye.

So he bartered. He told his father it was securing Eorzea’s future if he stayed in Ishgard, by Nika’s side, overseeing his recovery. Maybe he even expected pride in his father's eye for the foresight. He found agreement, but little else.

Artoirel knows it’s not becoming of him anymore. He knows, yet finds it necessary to justify his actions to his father. Securing Eorzea’s future seems to matter more than the heart of one’s son almost breaking at his lover almost dying. His father has even taken upon himself to bring Nika’s mothers from Limsa, as an additional pair of eyes.

It’s taken Artoirel a moment to realise how much of a mercy this is. He doesn’t dare interpret it as a sign of care, not quite yet, but he’s grateful nevertheless. Said mothers did warn him about the difficulty of his choice, but he did see the relief in their eyes, knowing that their son has someone steadfast by his side.

He wonders if his own father would share the same relief. For Haurchefant, certainly. For Emmanellain, perhaps. But for Artoirel? The fact he has to wonder at all speaks much more than any answer could.

But he has bigger things to worry about, such as the hurt in his chest at Nika’s shame-fueled anger that had nowhere to go but to Artoirel. He knows it’s not personal, he even understands the impulse, and yet, his eyes prickle with tears he can’t shed. Relief comes when Nika’s mother rushes in, looks between them and just signals for Artoirel to go.

Ordinarily, he would’ve been insulted. As it stands, he takes the direction and leaves, though he stops to watch Nika stifle a scream in his mother’s neck. Artoirel hardly remembers what his mother’s hugs felt like. He cannot seem to recall a recent one from his father, either.

If his insides were a battlefield, they would signal a lost battle.

Artoirel turns away and walks briskly to his office. He contains any sniffling, and his eyes burn with the effort of holding back tears, but the few gazes he does notice linger. It makes shame burn bright - he’s their lord now - so he picks up the pace and closes the door loudly behind him. Only then does he crumple, halfway across the room to his desk, and the stain of tears follows him as he sits and hides his face in his palms.

And he cries. He cries, and cries, and cries, cries even as his pride begs him to stop and reason demands he does. It all hits him like bricks, one at the time: Nika’s harsh words, barely audible through tears, that sickening feeling of emptiness and resentment when he thinks of his father, the sight of Nika crying in his mother’s arms and the absence of his own. He feels his hands shake and realizes he’s shaking from head to toe, and cries even harder, because he’s failing his duty.

Halone save him, he’s failing his duty. He’s responsible for Nika now, and he should be there, in that fucking room, take the yelling with grace, and he should be grateful he’s alive at all to scream at him, not run away–

The door slides open and Artoirel’s blood runs cold.

“I came to– oh, you’re crying,” a female voice says and he raises his eyes. She sounds genuinely empathetic, which makes him dig his nails into his palms.

“Madam, I apologize you had to–” he starts, but he hates how his shaken voice sounds. The woman huffs. “If you could just wait for a moment–”

“That kind of crying isn’t about to disappear in a moment,” she says quietly and Artoirel slumps in his chair. “It’s all good, though. Crying’s normal. Didn’t know you Ishgardians are so uppity about it.”

He wipes his eyes and looks at her. She’s tall enough to be a Highlander, and her hair is dark and short. She’s dressed in an oversized, woolen coat, and in the dim light of the room, her eyes appear to be two smothering pools of darkness. He suddenly recalls where he knows her from. It’s one of Nika’s mothers.

“Madam Perseis, I do not.. I do not ordinarily cry before guests,” he says by way of apology.

“Ain’t a Perseis. Nor a madam.” Great. Now he feels incompetent, ashamed and stupid. “Name’s Lucretia Fiore. I hope my own son’s mentioned me once or twice.”

“Once or twice,” Artoirel cautiously replies and sniffles. “Shamefully little. He’s never mentioned that your surname is Fiore.”

Lucretia sighs. “Gods know how little he told you about anything else, then.”

“I still don’t know what happened to his father, if it’s any consolation, and we have been courting for months now, and have been friends for longer.”

Lucretia stares. “When he’s less likely to bite my head off, I will have a word with him about it.” She walks over and uncrosses her hands from her chest. “You’re a lord or something, yeah? Is it okay if I skip the titles and just call you what your name is?”

“A count,” he corrects and throws his head back against the chair. Not that he’s worthy of the title in this state, anyway. “But please, do not refer to me as such. It’s hardly earned.”

“That’s how aristocracy works, I think.”

“It is not a just system, necessarily. Artoirel is enough.” He shrugs. “It is my name.”

“Good.” Lucretia points towards a nearby seat and he nods. “Just came to say sorry on Nika’s behalf and that he’ll come around. It’s not your fault he almost got himself killed. You didn’t deserve the anger he poured on you earlier.”

“I am responsible for him now,” Artoirel replies. “For the time being, I should say. For his care. I have seen people.. Do unjust things in their rage, and there should be someone there to listen to that rage.” He pauses. “Not a.. superior. A caretaker.”

“Very noble of you,” Lucretia says. “But what happens when caretakers get overwhelmed? Taking care of people is hard. Taking care of Nika is even harder. Give yourself a breather when you need it.”

He simply sucks air in and massages his hands. His head feels full of lead, a heavy pull that drags down to his chest. There is no ‘breather’ when you are responsible. There is no ‘breather’ when you have a duty, towards one’s country, one’s family, and one’s lover. A part of him notes that Nika’s failed in honoring the one he has towards his family.

But when has Nika ever cared for such things? He disapproves, of course, but Nika’s offense feels lesser than his own. In fact, he might as well have not had a single bad thought in his entire life. It’s a lie, of course. But Artoirel has no strength to grapple with moral qualms right now.

“He will come around,” Lucretia repeats. “He’s like his mother, says shit he doesn’t mean, does shit he doesn’t mean. He also has her tendency of running away, but something tells me he won’t run away from this one. I won’t let him.”

“He does resemble her,” Artoirel whispers. The image of them, side by side, comes into sharp focus; the same dark skin, black hair, the same full lips, the same prominent nose. Nika looks so alike to his mother that there is no question that they share blood. But she lacks the scar, and her eyes are the same brown and warm, whereas his are mismatched and sharp.

There was no sharpness when he crumpled in her arms, though, only anguish. Artoirel recalls his own mother and wonders if his features keep anything from hers anymore or he’s entirely Edmont’s son. He’d been told that he had his mother’s face as a child. But since then he’s grown, and the fullness of his cheeks has been replaced by sharpness.

But round though it may have been, his mother’s face could still be as cold as his father’s. Cold enough to whisper in his ear that he should reject Haurchefant, cold enough to convince him of it. Cold enough to leave an emptiness when she died. She was only ever truly happy when she played music.

But both she and Haurchefant are dead. Her hatred does not matter anymore. Artoirel blinks tears away. Lucretia is watching him, gentle, and it makes him want to cry even more.

“Do you need a hug?” she asks, and her voice is low and akin to a soft wave. She places a tentative hand on his arm. Artoirel doesn’t recall his parents’ hugs.

His pride rebels, naturally. But this whole situation is ridiculous enough as is and his head feels as if it’s about to burst from the pressure of recent events. He thinks of Nika in the other room, his sharp words play in Artoirel’s head in a loop, but he cannot find it in him to be angry. He thinks of his father calling Aymeric his son, without a word in Artoirel’s direction, but he cannot find it in him to be angry about this, either.

All he can do is endure and hope it goes away, like any duty-bound son of Ishgard would.

“I do, actually,” he says at last, and Lucretia shuffles until she wraps her arms around him, and Artoirel melts against her and this time, he doesn’t bother to hide his tears.

Because all he can do is endure, and maybe, enduring does not have to mean being strong at all times.

What an odd notion. He’ll take it anyway.

#ffxiv #inspo birb has come to town #nero plays ffxiv #nika perseis #artoirel de fortemps #nika x artoirel #wolartoirel #wol x artoirel #ffxiv writing #ffxiv fic #ffxiv wol #stormblood spoilers #house keeping done: please look at my little art study #do note that half of the relationships here are my hcs and interpretations #i find him so fascinating though. and squenix isn't feeding me #so i make my own lore #this is too niche-y i'd say but hey it's out

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