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myreia · 18 days

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anxiety - for the random word generator prompt!

thanks, Sea! This took so long to finish ahhh - and it's in three parts because I'm a fool.

Castaway

CHAPTER ONE: MEDITATION

Chapter Rating: Teen Characters: Aureia Malathar (WoL), Thancred Waters, Minfilia Warde, Yda Hext, Scions of the Seventh Dawn Pairings: Aureia/Thancred (pre-relationship) Chapter Words: 1,516 Notes: A Realm Reborn, set during A Wild Rose by Any Other Name. Summary: Aureia’s inauguration into the Scions of the Seventh Dawn should be cause for celebration, yet she cannot shake her feelings of unease. These newfound friends of hers may have the best of intentions, but is she anything more than a means to an end in their hands? Chapters: part one • part two • part three Read on AO3

The low hum of chatter murmurs in her ears.

Aureia exhales a breath, her eyes closed, and folds her arms as she leans against the wall. The conversation is near enough for her to make out, but too far away for it to be intelligible. Overlapping voices, ebbing and flowing like the changing tide. She’s always found something irksome about the sound of distant voices. It gnaws at her mind, thinning her patience, provoking her to snap with each passing moment. The irritation is irrational, and yet she cannot put it aside.

Thancred’s laugh rings across the room.

Her eyes fly open. She shakes herself, rearranging her expression into one of careful neutrality. She closed her eyes for only a moment; chances are no one noticed the difference. No one seems to notice much about her now the introductions are over and her task has been assigned. She may as well melt into the wall for all the difference her presence makes.

Thancred stands in the centre of the little group, a grin spread from ear to ear. He speaks animatedly, bright and cheerful in a way she hasn’t seen before. If she thought Ul’dah was his natural element, he has proved her wrong. He’s open and relaxed, slipping into the kind of casual comfort only found among friends. His language has shifted, using terms she has never heard before with easy confidence, contributing to topic that make her head spin. She always thought his academic side was an exaggeration, a little white lie he spun to make himself sound impressive when flirting.

Yet another thing she was wrong about.

The white-haired Miqo’te—Y’shtola, she reminds herself—chuckles and presses a hand to her lips, her eyes shining with mirth. The young woman in the visor—Yda, was it?—bounces on the balls of her feet and pipes up with excitement, earning her a withering headshake from the Lalafellin mage. Papalymo, if she remembers correctly. Even the towering Elezen, his face obscured by his hood and goggles, is warm and welcoming despite his reserved nature. Urianger, did they say his name was?

She hasn’t said a word to him. She hasn’t said a word to any of them.

These people here, these friends of Thancred’s, these Scions… The camaraderie between them is clear. From their identical tattoos to their amiability in each other’s presence, she has no doubt they have been friends for a long time. Comrades bound together, if not by shared experience, then by something just as strong. Purpose. Ambition. Duty.

It hurts more than she would like to admit.

“I am forever grateful, you know.”

Aureia looks up.

Minfilia stands a few feet away, eyes bright, smile soft, blonde hair glowing in the solar’s warm light. For the leader of a covert organization, she is not what Aureia expected. She thought she would be meeting a hardened veteran, grounded and devoid of the usual idealistic nonsense, with a keen understanding of the difference between lofty aspirations and harsh reality. The kind of person prepared to do whatever it took to see their goals realized. A spymaster or a soldier or a general.

Not a woman younger than herself who wears her heart on her sleeve.

Aureia bites her tongue. “What for?” she asks, trying to keep her tone neutral.

Minfilia looks away, a faint blush on her cheeks. “Forgive me,” she says. “I am getting ahead of myself. A little context is necessary, perhaps. When your name was first made known to me, I thought you the same as many an Eorzean adventurer. Reckless, inspired, some seeking adventure for fame and fortune, others for the thrill of danger, others still simply for the honest work. But your deeds speak for themselves.”

She pauses and regards her quietly. Though her blue eyes are kind, there is something unsettling about their intensity. “It was never about the rewards, was it? You care about those you aid. In you there is the ability and the skill to make a difference, and so you do—for how could you not?”

Aureia blinks. “I…”

“Thancred told me much of your adventures in Ul’dah.”

“He… did?” Somehow he never thought to mention you.

Minfilia’s smile brightens. “Every time without fail he returned to the Waking Sands, he had one tale or another to tell of his adventurer friend in the city. Yda, Papalymo, and Y’shtola certainly did not have quite as much to say about their own connections. I admit, I was perhaps a little uncertain at first—we both know his tendency to be a relentless flirt—but having met you… I daresay I see now why he can wax poetic about you when given the chance—” She cuts off abruptly, suddenly serious, and places a hand on her arm. “Please do not tell him I said as much, I will never hear the end of it.”

Aureia blinks again, uncertain what to make of any of this. Minfilia speaks to her less like a venerated leader and her new employer and more like they are close friends. Stalling for time, she risks a quick glance across the solar to the little group. Thancred is laughing again. Countering something Urianger said, he takes up his customary lean against the wall and crosses his arms. As he sweeps his hair out of his eyes, he looks away and his eyes connect with hers.

She frowns.

He raises an eyebrow.

Her frown deepens. “Don’t worry,” she says absently. “I’ll keep it to myself.”

Minfilia lets out a relieved breath and removes her hand. “Thank you. I suppose… I apologize for my awkwardness, but when I said that I am forever grateful, I did indeed mean it. I know I expressed as much earlier in an official capacity, but I would like to thank you again on more personal terms, as a newfound friend and ally. It should come as no surprise to you that our work presents many dangers and comes at a high cost. Trust is imperative. We must have faith and trust one another to do what must be done. It is the best chance we have to forge a brighter tomorrow.”

Aureia nods, still distracted. A glint catches her eye—the shattered remains of a mage’s staff, mounted and displayed on the wall behind the antecedent’s desk. She noticed it when she first entered the solar, but she didn’t truly take stock of it until now. Though it is broken, she can sense the remnants of powerful aether emanating from it, murmuring in deep slumber.

“I see in you a kind soul,” Minfilia continues. “A good soul. Someone of your skill and talent could have gone anywhere, but you chose to come to us. We will do well with someone like you among us, I am certain of that.”

She blinks again, forcing her sluggish mind to focus on Minfilia’s words. Despite the kindness extended to her, she can’t shake the anxiety growing in the pit of her stomach. As far as first impressions go, this perception of her could not be more wrong.

“…thank you,” she murmurs, stumbling on her own words. Her throat is uncomfortably dry.

“I am so very glad you are here. Perhaps we are kindred spirits of a kind.”

“I…”—don’t know about that—“…maybe. Perhaps.” The affirmation slips out unintended, and she curses internally.

“The Echo is a heavy gift,” Minfilia continues. “A blessing, to be sure, but not one borne easily.”

Aureia freezes, a chill running down her spine.

“As advantageous as it is, it comes with its own burdens. I cannot say we fully comprehend it, even for those of us who have carried it through most of our lives.” Minfilia’s eyes meet hers. “I beg your pardon if this is improper, but I must ask—when did you first hear Her call?”

Her heart clenches. The power has always been with her, whispering at the edges of her mind, sometimes quiet, other times compelling her to action. In the same breath it has shown her things she wished she had never seen, it has also saved her life.

She can’t remember a time without it.

She wishes it was gone.

“I…” She has never discussed it with another. Such a gift was too dangerous to bring attention to in Garlemald, though her mother often suspected there was more to her capabilities than what was natural. Even in the relative safety of Eorzea, she would rather pretend she wasn’t gifted with it. “I should go. Thank you for your hospitality, Minfilia. I will look into the Amajina robbery as soon as I am able.”

The words come out fast and abrupt, any semblance of familiarity reverted to distanced professionalism. Uncertain whether to bow (a sign she’s been around too much Ul’dahn nobility recently) or to nod (the easy way out) or to shake her hand (awkward), Aureia simply turns around and walks stiffly to the door.

She can feel Thancred’s eyes on her as she slips through the threshold and into the cold hallway beyond.

#ffxiv #ff14 #final fantasy 14 #ffxiv fic #ffxiv fanfiction #wolcred #ffxiv wol #thancred waters #minfilia warde #aureia malathar #oc tag #writing tag

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wolpromptaday · 23 days

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‪#WOLpromptAday‬

‪May 15, 2024‬

‪There are 2 tribes to each race in FFXIV. Is your WOL aligned more to the sun, or the moon? Or are they more an overall celestial being and seek the overall wisdom of the stars? How does your WOL describe themselves astrologically?‬

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mrlarkstin · 6 months

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Welcome

Hello and welcome to my blog! You may remember me from the terrible, awful bird app as MrLarkstin, the dragon kisser. That one guy who ships with Vrtra and Estinien!

And when I say I ship with the dragon I mean the actual dragon, mister Vrtra himself! Big Varshahn is great, and easy to pose with, but I usually try to work with the actual dragon since- thats who Eramus is attracted to!

Here you will mostly find my gposes and lore rambles when the mood takes me, but more often then not lore is kept on my private twitter (EraAfterDark) simply because I just feel more comfy. But here tends to be a big gpose dump!

I do a lot of weird, artsy kinda gposes that involve my Azem and WoL and various other parts of his lore!

I write when the mood takes me, which is either constant or like once in a blue moon.

My AO3 is only available for registered users (sorry, I write dragon kissing and I don't like randos being weird in my comments LMAO)

Other then that, welcome!

Thanks for stopping by!

Oh, I do RP and he has entirely different lore for RP purposes so like. Hi.

#ffxiv #final fantasy xiv #gpose #eras lore #ffxiv gpose #final fantasy 14 #ff14 gpose #final fantasy online #ffxiv oc #eras poses #ffxiv fanfiction #vrtrawolstinien #vrtra #vrtrawol #welcome #idk what else to tag

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lilbittymonster · 6 months

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One of my favourite scenes from my fic Extinguishing the Last Light that has haunted me for months, so I decided to give it a little extra oomf with a visual medium as well as a written one.

#ffxiv #ff14 #final fantasy xiv #final fantasy 14 #ffxiv fanfiction #shadowbringers #shadowbringers spoilers #chai-nuzz #estinien #estinien wyrmblood #estinien varlineau

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sheepwithspecs · 5 months

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His Path

|| FFXIV || Rated G ||

Ao3 Link

A quiet moment of connection between husband and wife.

Ameliance wakes to darkness.

Startled into awareness without fully understanding why, she opens her eyes to find the murky shadows of her bedchamber. Casting about for something familiar in the night, her wide-open gaze lands on the pale sliver of moonlight reflected in the large mirror hanging above the chest of drawers. It waxes and wanes with the billowing curtains, the ocean breeze a faint caress against her exposed collarbone. The chronometer at her bedside table counts the seconds, each measured tick-tock scolding her for waking before the sun had time to rise. Tsk-tsk-tsk— A mechanical whir, barely more than a whisper in the night, and the tiny hammer strikes third bell.

Behind her, the mattress dips as her husband makes his way beneath the coverlet. Holding her breath, she strains to hear the rustle of fabric as Fourchenault makes himself comfortable. He relaxes with a soft grunt, the sound melting into the night before all is silent once more. There is no need for a light; she can see her husband perfectly in her mind’s eye, hair unbound and starched uniform replaced with a nightshirt of finely woven silk. Supine, long fingers folded demurely across his stomach, frowning at the ceiling as he waits for sleep to claim him.

It is a position she has not been privy to for some time now.

When was the last time they shared a bed? Or, rather, the last time she had been made aware of his coming and going? She had grown accustomed to the lonely habit of going to bed alone and waking up much the same; often she had no choice but to rely on the rumpled bedsheets at her side to tell when—if at all—her husband joined her in the course of the night. Long enough to miss his presence, to feel nostalgic for those sleepy mornings when he would brush the loose hair from her forehead, bending over to feather kisses over her sleeping face. Sometimes he would even linger there, his lips pressed to the rise of her cheekbone, breathing in her scent as though hoping to carry something of her with him on the long walk to the Rostra.

Those days are long past, unfortunately. Ameliance cannot remember the last time he woke her simply to say goodbye, to play the age-old game of a wife entreating her husband to miss important work in lieu of a lazy morning at her side. Perhaps it stems from concern. Perhaps he does not wish to disturb her peaceful slumber. Perhaps his passion has cooled into indifference.

Fourchenault loves her. It is an unequivocal truth, as simple and natural as two and two making four. The knowledge lies deep in her bones, in her very marrow. But knowledge without proof is its own torture.

He used to blush when she kissed him in public, stammering under his breath about propriety and impressions and such. And at the close of each long day he would nevertheless greet her warmly, leaning into her touch as she helped to remove his elaborate uniform. She misses their long walks in the forest, stolen moments as they watched the waves break over the Scholar’s stone feet in the distant harbor.

But now he no longer pauses at her side, no longer takes her hand in his own with all the awkward shyness of a schoolboy, despite over a decade of marriage. There is always a summons, something to pull him from his office or from the dining table, an apologetic smile on his face and an excuse on his lips. Forgive me. Next time I will stay longer. Next time I will rise earlier. Next time….

Too busy, always too busy, she had thought in those moments, her love for him a worrying thorn in her breast. Fourchenault never spoke of his work, beyond those few vague details which, in the nature of his duty, were necessary to impart. He couldnot speak of it, she now knew: sworn to secrecy, bound by magic. But even without the spell holding him to his word, Ameliance knew that he would have never divulged any of the Forum’s secrets. To do so would have been a significant breach of their trust, and that was simply not in his nature.

In his defense, there had been little time in recent years for pleasantries. His work preserving their lives for the future had instead stolen him away from life’s most precious moments; it had ostracized him from his family, brushing aside their well-meaning gestures in his hurry. Often she had pleaded with him to stay a moment longer, to take one more bite of his meal, to pause and catch his breath—each time, she was denied without a word of explanation.

At least he is finally able to rest.

Ameliance holds herself perfectly still, listening to the sounds of another body in her bed—strange, unaccustomed, after so many moons apart. All of Sharlayan has breathed a collective sigh of relief, including those charged with its salvation. Why, then, does he still not reach for her? Why does he continue to hold himself apart? Has he no more fondness for her? Or is it her own fault for not pressing harder? Demanding more? She has never been one to withhold herself from what she truly wants. Is he expecting her to reach for him? Or is he simply too tired to care, now that all is said and done?

She turns the questions over in her mind, wondering if her doubts are founded enough to bring up at their next shared meal… whenever that will be. Before she can arrive at an answer, however, there is the soft brush of fingertips against her neck. They trace a tentative line down the center of her spine, muted by the thick fabric of her nightgown. He pauses only once, perhaps alerted to the shift in her attention, but makes no effort to speak. A quiet breath, something caught halfway between a sigh and an exhale, and he presses his palm into the valley between her shoulder blades. His fingers fan out slowly, one by one, measuring the span between the rises with a gentle touch.

“Is that all you plan to do?” The whisper escapes before she can think to smother it, surprisingly loud in their shared darkness. Fourchenault flinches at the sound, the warmth of his hand absent as he pulls back into himself. Turning in place, she gropes along the blankets for him and finds naught but empty space. Has he already fled? Or was it merely a dream? No, not a dream… she can hear each stilted breath as it passes his lips.

“Have I woken you?” he finally asks, repentant. Remorseful. “I did not mean—”

“I was not fully asleep.” Ameliance shuffles closer to his side of the bed, attempting to bridge the chasm between them. She can sense how he draws away from her, muscles stiffening as though to brace himself… against what, she cannot say.

Well, that simply won’t do.

Boldly she reaches forward, find the edge of one tensed shoulder after a moment’s confusion. Her fingers dance their way up the slender column of his neck, reacquainting themselves with his jawline before cupping his cheek. He nuzzles into the proffered caress, lips brushing the heel of her palm. They move against her skin, sounding out the syllables of her name.

“I’ve missed this.” The confession rests on the pillows between them. “I’ve missed you,” she adds, when he does not immediately respond. Something deep within her aches to hear the same words echoed back, the proof she seeks that life without her was miserable for him in some small way.

“Forgive me.” His standard apology falls flat in comparison. Disappointed, she lets her hand fall away… or tries to, at any rate. Fourchenault holds tight to her wrist, feeling up the shape of her hand and clutching it to his cheek with the desperation of a starved man. “Forgive me,” he repeats, more urgently.

“For what?”

“For… for everything.” His voice is strangled, overbrimming with emotion. It ill-suits him, the man who prides himself on being calm and collected no matter the situation. “Everything. Or nothing. Whatever pleases you most, so long as it makes things right again.”

“But—” There is nothing wrong. Even as she thinks the words, she knows them to be untrue. Things have not been right for some time now. But what could they have done differently? How much longer could they have forestalled the inevitable? Louisoix, the Forum, the Scions of the Seventh Dawn: each had their own solution, dreams born of desperation and hope. But no one plan was wholly infallible, without fault. Even the Mothercrystal had not known the full answer, forced to cling to the belief that one day Her children would rise to the occasion in Her stead.

“I have failed everyone,” he continues, unprompted. “Had the Scions not been able to fund—had you not thought to—had the children not—” He chokes, lips pressed tightly against the onslaught of his guilt and shame. “How many more would have perished? How many more would have fallen due to my own shortsightedness?” Questions with no easy answer.

“The lamp, dearest.”

“What?”

“If you want to talk about this right now, we might as well be able to see one another.” Still he hesitates, his uncertainty at war with her pragmatism. “I want to see you,” she urges, letting her voice go soft and sweet, the one thing guaranteed to wear him down in record time. “Please?” A fumbling click, the strike of a match, and the room is bathed in a warm, flickering glow.

Fourchenault falls back to the pillow, blinking the spots from his weary eyes before turning to where she waits. His expression is at once both guarded and reproachable, waiting for her censure, willing to accept anything she throws at him. Perhaps he expects himself worthy of nothing less. Now that she is able to properly see him, she feels her heart begin to melt.

Her husband is not without blame; that much is certain. But the blame should not—cannot—rest solely on his shoulders. If there is fault to be found, he must find it within himself. She has no desire to become a font of criticism; if anything, her only wish is to become its solace.

“Now, isn’t this better?” Ameliance aligns her body to his, sinking down to share his pillow with a warm smile. Wary eyes keep watch as she settles in beside him, hooking one ankle around his beneath the bedclothes. Ever so slowly he reaches for her, finding her hand atop the coverlet and covering it with his own. While not the verbal answer she wished for, it is still encouragement enough to continue.

“The Final Days are averted, our beloved children are returned to us hale and whole, and we both are none the worse for wear. It is the best outcome this family could have possibly wished for. Is that not so?” He offers no response. “One man alone cannot protect every living thing on the star,” she reminds him softly. “How can you be responsible for the universe and its plight, when the power to save it was never yours to wield?”

“Perhaps I could not have saved everyone. But I might have done more to try.” His fingers tighten to the point of pain. She does not flinch, eager to offer even this smallest of comforts. “Instead, I chose to cling to the hope that our forefathers knew us better than we knew ourselves. That ancient methods were somehow more viable than modern solutions. A textbook example of a sunken-cost fallacy.”

“Fourchenault—”

“I was not blind to what our children had accomplished thus far. Rather, I knowingly chose not to see it for what it was. Pride, my foolish pride….”

“Do you recall that last picnic we had in Labyrinthos? It was just before your father departed for Eorzea.” Turning onto her side, she rests her free hand on his sternum. “You made a promise that day. Do you remember what it was?”

“I remember.” His eyes soften with the recollection. “For our children… for their children.”

“Mine is a difficult path, but I shall walk it gladly,” she quotes, each word laden with meaning beyond his intentional oath. “It was a difficult path, wasn’t it? But you stuck to it anyway, for their sake. You walked it alone, with no assistance from those you fought to save. Tell me: who would blame a father for acting in his children’s best interests?”

“The best of intentions cannot excuse the poorest of executions.” A Studium proverb if there ever was. “Regardless of my aim, I hurt my family. My children. You did not see the expression on their little faces in the Lotus Stands, when I told them that they were not….” He raises his hands before his eyes, staring at them in the dim light. There is no doubt in her mind what he sees, superimposed upon his fingers: the memory of chubby, infantile hands clinging to him, so trusting in their innocence. “But they would be obstinate, unmoved—”

“Yes… I wonder where they could have possibly picked up that particular trait?” Eyes twinkling, she moves to kiss the corner of his downturned mouth. “Alphinaud and Alisaie love you, my darling… as do I. But if you feel as though you must make amends, let this be the first: allow me to be your wife in more than name. Let me bear my portion of your troubles, the way you bear mine. No more secrets.”

“F-Forgive me, I had no choice. It was my burden to—”

“Shh.” A shake of her head is more than enough to silence his stammered apology. “Even had you not been sworn to secrecy, I doubt you’d have bothered to bore your wife with trivial details about the end of the world.” He flushes, the tips of his ears darkening further under her scrutiny. “Everyone needs a shoulder to rest their head at the end of the day, Fourchenault. In your case, I’d rather that shoulder be mine.”

“Ameliance….” His frown wavers, eyes glistening.

“After all, haven’t I always kept pace with you?” she grins, brushing pale wisps of hair from his cheek. “I promise I’m up to the task.”

“You always were.” He sighs, relaxing fully and indulging in her loving ministrations. “In that case,” he murmurs, eyes drifting closed, “I’ll have no more secrets from you, either. No more under-the-table dealings with merchants—” She kisses him, partly to interrupt the incoming lecture but also from the sheer delight that her stern husband, her stoic, inscrutable husband is teasing her for the first time in ages. Eager arms wind around his neck, fingers tangling in his loose hair as she steals the breath from his lungs.

“No more unscrupulous, unmarked payments to the Scions,” he manages, when she breaks away for air. “No more adventurers traipsing in and out of our foyer, regardless of the time.” Trembling hands cup her cheeks, outlining her features with both thumbs. “And absolutely no more of those ridiculous outfits—”

“Ridiculous? I seem to recall your eyes being glued to a certain pair of sheer leggings… you didn’t like them? Perhaps they should be discarded?”

“You know I liked them,” he grumbles, winding an arm around her waist. “Just as you know I would have fallen on my knees before you, had the servants not—” The remainder of his words are swallowed by another searing kiss, deeper than the last. Warm hands slip beneath her gown, guiding her legs until she straddles his hips. As close as they already are she cannot help but want to be even closer, tugging fruitlessly at the unwanted barrier of his nightshirt.

“I don’t deserve you,” he mumbles against the seam of her lips, tracing the smooth skin of her outer thigh. “You deserve so much more… you deserve the world….”

“Look at me.” His lashes flutter open, eyes stormy with lust. It is as unraveled as he will allow himself to be, the ever-present crease between his brows smoothing only when she rests her forehead against his. “Our children are my sun and stars,” she whispers, staring deep into his eyes. If given half the chance, she would willingly drown herself in the love that pools there. “They are the light guiding my every step, make no mistake. But my world is here, with you.”

No fewer words can describe what she knows to be true. Their children soar far from home on open wings of their own making, their love for this star carrying them beyond what either of their parents could possibly have hoped to imagine. She basks in their distant glow, buoyed by pride and maternal love. But when the ground beneath her feet start to tremble, when the firmaments feel ready to crumble and collapse around her, Fourchenault is the solid weight she reaches for. He is her strength, and she is his: in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, through the end of the world or in its wake.

“Ame—!” Without warning he pulls her into a crushing embrace, a ragged exhale smothered into the join of her shoulder and neck. Her lungs protest the constricting hold, but she had no desire whatsoever to pull away before he does. If only they could remain like this, locked together for eternity….

“You are my everything,” he echoes, clutching at her for dear life. “My world, my life, my… Ameliance….” His arms tighten even further, as if to draw her into his body by force. “Every day… not a day goes by that I am not thankful you chose me.”

“Who else would I possibly choose?” Swallowing thickly, he draws back just far enough to see her face. She winks, unable to help herself. “I knew from the start that only one man in all the world could ever put up with the likes of me.” The corner of his mouth lifts in an unbidden smile, eyes crinkling as he bends to the weight of her amusement.

“Another difficult path, perhaps… one I will gladly walk until my dying day.”

Author's Note: I've been working on this idea since 2022 and I've only now got it to a point where I'm happy releasing it. Ever thankful for "A Legacy of Hope" Side Story, since it helped me narrow down the ideas that have been floating around in my head for 2 years now.

Maybe one day I'll write about Ameliance in those 2B leggings....

#Final Fantasy XIV #final fantasy 14 #ffxiv #ameliance leveilleur #fourchenault leveilleur #ameliance leveilleur x fourchenault leveilleur #fanfiction #oneshot #my writing

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thevikingwoman · 6 months

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Inspired by this wolquestion and discord discussion thx friends for rotting my brain

Fandom: FFXIV | Words: 431 | Read on Ao3

Emmanellain de Fortemps & Meryta Khatin | Somewhere between 3.3 and 4.0 | friendship, fluff Rating: G. bad romance writing, hint at fantasy racism, friends being silly, maybe the WoL has time to relax once, past Emmanellain/Meryta

The Perils of Ishgard Publishing Houses

Emmanellain de Fortemps is sprawled on the couch, feet dangling over the armrest, empty wine bottle at the floor beside him, full glass beside it. His attention is focused on the book in his hands, the cover boldly reading Taming the Warrior - a High House Novel.

Across from him, Meryta leans back among the pillows on the oversized armchair. A half empty wine glass sits on the table in front of her.

"Delightful," Emmanellain grins, and continues to read aloud: "Meryta sighs, her leaf-green skin a contrast against Atoriel’s red doublet, and looks up at him, her orbs brimming with unshed tears. Her sweet pillowy bosoms heave... "

Emmanellain looks up at her, waggling his eyebrows. "Pillowy indeed. How fondly I remember —"

Meryta groans, and tosses a pillow at him, hitting him squarely in the face.

"Anyway. She leans against Atoriel’s broad and solid chest and says: Oh Atoriel, I love you so much. We must be together. I will give up adventuring for you and only fight for the glory of house Fortemps! Atoriel kisses her brow, and looks at the horizon with his cruel blue eyes – cruel alright got that right – his chiseled jaw is as sharp as his words.”

"I am afraid it would not work my darling. My Father would not allow it, someone so foreign as the wife of his heir. I love you darling, but it cannot be."

Emmanellain scoffs and stops reading.

“Ha! At this point I'm sure Father will be happy if my dear brother married a nice boy and adopted some brume rats as heirs. Not that it will ever happen; who’d want to spend that much time with him.”

“Someone likes him, Emmanellain. At least the person who wrote the book seems to think him very handsome.” Meryta grins and amends, “And I think you’re doing your brother a disservice. He’s trying to help your father the best he can.”

Emmanellain sits up and grabs his wine glass. He sticks out his chin, pouting.

“Meryta, pretty girl. Do you think my jaw is chiseled?”

“Emmanellain. You're handsome enough on your own. Stop it.”

He drinks down half his wine, and flops back into the couch.

“Alright - let me skip to the good part. There should be a chapter where the Lord Speaker and my dear brother spars half naked. It's very dramatic, according to the reviewers.”

“Reviewers? How many people are reading this? Spare me! Tell me of you latest Ul’dah ball instead.”

Meryta throws a pillow over her face, and Emmanellain laughs and starts flipping the pages.

#ffxiv #ffxiv fanfiction #final fantasy 14 #meryta khatin #writing about meryta #completely off the cuff writing #fluff and fun #I had fun #aka my brain would not shut up #is it sad or funny I know the plot of the whole novel #emmanellain de fortemps #viking writes #published 12/14/2023

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starlight-brainrot · 1 year

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FFXIV - Aymeric - Almost Kiss

I’m using #MarchoftheTropes as inspo for snippets and headcanons!

Day 1: Almost Kiss

Warnings: None(?)

Pairing: Aymeric/Reader

Word Count: 308 Words

Aymeric wants to kiss you so badly. It’s a need etched into his skin- one that’s carved itself into his very soul. To feel your lips against his, to pull you closer…

The two of you were sharing dinner at his estate after one of your adventures, and wine flowed freely as you regaled him with tales. It was a comforting feeling, really. Having a friend to confide in, and for him to truly listen to you; all your minor gripes, your triumphs, your failures… you would be lying if you said that feeling of camaraderie hadn’t melted into… more, overtime, but ultimately it was too risky. What with him being the Lord Speaker, and you the Warrior of Light, it was impractical. A political scandal waiting to happen, not to mention the lengths of time you were far from Ishgard, anyway.

And yet, you allowed yourself these small moments where you quietly watched him sip from his goblet, and wondered what it could be like if nights like these never had to end.

Eventually reality settles in, and you prepare to take your leave. Aymeric hates to see you go, for who knows when next he’ll see you, if that day will even come. After all, the life of the Warrior of Light is a trying one, and survival is never truly guaranteed. He longed to selfishly keep you to himself anyway, warm and safe within his arms. He allows himself to hug you goodbye, to look you in the eye as you crane your head upwards, to lean in, throw caution to the wind and lay his heart bare for you…

And he gives you a chaste kiss on the forehead instead, wishing you a safe journey back to Mor Dona.

Perhaps I’ll gather the courage on our next outing, Aymeric muses to himself.

Just maybe.

A/N: Sorry for any grammatical errors! It’s the first time I’ve written anything other than academic essays in years :,3c Requests for headcanons are open!

#MarchoftheTropes #aymeric de borel #aymeric x wol #aymeric x reader #wolmeric #ffxiv #ffxiv x reader #ffxiv fanfiction #ffxiv aymeric #final fantasy x reader #final fantasy xiv #final fantasy #final fantasy 14

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koorinokujira · 2 months

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The Warrior of Light's Burden (FFXIV)

He seemed to appear out of nowhere. Just another bright, wide-eyed adventurer among countless others. Perhaps he went into it for wealth or fame. Maybe out of selflesness and a kind heart that wished to help others. Whatever it may have been, he never refused to help, from the very beginning, whether it was delivering letters between lovers or slaying wild beasts.

Dependable, that's what he was. So much so that they started calling him what they used to call them.

The brave souls that were lost during the Calamity. Silhouettes lost to the blinding light that covers our memories in a haze. The Warriors of Light.

But this one... this one wasn't like them.

It started out slowly, inconspicuously. His enemies seemed to get stronger, but his victories were still believable. A few Garleans here and there, some bandits and wrong-doers, and all that coupled with some particularly dangerous creatures. An adventurer of great skill, one worthy of a mention, to be sure.

And then he slew a Primal.

The people celebrated, showered him with praise and flattering words that seemed to never cease. After all, it was a miracle that he survived, much less defeated his adversary. And all this time, he simply watched with a polite smile on his face.

"I am but a humble adventurer," he insisted to those who praised the Warrior of Light, "surely you would have done the same things if you were in my shoes. I'm just a man. I just tried to help, to survive, like you."

Most believed him, and were willing to leave it at that.

But a miraculous victory turned into something terrifyingly ordinary. Primal fell after Primal, enemy after enemy, there were even rumors of him fighting beings that could not die by usual means. Blood flowed across the trail of destruction left behind by the one who yearned for peace and tranquility.

No, he was nothing like us.

Tales and songs of his deeds became reverent whispers. No longer was he greeted as a friend, but something much greater. Excitement was replaced by elation, wariness by terror. Only the ones closest to him dared to speak to him as casually as they did, though he insisted the common man should do so as well. Those that tried to use him for their own goals could only do so by playing on his worry for the people he sacrificed so much for already.

And oh, would he sacrifice more.

Everyone loves him and fears him in equal measure. They adore seeing him yet avert their gaze. They listen to his voice but not his words. Every single day, he bleeds for them and they say it's right. Every single night, he howls in agony out of his restless sleep and they call it holy.

And the others, they call him a monster. They fear his wrath, and it makes sense- who says he won't decide to slay them too, in the name of righteousness? Who can stand against their caring, horrifying shield made of flesh and bones? Who will save them from their savior?

Who will save him?

"I'm just a man. With feelings like you. Let me rest," he says over and over, but no one hears him anymore. "I beg you."

"I beg you. Forget the Warrior of Light. Remember me."

---✧

I know I haven't posted anything about FFXIV on this blog yet, despite playing it and adoring it for a few years now. But this has been on my mind for a while, and I've also been seeing some very tasty posts about the dehumanization of the WoL lately. So I decided to write this little story thingy from the POV of an unknown observer, also focusing a bit more on how some could actually be pretty terrified of him!

Also, big thanks to @shinkimarbles who rambled on and on about this concept with me and inspired me to write this!

#i made sure to make this mostly non-specific so you guys can imagine your own wols too with this if you want to #i think about this all the time man #and i keep thinking about the people that at least partly recognized the wol's humanity #how many of them are dead now?#final fantasy xiv #final fantasy 14 #ffxiv #ffxiv wol #ffxiv fanfiction #ffxiv fic

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fluffysilver · 7 months

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Flufftober Day 29 - Hey, wake up

Soft sounds disturbed his sleep. The darkness behind his eyes where he drifted, unable to focus on anything, where not even dreams disturbed him. It was a comfortable darkness and he didn’t want to leave it. On the other side was pain and obligation; he’d have to go back eventually but for now… for now it felt good just to rest.

“Please…”

“...losing… need more…”

“...focus thy energies…”

Rika shifted away from the soft voices, but they had pulled him closer into awareness, growing louder. Memory drifted into his grasp and with it the edge of pain. His body; each limb ached, every joint burning with the pain that meant he had pushed himself to the point of collapse, again. Davien was going to spank him.

The voices faded again, letting him drift back into slumber. Time passed without his supervision or awareness, until the voices came back. Now he could attach names to them. Alphinaud. Urianger. G’raha. Loudest was Alisae - of course she was yelling. She always yelled when she was upset.

He wasn’t sure what had upset her, but likely if she was upset, and it sounded like the others were too, he should probably get up and find out what was going on. It took something monumental to shake Urianger’s calm, after all. With an effort he opened his eyes, blinking at the unfamiliar view of metal etched with patterns that reminded him of Allegan artifacts. Between the metal and his face were a pair of hands glowing with white healing magic like a glimmering fog in front of him.

Perspective shifted, and he realized he was laying down, looking up at a ceiling, and the hands were people casting healing spells on him. They tingled over his skin, soothing the aches and pain, though they didn’t do much for the bone deep fatigue. Even healing spells had their limit, and eventually the body demanded its due.

One hand drew back to be replaced by Alphinaud’s worried gaze. “I think he’s awake. Are you with us, Rika?”

Hm. Not up to speaking yet, Rika managed a smile for him. From the look on his face, it wasn’t as reassuring as he had hoped, so he managed a single raspy sentence; “Is everyone… all right?”

“How can you ask us that?” G’raha knelt beside Alphinaud, his red eyes bright with tears, features tight with relief. “Considering how close you came to dying. Again. How can you keep your promise if you do that?”

Well he had a point there, but it wasn’t like he’d really had a choice.

“You put on quite the show, my friend,” Estinien added as he stepped closer, fond smile softening his features.

Rika smiled a little as Y’Shtola and then Thancred scolded him; he didn’t need Thancred to tell him that it came from a place of love. He’d yell at them for being hypocrites later, when he’d recovered. Gods, they were mad at him when they had all sacrificed themselves to get him to the nest of the Endsinger? He’d sent them back here because he couldn’t bear to see them die, not when he had just used Venat’s last gift to him to bring them back.

“We did what we could for thee, but considering the extent of thy injuries, I would recommend further repose.” Urianger said then. “How is the pain?”

Rika considered that, then shifted and sat up, steading himself on his hands as a wave of dizziness washed over him, and several mostly healed injuries decided to protest. Blood loss - he needed a good drink and some food, and a week’s worth of sleep. But he smiled at the healer and nodded once. He’d live.

Urianger smiled back. “That is gladdening.”

“Gladdening!” Alisae exploded. “There is nothing ‘gladdening’ about this! You…” She was almost sputtering with rage, even as tears slid down her cheeks. “When Meteion appeared she said you were right behind her! And then you didn’t come, and when you do deign to appear you’re an ilm from death!”

Rika’s lips twitched into a small smile and he placed a hand on her soft white hair. “Just remember that the next time you blithely decide you’re going to give your life for me.” His gaze swept around, including all of the Scions in that.

After a moment Alphinaud cleared his throat. “If you’re feeling up to it, you might like to see where we are. We got the ship moving while you were, ah, indisposed.”

“We’re home already?” he asked, then shifted with a grimace. His legs were unhappy, but he could move. With a nod, he let Alphinaud pull him to his feet, and paced slowly over to the window, watching it open to reveal the bright blue sky of Aetherys. Home.

“I think we’re in range now,” one of the Loporrits reported.

“Excellent. I’ll announce that we’re back.” Thancred replied and put a hand to his ear to activate the linkpearl there. “You’d better be ready,” he added to Rika, who winced.

“Just as long as they don’t put together a parade.” The congratulations were going to be rough enough. Maybe he could sneak away; he had his ninja soulstone…

#gaming #oc #flufftober #flufftober 2023 #final fantasy xiv #final fantasy 14 fanfiction #final fantasy xiv fanfiction

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dalmascan-requiem · 2 months

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Golmore Prelude: Intruders

(Vierapril Day 22 - Mercy)

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There is no mercy for trespassers.

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Read on AO3 or keep reading after the jump

content warnings: death

(vierapril main post)

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This is effectively the 'incident' that sets everything in motion for the boys to leave the forest. It's mentioned a few times in passing with other fics, but it was about time to write something more concrete about it--one that isn't necessarily from either character's point of view.

"Reyna, you need to eat more often. You can't protect the village if you get sick!" Eir flashes the other Wood Warder a smile before removing the empty stew pot from the fire, which makes him huff in response.

"It's not as if I don't eat when you're not around."

"Well, it's not proper food, especially as you ate three bowls of this stew."

"Yes, it is proper food." Reyna turns away from the other Viera in frustration. "Your food is just better."

Eir laughs as he begins to put the fire under the stew out. "Well, I'll take that compliment--"

Both Wood Warders freeze, their ears pricking up at a sound in the forest. They share a glance, then Eir nods, silently making his way to his bow propped nearby.

Whatever these noises were, they weren't a part of the forest, nor was it another Warder nearby. Which means it could only mean one thing… intruders.

No words were needed--the connection afforded to them by the Green Word allowed the two Wood Warders to simply understand what the other was doing. And they both understood there was no chance the intruders missed their encampment.

Eir silently climbs a nearby tree and readies his bow after quickly scanning the area. He already knows Reyna is on the opposite end of the encampment, lying low in wait to catch the intruders off guard.

They lie in wait, and the minutes feel like hours. Eventually, Eir's ears pick up the sound of people trying to make their way through the dense jungle. They were slow. Awkward. Unfamiliar with the land. Certainly outsiders, at least half a dozen.

Eir could feel a pang of frustration--Reyna thought the outsiders should have been here by now. Shortly after, though, movement catches Eir's eye, and he shifts his attention to the north end of the encampment.

A man grumbles something as he nearly falls through the brush, and others follow in an equally awkward fashion. Six… no, seven men, all in dark garbs, presumably soldiers. Eir thought he had heard of these men before--but it didn't matter.

It doesn't take long for the leader to notice something is amiss. He takes a cautious step forward. One step, then another, and one more before he reaches for the weapon strapped to his back.

Eir draws his bow and arrow quickly--noisily, and the pack of intruders turns their attention towards the noise. He does not aim but simply fires the arrow, unconcerned with the target, as he quickly preps another shot. One of the outsiders cries out--it appears that Eir hit one of them in the arm, a helpful enough distraction.

A soldier shouts "it's only one--" before learning his fatal error as Reyna slices his throat. His sudden arrival throws the group into a panic, unsure of where to look or who the true threat is.

Eir readies his next shot, and, holding his breath, he counts. One. He sees Reyna quickly dispatch another outsider in the confusion, and they decide he is the more significant threat. Two. He counts that there are five still alive, though one is frozen in fear, unable to fight back. Three. One of the outsiders remembers Eir was there and spins towards the tree, readying a weapon Eir could only assume could hit him from afar.

Too late. Eir lets his arrow loose and it strikes true, downing one of the outsiders that had turned towards Reyna. Without stopping to take another break, he leaps down from the tree--a second later, a loud booming sound rang out. The outsider had fired his weapon, sending tree bark flying where Eir was just a moment before.

Reyna had dispatched most of the intruders, but Eir felt something was wrong. One of the outsiders had ran--the one too terrified to fight. He had to chase them down.

There is no mercy for anyone who trespasses in the Golmore Jungle.

It took no time to find the soldier that ran off--for the unfamiliar, the jungle was no place one could make a quick escape from. However, Eir was not skilled in close-quarters combat, and the surrounding jungle was too dense to set up a clear shot.

Instead, he got ahead of the outsider, waiting in a small clearing. Eir did not doubt that the outsider would end up here--the thick foliage naturally guided to this spot. There, he waited out in the open… he could use the soldier's shock and land the lethal blow while they tried to react

It did not take long for the outsider to arrive, and when he saw Eir, he gasped and made to turn around. He tripped in his rush, however, and could only turn and stare at the Viera from the ground as he drew back his bowstring.

"W-wait!"

Eir faltered. The voice that came from the soldier was… young. Too young. They sense the opportunity to quickly rip off their helmet, revealing a soft, round face. The soldier was more boy than man, and it was clear his hands were unbloodied.

"Pl… Please…" The boy looked at Eir, trembling, unable to rise. "I-I don't want to hurt any of you! I don't want to be here! They made me! I… I… just want to go home…" He lets out a shuddering sob, unable to speak further.

Eir stares the intruder down before slowly lowering his bow. "Go."

"...Wh-Wh-"

"I said go. Before I change my mind."

The boy stared at him in shock before regaining his senses and scrambling away. Eir watched him run off, staring emotionlessly at the trampled brush.

He knew there were consequences for this.

Moments later, Reyna burst into the clearing, uncharacteristically out of breath. "Eir, what did you do?!"

Eir turns his gaze to Reyna, his expression even. "That was a child, Reyna, I couldn't--"

"It does not matter how old they are, Eir, you know this. Intruders must always die."

"I… I know." Eir sighs, crossing his arms. His detached nature was making Reyna--or was it the forest?--angry. How could he fail at his duty and be so apathetic about it? He grits his teeth, taking a moment to take a deep breath before speaking again.

"You need to leave. Now."

"What? Reyna--"

"Leave. Go somewhere else. Anywhere. Just not here."

Eir stares at Reyna, confused, before a look of hurt flashes on his face. "Fine."

He waits until Eir is far away--until the link of Green Word between them is weaker--before sighing. Then, Reyna turns back towards the encampment. He'll need to erase any trace of the other Viera being there… Eir's life depended on it.

"Rehw-Bidit."

Reyna turns toward the older Viera who called his name. "Djt-Setlas, you're here." He gestures towards the bodies of the intruders. "Is it because of them?"

The gruff Wood Warder doesn't look at the bodies and only glares at Reyna. He did not need the weak connection between the two of them to know the older man would cut him down if he was not careful. "One escaped."

"Yes, he managed to get away and couldn't track him, but I knew you were patrolling nearby--"

"Do you take me for a fool? Someone let him escape, and we are lucky I was around to clean up their mess."

Reyna frowns. "What are you implying?"

"Enough! Where is that failure?! Where is Djt-Bidit?! To think we suffered him this whole time--"

"You know as well as I do he's not here. Or have you lost your connection to the forest?"

"Hmph." The Warder fumes at the insult before roughly grabbing Reyna by the arm. "We're returning to the village. The elders will get to the truth of this matter."

#vierapril #vierapril 2024 #ffxiv viera #ff14 #ffxiv #final fantasy xiv #final fantasy 14 #ao3 #ffxiv fanfiction #ffxiv fic #ffxiv oc #my oc #series: golmore prelude

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misswarrioroflight · 3 months

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Started working on the story for my WOL today if anyone interested here is the first draft of chapter 1. what do you all think?

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myreia · 2 days

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As We Move Forwards

CHAPTER TWO: YOU ARE THE END

Chapter Rating: Mature (for some sensuality, nothing explicit) Characters: Aureia Malathar (WoL), Thancred Waters Pairings: Aureia/Thancred Chapter Words: 4,712 Notes: Set post-Endwalker, spoilers for the base expac. Summary: With the Final Days averted and the world in recovery, Thancred and Aureia finally have some time to themselves. It’s nice—good even—to spend time alone, focusing on the things that matter most. But as they depart on a trip across Ilsabard, the question of what comes next lingers in his mind. Where do you go from here? How do you pick up the pieces of something broken and put it back together? Prompt: wolcred week - i. warmth | home Chapters: part one • part two Read on AO3

Something rustles in the grass.

Filo raises his head and lets out a shrill kweh, wings rustling to and fro in warning even though he does not see fit to stand. Aureia turns sharply, brows drawn together, balancing her bowl in the palm of her hand as she searches for the source of the disturbance. Thancred sits up straight, muscles tensed, and follows her gaze. One hand reaches of the hilt of his gunblade. Beside him, Nox slumbers on, the carbuncle unbothered by the commotion.

The grass ripples, swaying back and forth in a zigzag, coming closer and closer—

It stops.

Aureia frowns, eyes narrowed. “That’s enough.”

The grass shudders, chittering. If he didn’t know any better, he’d assume the grass was laughing.

“I’m serious, that’s enough—”

An acorn pops up out of the grass, sails in a long, wide arc, and lands squarely in his bowl.

Plop.

Thancred curses as broth sprays upwards and splashes over the edge. He shoves the bowl into his opposing hand and shakes the other one out, grimacing at the offending grass. To neither his nor Aureia’s surprise, a familiar, furry grey thing emerges from the grass and flies across the clearing. It leaps and clings onto his leg, clambering up at great speed. Its claws dig into his wrist as it flings itself at his bowl, seizes the acorn and springs off, landing adroitly on the ground and before scampering off to the far side of the campfire. Only then does it pause, triumphant in its retrieval of the acorn, bushy tail waving back and forth.

“Twelve take me…” Thancred passes a hand across his forehead. “So, that’s where you’ve been hiding—”

The grass rustles again and out pops a blur of white and yellowish fur. It streaks round the fire and seizes the acorn, its long, fluid body twisting over a log and disappearing to the far side. The nutkin’s ears flatten, its nose wriggling as its dark, liquid eyes seethe. The whittret wriggles back and forth, its head popping up one moment only to duck down the next as it searches for a way out. It holds the acorn close, clutching it to its chest.

“Oh, for the love of—”

The nutkin pounces. The whittret reels back. They roll together in a clump, wriggling and chitter, throwing dust in the air as they bat the acorn back and forth between them. Filo snaps his beak and goes back to sleep, covering his head with a wing. Nox stirs, his floppy ears perking up, and squints at the scuffling pair. He bears his fangs (until this day he did not know carbuncles could have them), hisses once in warning, then curls up on himself.

Thancred lets out a weary sigh and glances at Aureia, only to find her sitting cross-legged in silence, peacefully finishing her soup as if the commotion did not exist. A moment later, the nutkin and the whittret run off into the grass and chase each other up a tree, taking their dispute to further heights.

He watches them go, a hand pressed to his open mouth, and slowly runs his palm over his chin. “I have some regrets about this,” he says finally. “Many regrets, in fact.”

Aureia snorts with laughter. “They would have followed us anyway—”

He gives her a sour look.

“—and even if they didn’t, did you really want to leave them in Old Sharlayan? So close to the Noumenon. Could have chewed through countless priceless books.”

He grimaces and sets his bowl down by the edge of the fire. For some reason he has lost his appetite. “When I imagined what married life would look like, camped malms outside Terncliff surrounded by a merry band of creatures characterized by varying degrees of bad attitude—”

She grins.

“—was not part of the equation.”

Her eyes sparkle.

He rolls his own.

Still chuckling with laughter, Aureia gets to her feet and takes his bowl, stacking it with hers. She pats Nox fondly on the head, then murmurs a thank you and an incantation, dismissing the carbuncle for the night. “Castor and Nutkin are a handful, but you have to agree they do make the days more interesting,” she continues as she sets about cleaning up.

“We certainly have collected a strange following, aye.” He folds his arms and sinks into the log. She was never much of an animal person, at least not back in Ul’dah. Neither was he, come to think of it. Funny how things change. Filo and Castor chose her as surely as Nutkin chose him and now they are constants in their lives whether they like it or not.

(It’s a point of endless amusement to both of them that she chose names for her chocobo and whittret, even her carbuncle, and yet the nutkin remains distinctly—and untheatrically—Nutkin.)

“May I help?” he asks after a moment.

She shakes her head as she scrapes the bottom of the pot, dumping the burnt and crusted remains into the fire. “Oddly enough, I like this part,” she replies. “So I hope you don’t expect me to summon a host of familiars to do the task for me. I’m sure Matoya is a fine instructor, but some leaves are best left in their books.”

“Aye. Between you and me, I’d rather not wake to a horde of poroggos and enchanted brooms, or—gods forbid—nixies.”

“Careful now. Wouldn’t want me to pass that on to Y’shtola.”

“I’ll brave the danger.”

She laughs, flashing him a grin as she fetches water from their flasks and cleans the pot and dishes. The firelight flickers over her hands, her pale skin glowing in its warmth. It strikes him as a peculiarity. She may have unparalleled command of fire-aspected aether and create fireballs out of thin air, but it’s rare to see fire and flame as something other than a destructive force. Her hands are calloused, worn and reddened from the work. She has forgone most of her customary rings, all save two: a black and silver ring that was a gift from Nanamo long ago and the ring he gave her a week before their wedding. Not a wedding band, per se—neither of them would call it that—but still significant.

It is one of the few personal belongings she has brought over from the First.

“But I must ask,” she adds after a moment, pausing to brush hair out of her eyes. “When you envisioned what married life would look like what was part of that equation?”

The question is simple. Direct.

He pauses. For a moment there is nothing but the sound of crackling flames, clinking dishes, and the wind in the trees.

“You,” he says finally. “Only you.”

Aureia catches his eye. Exhaling a long breath, she sets the dishes aside to dry and settles into the grass, legs curled beneath her, hands clasped on her knees. She seems hesitant to speak, whatever thoughts going through her mind lost to the seconds slipping by.

He remembers when he asked her to marry him. A different time, a different place, a different world. It was during their first night camping in the Empty when the thought occurred to him. Ryne and Urianger had already retreated to their tents and gone to bed. Her head was tucked in the crook of his neck, his fingers tangled in her light-poisoned hair, their eyes trained on a little sliver of moonlight shining white against the aether-starved wastes. The idea occurred to him then, dropping on him as if from nowhere, the realization of how content it made him taking him by surprise.

So he held her close and murmured the question without hesitance, without fear. He had already wasted so much time playing the fool. He couldn’t anymore. There was no thought given to what would come after, for in that moment it was the only thing that felt right.

“That was the problem, wasn’t it?” Aureia says finally, her voice gentle.

He closes his eyes. Those few months on the First—between the defeat of Emet-Selch and the downfall of Elidibus—were like a dream. Despite the challenges they faced becoming a very real living nightmare, it was a dream nonetheless. Life was easier in Norvrandt, sequestered away as they were from the pressing matters on the Source. Simpler. Straightforward.

Returning forced them to wake up.

Back then it was unfathomable to think their marriage was a blunder. But now he knows it was a mistake—a sweet mistake, but a mistake. They rushed headlong into it, blinded by love and impulsiveness and the fear that if they did not act now, the chance would pass them by. He wasn’t ready for it. Neither of them were.

They couldn’t know what was in store for them.

“Aye,” he says finally. “Far the from the first time I can shoulder the blame for not thinking things through, but…”

She pauses. “Do you regret it?”

Thancred opens his eyes. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Aureia regarding him, her ruby gaze open and honest. A reminder that she sees him for what he is, flaws and all—just as he sees her. He could say yes and know she will not judge him for it. It is the answer she expects, after all. They were married too soon, too quickly. That is the truth, plain and simple—but his feelings on the matter?

Not so easy to untangle.

“There are times where you have all but broken my heart, Aureia,” he begins. “To foist the fault solely on you would be a disservice. I am certain I have done the same to you, stubborn fool that I am.”

“We don’t have to go over this—”

“I would like to, if that is amenable to you.”

Her lips twitch. “I suppose I did ask the question and open the floodgates. I’m listening.”

His eyes flick upwards, meeting hers. “To think what these past months have done to us… You and I both know better than most what it means to solider on. To be the first on the front line to shoulder the burden and carry the weight so others do not have to. But when you stand that far forward, who is there to carry your weight when you fall? Who protects the protector?”

He exhales a breath and folds his hands together, resting them on his knee. Why is this so damn difficult? She is the one person whom he trusts more than anything, more than himself, with whom he knows he can be outright honest, even when that honesty hurts. “I have never been angrier with you than that night in Garlemald,” he continues. “When we…”

“Separated. You can say it, Thancred.”

A lump forms in his throat. “I did not know what was happening to you. I did not know how to help. I have never felt more helpless than the moment I watched you walk away to storm the Tower of Babil.” The words are coming in a rush now, like ripping a bandage off a freshly healed wound. “Perhaps I held onto that anger. Let it boil into resentment. I should not have said the things I did that night before the Ragnarok’s departure, and I cannot take those back.”

“And I can’t either.”

“When I think on it… I am afraid I have failed you, in ways I never should have.” He exhales again, his breath shaky. “Perhaps we have failed each other.”

She nods quietly, a little too quick to agree. Some part of him wishes she would refute it, but she must have come to this conclusion months ago and made her peace with it. How could she not? This is the crux of the matter, the thing neither of them dare voice. They journeyed to Ultima Thule bristling, furious with each other, their conflict unresolved—

And then he died.

Survive, he commanded as he gave himself up for her, for all of them. Survive, he said, even as he was torn asunder and his essence scattered across the stars. His last word to the woman he loves, his need for her to live on bleeding through whatever anger and resentment remained in his heart that day.

The rest is a blank. His resuscitation, the return of their friends, their journey through the Dead Ends. He let her go, to fulfill her final duty—the Endsinger and then Zenos—without him.

And then she died.

How does a marriage come back from that? How does one pick up the pieces of a shattered life and put them back together again?

The wind whistles, rustling the trees. The woods hums, alive with singing insects and chittering creatures and a birdcall or two. Beside them, the fire crackles and pops, burning at last down to its embers. They will have to add more firewood to keep it going.

Neither of them move.

“You haven’t answered my question,” Aureia says. “Do you regret it? Marrying me?”

Thancred smiles. “I don’t know,” he replies. “If we had waited for a better time, a better place, we could have very well waited forever. Risk is a part of life, is it not? To take a chance, a leap of faith, even if nothing comes of it in the end. But this I do know—I do not wish to die with any more regrets, Aureia. Once was enough.”

Her expression softens, barely visible now in the dim light. Slowly, she unfurls from the ground, moving with that preternatural grace a lifetime of combat has gifted her, and closes the distance between them. She stands before him, the tips of her fingers trailing across his cheek, brushing hair from his forehead. Then she cups her hand to his jaw and tilts his head up, bending down to press her mouth to his.

Her lips are soft and warm, her kiss more sweet than bitter. There are a thousand hurts to mend, but they are mending—with patience and understanding and compassion, and most importantly, with time.

He trembles. His arms wrap around her as if they have a mind of their own, his fingers twined in the fabric of her coat. He clutches her to him, a sob resonating somewhere deep in his throat, and kisses her back—deeply, avidly, the warmth of passion ignited in his chest.

They could live a life apart if they had to. They could manage to say goodbye. It would hurt worse than any wound either of them have suffered—perhaps worse than death, which sounds dramatic until one remembers it is a state both of them have experienced—but they could manage it. They can press on.

It’s what they’re good at.

And it is not what either of them wants.

The Gridanian bards have more than one song about lovers destined for one another. But it is a fantasy. A nice one, true, but a fantasy is still a fantasy. It is not what they have. Love is a choice, one they make every day. And they have chosen that this is not the end.

It is work. It will be work. But he has never once taken the easy path in life and he doesn’t plan to start now.

Thancred kisses her again, fiercer this time, his mouth hot and firm against hers. She murmurs something, the words lost, and her knees buckle. He grips her tight and slides off the log, sending them tumbling to the ground. She gasps in surprise, loose hair in her eyes, her laughter ringing across the clearing as she curls up beside him.

It is as though they have not just had one of the most difficult conversations of their lives.

He stretches out, his back to the log, holding her close. She responds in kind, her lips parting as she kisses him deeply, and hooks a leg over his thighs. It’s easy enough to pull her into his lap and she settles there freely, her arms around his neck. His hands roam her back in idle patterns, fingernails scratching the thick leather. Her weight adds a comfortable, enticing pressure.

Too enticing.

He shivers, a burst of goosepimples running down his spine, and it is not from the cold. His mind wanders, distracted by her touch, her kiss, and the idle fantasies they cultivate. The two of them entwined in the grass, hair unbound, clothing dishevelled, breath hot and skin aflame as the starlight blossoms above them. The music of her voice, the touch of her hands, the feel of her above him—

Gods, how much he needs her. How much he wants her. How easy it is to be lost in her.

His heart clenches, desire already clouding his mind. A pace away, the campfire burns, the dying fire warmer than a hearth on a cold snowy day.

He draws back, his teeth scraping his lower lip as he sucks in a breath, and presses his forehead to hers. “Shall I get more firewood?” he murmurs. His fingers brush her jaw, trailing up and up, over the point of her ear to tangle in her hair.

She pauses, her fingers tightening in his hair. “No. It’s late. We should let it burn out.”

His other hand wanders across her back and up her side. “It will be cold if it burns out.”

“Yes.” She inhales a shaky breath as his palm brushes her breast. “Perhaps.”

Encouraged, he tugs at her shirt, eager fingers searching for buttons. Her hips roll as he presses a kiss to her jaw, her neck, finding his way to the hollow of her throat. The gasp he elicits strikes him to the very core.

They haven’t slept together since before Ultima Thule. There has been no time, no opportunity. Her recovery left her somber and listless, and in desperate need to escape the suffocating concerns of the Scions and their extended friends. Three days in and she fled to Ishgard, seeking out the steadfast company of Sidurgu and Rielle, then travelled to Mor Dhona and crossed over to the First.

It stung him to know she had to go so far away to heal. But it was for the best. He wasn’t capable of giving her what she needed. But her time with Ryne—her daughter in all but name—and in Lakeland—the only place she wishes to call home—was.

“Thancred…”

Her voice is soft, murmuring in his ear.

He undoes another button. His palm slips beneath her shirt, skimming across soft skin.

Her fingers rake through his hair. “Thancred…”

He stops, cradling her, his face still buried in her neck. He knows that pause—the catch of her breath, the sudden tensing of her body, the shift of her weight. The subtle signals, whether she intends them or not, that she has changed her mind. Even after a year and a half of marriage, of learning the unspoken language of her body, he still cannot follow how quickly she shifts from “yes, and” to “no, not now,” her boundaries changing as rapidly as the tide.

He doesn’t understand it, this push-pull between desire and disinterest. She has tried to explain it to him, how she does not feel attraction in the same way most do, nor to the same degree. But he doesn’t have to understand. All he needs to do is listen.

“Aur,” he murmurs. “Are you all right?”

She sighs. Slowly—almost apologetically—she wraps her arms around him and holds him close. “I’m sorry,” she says, brushing her lips against his forehead. “I can’t. Not tonight.”

He closes his eyes. Were this a story—or one of those songs those damnable bards sing—there would be another conclusion. All wounds can be healed with love, and love… well. Too often it is taken as a synonym for physical intimacy. A younger version of him would have believed it, attempting to resolve their issues with sex. He did a fair amount of that once, using the company of others to numb himself to his problems. But Aureia is not like him, her limits in a much different place than his.

It has done him some good, he thinks.

“Is that all right?” She sounds so small, so distant, even when he is in her arms.

He raises his head. Though he feels a flicker of disappointment, he cannot know what is running through her mind or why she declined—only that she did. “I am content to be with you,” he says, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

She smiles. Kissing him gently on the cheek, she rolls off his lap and settles beside him, legs curled beneath her, her head on his shoulder. They sit together in silence, watching the flames die down. The moon has come out, its half-crescent brilliant against the night sky’s deep indigo. Filo’s outline has disappeared into the black of the trees; Castor and Nutkin have long since vanished. They will return come morn.

“I do want to,” Aureia says after a moment. “But I think… I think I still need time.”

He puts an arm around her. “You do not need to explain yourself to me.”

She slips her hand into his, twining their fingers together, and raises her head. “Just know that several ideas have come to mind,” she adds, catching his eye. “For the future.”

“Oh?”

“Ilsabard is a large continent. We’ll be on the road for months. There’s plenty of time to… well. Let’s just say that I’m not opposed to a starlit adventure or two.”

“Not moonlit?”

Her nose wrinkles. “The moon is far less romantic once you know what’s actually on it. Rabbits who talk your ear off for one. A giant abyssal hole for another. Allagan spaceships. Carnivorous extrastellar fungus.”

“Hm.” He makes a face, a horrid thought occurring to him. “Point taken. In fact, I would rather not consider the manner of adventure you just proposed when there is a high possibility that Urianger is up above.”

“…did you have to mention that?”

“If it came to my mind, then I must put it in yours.”

“You ass.”

“Naturally. Only for you, Aureia darling.”

The campfire burns, the last of its small flames licking the ashen remains of the firewood.

“I’m glad we came,” Aureia says. She has curled even closer to him, her head on his chest. “Did I tell you the proposition Tataru gave me?”

He kisses the top of her head. “No.”

“She has procured an island in the Cieldalaes. Uninhabited, private, somewhere that could be a home away from home.”

He pauses. This talk of home feels… odd. Off. Unnerving. Perhaps it’s because they already have a home, an apartment in Mor Dhona, as Tataru knows full well. Just as she knows full well that it has become little more than an uninhabitable storage room and filled with useless junk. Or perhaps it’s because he struggles to think of Aureia with a home. They are wanderers, the pair of them. This campsite could be as much a home as any Ul’dahn estate or Crystarium residence or island sanctuary.

“What did you say?” he says finally.

“I told her I would think about it.” She sighs. Her fingers grip his hand, unwilling to let go. “She means well, of course. And I would be lying if I didn’t say the idea is appealing. Good weather, sun and open sea… a whole island to myself. But I don’t think it’s what I need. I can’t sequester myself away, Thancred. The twins may be in Tertium, but there are plenty of other places across Ilsabard that need assistance.”

She swallows hard. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about what defecting from the Empire meant. What it still means. The provinces… the former provinces… This land was once my home. I could have helped these people, run an underground resistance, used my knowledge and my skill to do something to help them. Instead I turned my back on them. Thinking only of myself and getting out.”

“A harsh assessment, don’t you think? You, of all people, have done more—”

“It’s not about who has done more, who contributed the most effort, who has done enough to prove that they were always on the right side, that they cared enough.”

Her tone is sharp, pained. It still grieves her, years later, that she took as long as she did to defect. This is a constant sorrow, one she will perhaps carry for the rest of her life. No matter what she does, no matter how much she sacrifices—even going to the ends of the universe—it will never be enough to make up for the circumstances she was born into.

She is not alone. There are thousands—hundreds of thousands—like her. Hyur, Elezen, Au Ra, and more, born in the Garlean provinces after occupation. Born not knowing anything else. How many died resisting? How many lived complying? How many were like Aureia’s mother and father and brother—or even like Fordola—who joined the Garleans personally because it was the only path they saw forwards? And where does it all leave them now?

There is much to recover from. Not just the Final Days, but from the broken shackles of the Empire. Somehow burning skies and Blasphemies and lethal despair is easier to recover from than decades of imperialism. How did Erenville put it?

The Final Days came and went.

“There’s work to be done, Thancred. People to help. And not in the way that the Alliance or the Forum can. Leave the politics to the politicians, to Aymeric and Hien and—gods help me—even Fourchenault. I am thinking smaller than that. The village herbalist who can no longer gather the herbs she needs because fiends have moved in. A travelling merchant who needs an escort because their companion died and they no longer have the funds to hire another adventurer. The local alchemist the next town over who is raising his best friend’s infant daughter because her parents are dead.”

He pauses, his hand rubbing her back. “Thavnair hit you harder than you thought it did, didn’t it?”

She presses her lips together, a shaky breath caught in her throat. “I went back to Palaka’s Stand recently,” she says. “Yezahn and Pasareen are doing well.”

“…and the baby?” He feels odd asking. He’s uncertain why.

“She’s well, too. Tiny little thing, but growing fast. When they let me hold her I thought she would break in my hands. My arms hurt afterwards like I had just spent three hours training with Estinien. Yezahn says it’s because I was tensing, I was so scared of hurting her.”

“It… didn’t occur to me that could happen.”

“It didn’t occur to me, either.” She pauses, relaxing, the stress of the moment passed. “I don’t know what help I can give. I don’t know the state of these lands, I don’t know what’s going to happen to them. But any help I can give… if I can give it, then I want to. Not because I am asked, not because it is my duty, not because I am the only one capable—but because I want to.”

Despite the weariness in her voice, her determination is fierce, unyielding. This is how she is—once an idea has come to mind, she commits to it wholly. He is proud of her, for coming to this conclusion. A sign that she is finally ready to heal.

Thancred lets out a long breath and kisses the top of her head, running his fingers through her hair. Drowsy though he is, he has little desire to move. Her weight is comforting and warm against him, a contrast to the lumpy log he is leaning against. He eyes the fire, the embers burning at its base.

Soon there will be naught but ash.

“Aur?” he asks.

“Mm?” She is falling asleep.

“I am grateful for this. Grateful for you. I want you to know that.”

She squeezes his hand. “Let’s go to bed.”

He could not agree more.

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