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myreia · 3 months

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Divergence of the Heart

CHAPTER FIVE: THOSE OF NOBLE STOCK

Chapter Rating: Teen (full story rating is Explicit) Characters: Aureia Malathar (WoL), Aymeric de Borel, Thancred Waters, Hilda Ware Pairings: Aureia/Aymeric, Aureia/Thancred, Thancred/Hilda Chapter Words: 7,127 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

Aureia lingers in the shadows, huddled in her coat, breath misting in the night air as she stares up at the building looming before her. Like all the estates befitting the Ishgardian nobility, the Borel Manor is an imposing display of high arches and ornate decorations. Elegant spires reach for the heavens, black against a sea of twinkling stars, and stained-glass windows glow with a welcoming and lively warmth from within. A handful of steadfast guards patrol the gate, attentively surveying the street for signs of trouble. Though this part of the Pillars is hardly prone to bustling activity, there is good reason for the Lord Commander’s residence to have tighter security than most.

Though Aymeric himself may be keen to forget it, the attempted assassination is fresh in many of his inner circle’s minds. Ishgard may be more acclimatized to its new state now the Dragonsong War is well and truly over, but swift and drastic political changes do not come without a price. The chances of some disgruntled adversary trying again are too great to ignore.

She sighs, shivering in the cold, and tucks her hands into her armpits. The thick leather sits oddly on her shoulders, suffocatingly heavy and offering little warmth. She is beginning to regret wearing the damn thing. The more she thinks on it, the more she feels as though strolling up to his manor armed and in her combat gear will turn what was supposed to be a relaxing dinner between friends into a glorified business meeting.

And maybe this is all that it is, she thinks, knowing full-well it is not.

What is her personal relationship to Aymeric anyway? They have circled each other for more than a year, true, but it was always within the context of greater—yet impersonal—events. Politics, battle, the birth of a nation’s new era… How does one become friends through events as momentous as that? This is not like her bond with Estinien, informed by weeks of reluctant travel and time spent snapping at and figuratively stepping on one another’s toes until begrudging respect set in.

This is different. This is…

Stop it. Stop fooling yourself. You practically proposed this dinner as much as he did and you want to back out now? So what if he might be in love with you? Is that truly such an awful thing? What in the seven hells is wrong with you?

“Can I help you, mistress?”

Aureia jerks back and instinctively reaches for her rapier, eyes wide as she stares the young Elezen guard in the face. “No, I—I’m fine, thank you.”

He glances at her weapon. “Then I must ask that you move along,” he warns sternly. “This is no place for idle loitering.”

Her surprise evaporates in an instant. “I am here to see Ser Aymeric.”

“Is that so? The Lord Commander does not accept audiences in his private home, and certainly not from wandering adventurers.” The tone of dismissal is impossible to ignore as his gaze lands on her rapier. “I must ask again that you move along.”

She flushes. Most times she would be pleased that her face has gone unrecognized, however in this case it is both amusing and mortifying that she will have to leverage her name to simply get through the gate. “Tell me, what is your name, ser?” she asks, hand still on the hilt.

“Gillesoireaux, mistress. Now, you must—”

“Move along, yes, I heard you the first time.” She raises her chin, calmly brushing a lock of hair behind her ear, exposing the point. “I would be very interested to hear what Aymeric has to say when he discovers you prevented the Warrior of Light from attending a much long awaited for dinner.”

The guard blanches. His gaze passes from her face to her rapier and back again, noting her mixed Hyur and Elezen features. Her image has been passed around Ishgard long enough now most citizens have some idea of what she looks like even if they haven’t seen her at official events.

“I’m sorry, mistress,” he says. “Even if you are the Warrior of Light, as you claim, I cannot allow you to pass without verification of your identity—”

She folds her arms, annoyed. “What verification? What else do I need to do to prove I am myself?”

“I—”

“That is quite enough, Gillesoireaux, thank you.”

Aymeric’s voice resounds from beyond the gate. Peering past the young guard, Aureia finds him on the threshold to the manor, a slightly perplexed look in his eye and an amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips. For once he is not dressed in his uniform, but the refined doublet and hose common among the Ishgardian nobility.

Gillesoireaux’s mouth opens in shock. “But, ser, I must protest—Lucia—”

“I commend you for fulfilling your duty so thoroughly, Gillesoireaux, but I believe I know the identity of my guest well enough to recognize her. Now, if you please. Allow her to pass. It is quite cold out tonight.”

The young man’s cheeks turn red. Swallowing his pride, he nods in respect and stands aside, gesturing for Aureia to proceed. She walks quickly through the gate and up the stone path, a strange flush on her cheeks and a queasy feeling in her stomach. Though she suspects she and Aymeric will both find this incident amusing to reflect on in a few days time, for now she can’t determine whether she is embarrassed about it or simple anxious for the dinner that lies ahead. She was filled with giddy happiness several nights ago at the prospect of spending time with him. But now she is here, on the doorstep of his estate…

Where is the confidence she had that evening outside Estinien’s room? It takes more willpower than she would like to admit not to excuse herself and run straight to the Brume.

Do me a favour and go with him for once. Give it a chance, for Fury’s sake. He will never shut up about you otherwise.

“I apologize for the trouble,” Aymeric says, ushering her through the door. “Gillesoireaux is young and takes his duties very seriously. I suspect fear of being tricked into letting unsavoury personages through overcame his good sense—though I fail to see how any Ishgardian citizen would fail to recognize you on sight.”

“Oh, I’m not sure about that. For all he knows, I might have been Hilda in disguise masquerading as the Warrior of Light in a bid to further ingrain lowborn citizens into your ever-expanding social circle.”

He sighs soberly and closes the door behind her. “Though I would hope none of my staff share those proclivities, it is a sentiment often echoed in the Pillars—”

She lays a hand on his arm. “It was a joke, Aymeric. And not a very good one.”

Aymeric coughs, covering his embarrassment, and glances at her. The corners of his eyes crinkle with a wry smile as he notes her rapier. “You came fit for battle, I see,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

She frowns, folding her arms defensively across her chest. “The last Ishgardian dinner I attended ended with me drugged and on the floor. You never know what will happen—” Gods, Aureia, did you really just say that? “—besides, you’re not one to talk! Not once, in all this time I have known you, have you graced my presence without your greatsword. Or your armour.”

He stares at her, taken aback by the sudden deluge of words. “I…” A small chuckle escapes him. “I suppose you speak the truth. Lucia has said as much before. Routine is no small comfort, one that I perhaps rely upon too often and unthinkingly. One could say it is fortuitous that tonight I have finally relinquished some of my habits that are consequences of profession and position.”

“Are you sure? You have done away with the armour, but I’m not entirely convinced you’re not hiding Naegling behind your back.”

He laughs again and takes a step back, spreading his hands in a very un-Aymeric-like way. “Then perhaps you will have to examine me for yourself,” he says. He turns out to one side, then to the other—to call it a twirl would be too much—and sinks into a low bow. As he gazes up at her from behind long, dark lashes, the coy smirk on his lips feels private. Personal. Just for her. “No hidden weapons, greatswords or otherwise.”

She smiles, buoyed by his gentle humour, her mind reaching for a witty remark—and pauses. A shadow moves in her peripheral vision. She blinks, ripping her gaze away from Aymeric to dart around the foyer. A butler—tall, Elezen, genteel in the way of the Ishgardian upper crust, with all the quiet confidence and experience that Gillesoireaux lacked—enters the foyer and glides effortlessly across the room, stopping only to bow politely to them both. His piercing eyes linger on her in a way she does not like, taking in her tunic’s deep neckline and the tips of her ears poking through her hair.

Only then does she realize that the hall is far from empty. Behind Aymeric it unfolds in a kaleidoscope of marble floors and blue-trimmed walls, floor-length windows framed by sweeping velvet curtains, the crystal chandelier that is somehow gilded yet not gaudy, a magnificent staircase ascending to the second floor. It’s exactly the kind of staircase the demure little protagonist of those romance chapbooks Tataru stockpiled from the Jeweled Crozier would use to make her grand entrance. The butler is not the only servant here; a handful of others are going about their evening tasks while furtively glancing in her direction and eyeing her up.

She doubts she meets their expectations.

Aureia glances back to Aymeric, catching him still in his bow. Heat sears her cheeks—damn damn damn it—and she ruthlessly hopes the colour doesn’t show on her pale face. Maybe she can brush it off as a result of the brisk evening air.

Wind burn. Right. Is that where we’re at? I’m not blushing, it’s wind burn.

The butler appears a foot behind Aymeric, thick grey brows drawn together in an obvious frown, and clears his throat.

Aymeric jolts out of his bow and straightens, reverting seamlessly into the posture of the Lord Commander. Professional. Polite. Adroit. The picture of knighthood and chivalry. She knows him well enough know it is a role as much as the Warrior of Light. But the way he inhabits it every day, fully and resolutely, as fulfillment of his duty to his country… Sometimes she worries he is more the façade than the man.

“Marcel!” he says. “My apologies, I did not expect—”

“Merely here to receive your honoured guest, my lord, but I see there was no need,” Marcel interrupts smoothly. “I did not realize that you had departed your private office so early before dinner. Is there a change in your schedule I was not made aware of? I can amend my timetables—”

“No, that is quite all right, I assure you.” Aymeric lowers his head, almost as if he has been scolded like a schoolboy. “I was happy to greet Mistress Malathar myself.”

“Did you wish to return to the study? Mistress Malathar is early. I am happy to escort her to the sitting room in the meantime. Or perhaps the library. Your parents’ collection on Ishgardian cultural and religious history may be of particular interest to her.”

“That won’t be necessary, Marcel, thank you.”

The butler nods and places a hand over his heart, bowing deeply. “I am ever but your humble servant, my lord.”

Giving Aureia a calculated look, he excuses himself and departs briskly down the hall.

Aymeric coughs, a flush on his cheeks, and awkwardly links his hands behind his back. “Shall we?” he says hesitantly. “It seems we have some time before dinner is served. No sense in standing in the threshold, I wager. Unless you have a preference for waiting here, of course…?”

“Hm. You know, I do love a good foyer. And you have a particularly beautiful entrance hall.”

His eyes brighten. “Is it not? My parents did find much enjoyment in their taste and style…” He trails off, noting her expression, and sighs and shakes his head. “That was a jest, I see.”

“It was.”

“I am making a fool of myself once again.”

Aureia cocks her head and sweeps across the foyer. “Not a fool,” she says affectionately, taking his arm in hers. She’s uncertain where the impulse came from, but it feels appropriate in a hall like this. Maybe Tataru’s chapbooks had a more lasting impression on her than she thought. He doesn’t seem to mind or find it odd, at any rate. “Just incredibly easy to tease.”

“Incredibly easy? Well then, I shall take note. Perhaps I can put up more resistance next time.” He guides her down the hall, strolling towards a pair of arched glass doors. Count Edmont would never have the like in his manor. “But your remark did remind me that this is still very much my foster parents’ home. Their vision, their tastes, an inarguable inspiration to their peers. Perhaps they expected me to make changes once I inherited the estate, but I never could bring myself to overturn their memory. This house is as much theirs as it is mine. I count my blessings and my fortunes every day for the life they provided me.”

“I see.”

He eyes her, glancing down from his towering height. “You must forgive Marcel,” he continues. “He was the former viscount’s butler and he has been with the house since before I was born. He may be curt and fiercely protective of the Borel name—and, if you will allow me a moment of honesty, perhaps a little too protective—but his intentions are well-meaning.”

He pushes the doors open. They swing outwards to welcome them into a sitting room decorated in soft blues and periwinkles. A warm fire crackles merrily in the hearth, casting its dancing light around it.

“Protective?” Aureia asks as he shuts the doors behind them. Though any servant passing could spot them through the glass, at least the sound will be muffled, affording them some privacy. “How so?”

Aymeric gestures to the nearby settee. “There is a particular sense of Ishgardian propriety about House Borel’s old guard, so to speak,” he says carefully, waiting for her to sit down.

She sinks into the cushions, fingers plucking unconsciously at the frilled edges of a nearby pillow. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“I hold Marcel and his staff in nothing but the highest regards,” he continues, seating himself opposite her. A strange stab of disappointment pangs in her heart. Almost as if she wishes that he had joined her on the couch, close enough to touch. Close enough for her to lay a hand in his, to thread her fingers with his in imitation of that night in the infirmary. “But their enduring devotion to my foster parents’ and their reputation does blind them. My adoption caused a stir among the high and minor houses alike, one that was not easily mitigated. Gossip behind closed doors can be as brutal a warfare as any battlefield. Marcel does not intend any disrespect, but I believe he wishes I carry on my parents’ good name without subjecting it to further slander.”

Her gut tightens into a familiar knot, an unwanted prickle creeping down the back of her neck. “Why should inviting me to dinner be the cause of slander for your House?” she says flatly. “I thought we were friends.”

“And we are, are we not? Aureia, there is no person on this world whom I am prouder or happier or honoured to call friend—”

“You staff seems to think differently. Where would they get that impression, I wonder?”

He coughs, covering an awkward smile. “They are an imaginative lot, it is true, but—”

“Marcel’s concerned, isn’t he. He is Ishgardian through and through. The old kind, that is. Warrior of Light or not, he sees a half-Elezen woman appear on your doorstep and there is only one thought in his mind.”

A pause. He closes his eyes, wincing with pain as if she had stabbed him in the gut. “Yes. You see it plainly.”

Aureia exhales a long breath and folds her hands, resting them on her knees. This is not the conversation she imagined she would have upon entering his house, but it seems it has raised its ugly head regardless. “I’m sorry,” she says slowly. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

He opens his eyes, relief flickering across his face. “You have not. Far from it. If apologies are required, it should be from me to you. On behalf of certain ancient gentlemen who are far too entrenched in their ways to avoid jumping to conclusions.”

There is a part of her—a niggling part, deep down, thrashing around in her mind that she must stamp out lest she let it slip across her tongue—that wants nothing more than to ask him point-blank what Marcel would do if they were more than friends. If he loves her the way she thinks he does it must be on his mind. She can imagine the horror on Marcel’s part, the conclusions he would race to while watching the son of his beloved viscount fall for a woman of mixed heritage. Bastard Elezen children are one thing in Ishgard. But bastard children with Hyur blood in their veins…

Her heart hammers, rising panic creeping across her skin. That would require so many elements to fall into place, so many variables to go both right and wrong. Besides, it’s not like she could ever… she can…

Not this again.

“Aureia?”

His voice resounds quietly in her ears, a blanket of calm and warmth. The sound of him so close yet so far away cuts through her panic, dispersing it as easily as the sun melts mists in its morning glow.

She raises her head, meeting his eyes, and instinctively pushes a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’ve never told anyone this,” she says quietly. “Not even Hilda. But Haurchefant warned me near a year ago that Ishgard may judge me harshly not for who I am, but what I am. He believed I could win them over easily, that the nobility’s contempt for me would melt as soon as I gave them something to talk about other than exile, refugee or half-Elezen. He had more faith in the goodness of his peers than anyone. Perhaps a little too much. He hoped my association with his father would count for something, but I’m not certain if this city is prepared to judge me for anything other than who my parents may have been. And I’m not even Ishgardian.”

Aymeric nods and leans across to take her hand. “It should not be this way. And I do not wish for it to continue this way.”

She smiles faintly, running her thumb across the back of his hand. “I don’t care what they say about me,” she says firmly. “I’m a hero to some, a villain to others. I can live with it.”

“You should not have to. If there was a way—”

“Please, Aymeric, I’m begging you not to draft a new statute on my behalf. You can’t decree change and expect centuries-old beliefs to change overnight.” She pauses, her teeth scraping her lower lip as she considers her next words. An admission, one she hasn’t shared with anyone. “You know, when I first came here, I thought it would be easier to pretend to be Hyur. Even now, it’s easier to keep them hidden. But something in the city is changing. You’ve changed it. Hilda is changing it. And perhaps I am, too. In a few years, who knows? It could be different.”

“It could. It is my most fervent hope that it is. But Aureia, you should not have to hide who you are to placate the misguided few.”

She shrugs. “It’s fine. It is what it is.”

“It is not to me.”

Her heart stutters. There is such genuine warmth in his voice and in the way he is looking at her, she can barely breathe. He has quite literally knocked her speechless. She shifts her weight, pulling herself to the very edge of the settee so she can have a firmer grasp of his hand without straining her reach. If it weren’t for those glass doors, she may have very well thrown herself down next to him. Or into his arms.

Either feels appropriately impulsive. Like the protagonists of Tataru’s chapbooks.

Hells, why do you keep thinking of those? This isn’t some fairy tale.

“Aureia,” Aymeric says gently, his fingers still entwined with hers. “If it’s not too presumptuous of me… may I ask you a personal question? Where in Eorzea do you call home?”

“I’m not Eorzean.”

The words are out of her mouth before she has time to think about them. She bites her lower lip, silently cursing her slip of the tongue. Aymeric, thankfully, has not noticed. He simply waits for her reply, patient and understanding. If anything, judging from his expression he seems to regret his curiosity out of fear of prying into a sensitive topic.

“I apologize,” he says quickly. “Please, do not feel imposed to tell me more than you wish—”

“It’s fine,” she interrupts. “It’s not something I often want to talk about.”

And not for the reasons you’re thinking.

Where is home? Rolling meadows, babbling brooks, the scent of loamy earth and the rush of the sea. The bones of metal streets, wires above and below thrumming with magitek, air so freezing she can’t feel her nose, the metallic tang of blood industry in the air. These are the two sides of Garlemald—temperate Locus Amoenus, where she was born, and the glacial Imperial capital, where she was honed into a killer. Spy. Agent. Operative.

She had no home after she defected, not until Ul’dah. And though the scars of the bloody banquet have now healed, she can never see it the same again.

Two homes. One she rejected. And one who rejected her.

Secrets upon secrets. A different person then, under a different name, a name she never wants someone like Aymeric to hear. She has told no one her origins, not even the Scions. How would they react, knowing their dearest friend was secretly the very thing they were fighting against? It would be reasonable to admit the truth to Lucia, who as a Garlean defector and Aymeric’s left hand would be most likely to understand.

But she is anything but reasonable. She killed her former self the day she left. Better to let Kira decay for good then let her history be exhumed.

“Corvos,” Aureia says finally, careful not to use the Garlean name for the region. “I was born in Corvos. It doesn’t have much meaning to me now. I have no interest in seeing my parents ever again.”

“Corvos?” He raises an eyebrow. He has noted her tone and sagely avoids the topic of her parents. She’s thankful—she’s not sure if she could undergo another incident similar to Hilda’s blunt scrutiny when she asked which Elezen parent had a dalliance with a Hyur. “You are very far from home.”

“The world’s a big place, Aymeric. There’s a lot that goes on outside your own borders. I never could stay still for long.”

“A thirst for adventure?”

A faint smile tugs at the corner of her lips. “For a better version of myself.”

The glass doors open, throwing streaming light into the room. Aureia jerks back and pulls her hand from Aymeric’s, situating herself deep into the settee’s cushions. Aymeric is not so fast. He remains hunched over, his hand hovering in the air, still grasping at where her retreating fingers had once been.

Shit. Dinner. Right.

Marcel clears his throat. “Dinner is served, my lord,” he announces, observing the scene before him with commendable detachment. If he disapproves of her, he will not let it show. “My lady.”

Aymeric rises to his feet, offering his hand to her. She pauses, mind flooded with question—should she take it? Should she not? Will Marcel see it as burgeoning romance if she does? Will he see it as burgeoning romance she is trying to hide if she doesn’t?—and stands up, hands falling straight to her sides, gripping a fistful of her leather coat.

Down the hall to the foyer, through a set of heavy double doors and into a hallway lined with windows. She almost has time to appreciate the view of the square outside before Marcel is ushering her through another set of doors and into a room whose purpose is utterly baffling to her and seems to be nothing but a square-shaped entry hall of some kind. Finally, he throws open the doors to the dining room and steps aside, bowing them in with the grace of an expert butler.

Aureia’s eyes widen. She slows her pace, boots scraping against the polished wood floors as she stares gobsmacked. The dining room is softly inviting with its familiar blues and warm hearth, the long table is outfitted for more than a single guest. Candlelit and with more cutlery and plates than she knows what to do with. Surely there has to be a purpose for the three separate wine glasses at each setting. And that is to say nothing of the mouth-watering smells coming from the feast laid out before her.

All of this? For us? Aymeric, what in the hells?

Her stomach growls. He had to have heard it. Both him and Marcel.

Aymeric smiles, nodding for her to sit even as he strides around to the other side. She smiles tentatively in return and draws out her chair. For some reason, sitting at this table feels… important? Momentous? Decisive? As if the full House of Lords and House of Commons should be here in attendance and they are calling upon her to make yet another decision about the fate of their nation.

A dinner invitation should be a simple night at a tavern with good ale and good meat, not something amounting to a full fucking wedding feast. But then this is Aymeric. She should have realized what she was getting herself into the moment he sent that letter. It’s why she panicked dressing for this event. Because he always has to make it an event.

Aymeric is a man of extremes. Although he may come across as quiet and steadfast, there is a recklessness in his dependability. Fervour in his resolve. He has never been one do things halfway, he commits hard and fast with every fibre of his being or not at all. This dinner has been denied to them too many times, of course he is giving it his all. Whether he is in love with her or not is a moot point. This is a declaration of sorts, one made grander by how long it has been put aside.

He is Ishgardian through and through.

Genteel. Proper. Lavish. He is giving her so much, showering her with so much, his affection is as suffocating as it is heart-warming. A part of her is desperate to retreat into the shadows and flee. Maybe even crack a window open and dive over the balcony like Estinien.

If only they could have stayed in that sitting room. All she wants is to spend time with him, talk with him, without all of this…

“Wine, my lady?” Marcel’s voice sounds above her shoulder.

Aureia blinks. Somewhere between seeing the table and her thought crisis, she has removed her rapier and stashed it on a nearby chair, sat down and pulled hers in as far as it will go. “Uh yes, thank you,” she says, shifting in her seat. The chair creaks beneath her. An inelegant and unladylike sound. The butler must be appalled. She coughs. Desperate to put her restless hands to use, she fidgets with her coat’s collar as he fills her glass.

Marcel sets the decanter expertly on a tray and takes a step back. “Shall I take your coat, Mistress Malathar?” he asks.

She drops her hand, the question cutting through her distracted mind. “I’m fine as I am, thank you,” she replies curtly. “Though admittedly I am not well versed on current Ishgardian dinner protocol, the Lord Speaker may have changed something without me noticing. Should I be giving you my coat or have I committed an abominable faux-pas?”

Aymeric snorts with laughter. The sound is faint and not very like him. It makes her smile.

The butler is not impressed. “I was merely inquiring as you seemed uncomfortably warm at the dinner table and your coat, mademoiselle, could be at fault,” he says, migrating around the table to serve Aymeric. “Though I will take this opportunity to inform you that it is not customary for lords and ladies to dine in their overclothes.”

“Good thing I’m not a lady.”

“All is well and good, my lady, and I thank you for it. I fear you would be inappropriately dressed should you remove your coat.”

Aureia flushes, her skin prickling, too embarrassed to be angry. “I—”

“Thank you for your service tonight, Marcel,” Aymeric interrupts. There’s a cold look in his eye. He holds out his hand, gesturing for him to stop pouring. “Protocol or not, custom or not, she can keep her coat and wear what she pleases. I think it fits her well.”

The tone in his voice communicates far more than his words. This will be addressed—firmly and without question. The manor’s staff will all no doubt hear of it.

The butler’s mouth tightens. “Very good, my lord. Shall I send Timothien?”

“No,” Aymeric replies. “I believe the Warrior of Light and the Lord Commander are more than capable of handling this ourselves. We will not be needing anything else tonight. Please inform the staff that I wish to spend this evening with a cherished friend.” He glances across the table, his gaze finding hers. “Nothing would give me greater happiness.”

Marcel sets the wine and tray on the table, bows stiffly—once to Aymeric, once to Aureia—then turns on a heel and vanishes through a set of side doors. In the silence that follows, she can hear nothing but the crackle of the hearth and the steady, forced rhythm of Aymeric’s breath.

“I am as horrified as I am disappointed. He should never have—”

“I should have worn the dress,” she blurts.

He blinks. “The dress?”

She scrunches up her face. “Dress. Gown. Maybe that would have been appropriate attire. Maybe I should have done more with my face. Changed my mind. Last minute. It’s why I was late.”

“You weren’t late.”

“Wasn’t I? I missed our agreed upon time by almost a bell—”

“And dinner was not ready, so there was nothing to waste. If anything, I asked you to arrive earlier than necessary because I selfishly coveted time for us to converse alone. These moments with you are precious to me. But experience tells me there is never enough time, and sooner or later duty will call for one or both of us.”

Warmth floods her chest. Ignoring the blush on her cheeks, she sweeps a lock of hair behind her ear and reaches for her glass. “That doesn’t sound selfish to me. You are allowed to live, Aymeric. There has to be a day you can live for yourself. Not the House of Lords or the House of Commons. Or Ishgard.”

“Have you conversed with Lucia of late? I am certain she has said similar words once. Or twice.”

“She’s observant. You should listen to her.”

“I am listening to you.”

The lilt of his voice sends an excited shiver curling down her spine. Certain she will become tongue-tied if she answers him now, she grips her glass and takes a sip, the luxurious red wine sitting headily on her tongue. It is the most exquisite thing she has ever drunk. She may not be an expert in Eorzean vintages, but she’s spent enough time around Gibrillont to identify the signs of luxury wine. For all she knows, this wine could be a hundred years old and costs tens of thousands of gil.

And he thought to serve this tonight? To her?

You’re being an idiot. Don’t read so much into it. You’ve dined with Count Edmont, you know this is how the aristocracy does this sort of thing. This is nothing special.

She glances over the table, taking in the sumptuous food. Soups and meats and roasted vegetables. Pastries piled on a platter. There is risotto in front of her, mixed with something she thinks may be black truffles. Truffles. Aymeric is either trying desperately to impress her—unlikely, he’s not the sycophantic sort—or he really is…

What did I tell you about reading too much into it?

“Forgive me if this is strange to say,” Aymeric continues, reaching for the decanter and finishes filling his glass. “But I would rather you come as you are, not what you think you should be.”

She pauses. “What do you mean?”

“The dress you spoke of. Frankly, I do not care what you see fit to dress yourself in, nor how closely you choose to follow Ishgardian customs. It would make my heart heavy indeed to see you forgo the very essence of yourself and trade it for traditions that are not your own. I would not argue we besmirch custom and culture wholly and throw them to the wolves, but rather I do not believe their sanctity should go unquestioned. One must take part in tradition out of choice, not obligation. Traditions are precious and deserve to be celebrated, but to embrace them blindly does not equate respect in my eyes. There will always be those for whom tradition fails, and those who tradition forgot.”

He exhales a long breath and lays a hand on the table near his glass. “Perhaps you count yourself among them, more at home amongst the good people of the Brume then the lords and ladies of the nobility. I can lay no blame at your feet for preferring Foundation to the Pillars when some here see your very existence as an affront to the fantasy they deem a civilized society. Regardless, you have notoriety and grand stories of your accomplishments precede you. To some, you are as much a fixture of this era of restoration as the House of Lords and the House of Commons, or the efforts of the good overseers and caretakers of the Firmament. But as wont as the people are to place the Warrior of the Light upon a pedestal, so too are they to forget there is a very real woman at the heart of those tales. I shall not. You cannot be anything other than yourself, and I will not ask it of you.”

She raises her head and meets his eyes, her heart throbbing in her chest. Gods, why must he be like this? What has she done to deserve a friendship like his?

“Perhaps it is something we share, then,” she suggests, a quiet smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

He blinks, startled, and chortles to cover his surprise. “We do?” he asks.

“Aymeric, consider what you have accomplished. My hand may have brought an end to Nidhogg’s wrath, but it is you who had the conviction to pull Ishgard out of this war. Break down the walls this country encased itself in for centuries. Bring an end to the cycle—”

“It was not I who should be accredited with such deeds, but rather men and women far greater than myself. Lord Haurchefant and Estinien and Ysayle, to say nothing of yourself. I can still see you there on the Steps of Faith, striding fearlessly towards the wyrm. It is not a moment I will soon forget.”

“You place too much importance on it—”

“You think I say that as a commander commending his greatest general for feats in battle. It is not so rote as that. Ishgard held its breath that day and you—”

She exhales sharply. “Would you let me finish?”

He bows his head. “Of course,” he says, unable to hide his smile. “Consider me suitably chastised.”

Aureia pauses, twisting her hands together beneath the table. What can she say to get her point across? Whenever she pushes the importance of his political maneuvers, he seems keen on derailing the point to praise her actions in combat. Perhaps that is the soldier in him or the rhetoric of Halone, though in Ishgard, they are often one and the same. The fast and dazzling heroism of victory in battle will always trump the slow, tedious work of reform.

She turns her head, her gaze wandering the dining room as she gives herself time to think. Lights dance on the opposite wall, drawing her eye to the hearth and its crackling flames. A set of portraits hang above the mantlepiece, depicting a wise Elezen noble and his wife. Grey-haired, strong features, kind eyes… These must be his adoptive parents. The former viscount and viscountess. By all accounts they loved him dearly, placing no blame on him for his accident of birth.

He has spoken little of them. Considering her difficulties with her own family, she would never want to press the matter. But she can’t help to wonder how much of him came from them. He may have called Thordan “Father” in those final days, but his true father—the man who raised him—is remembered here, his memory hanging proudly upon the wall.

If there is anything she knows all too well, it is that family is a very different thing from blood.

“When the whole nation looks to you, what do they see?” Aureia says finally. “On one hand, the commander who did not come from noble stock. The bastard who stood in the face of bloody tradition and sought another path. The reckless fool who defies century of tradition. On the other, the viscount who has nothing but love for his country. A noble man and a man of righteous faith, for whom there is no sacrifice too great if it means bringing Ishgard to the dawn of a new day. Aymeric, you are as much an enigma to your nation as I am. If they forget the Warrior of Light is a living, breathing person with blood in her veins, then so it is true for the Lord Commander. You are an ideal to them, at once a traditionalist to be trusted and a maverick to be praised. A visionary.”

She takes a breath and forges ahead. “But the problem with ideals is that they are just that. Ideals. The work ahead of you will be longer and more gruelling than fighting any dragon. My duty is done the moment my enemy is felled, but yours is just beginning. There will come a time when your people will see you not as the ideal they believe, but the man you are. And, in my experience, there are not many who like to see their fantasies broken.”

His gaze passes over her, blue eyes piercing and stern. For a moment, she wonders whether she has upset him, but then his expression breaks into a blinding smile. “Eloquently put,” he says, running a thumb across the stem of his glass. “Are you certain you are not fit for public speaking?”

She rolls her eyes. “Fuck, no.”

He snorts with laughter, eyes twinkling with amusement.

“I think I only had one of those in me for tonight,” she continues. “Best let Alphinaud write my speeches from now on.”

“I suspect he would jump elatedly at the chance.”

“Though—and I mean this quite seriously, Aymeric—please don’t ask me to make a speech. I’ll stand impressively in the back with impressive armour and an impressive weapon to make the right impressive impression, but I can’t promise anything more than that.”

His expression falls.

She cocks her head, brows drawn together in confusion, tongue pressed against the back of her teeth. Did she come off too strongly? He’s accustomed to her sense of humour by now, surely, but from the look on his face he seems almost… upset. “I’m sorry,” she says. “If I’ve made a fool of myself and put my foot in my mouth—”

“You did not,” he interrupts. “If truth be told, you simply reminded me of Estinien. I’m certain he has told me as much the same, more than once.”

A strange discomfort twists in her gut, a raw sense of loss. Not for her own friendship with the wayward dragoon—she is certain she will see him again someday, and if anything she understands all too keenly his desire to vanish into thin air after the torment he has suffered—but rather for Aymeric’s. He lost something greater than she did the day Estinien left. A decade of unconditional love and comradeship abandoned, and here he is, but a few days later, spending an evening with her rather than searching for his dearest friend.

“I suspect he has rubbed off on me,” she says carefully.

He laughs. “And I fear the disasters we must need circumvent if he had remained. I trust you both dearly, but together? Ishgard would never be the same.”

She snorts, grinning at his gently teasing tone, the knot in her gut relaxing.

Aymeric clears his throat. “But enough talk,” he says keenly. “Our dinner awaits and Marcel would be well and truly disappointed should our food grow cold.”

“We wouldn’t want to disappoint Marcel.”

“No. We would not.”

He catches her eye. Something passes between them—a shared moment, a private joke, something just for the two of them. It makes her feel light, buoyant with joy. Heart thrumming with happiness, she reaches for her glass, gripping the stem in unpracticed hands. Too used to Gibrillont’s flasks and tankards. With the right pressure and speed, she could snap the delicate crystal in two.

Maybe that’s why there’s three glasses at each setting… Gods, you really won’t let that one go, will you? Just ask him.

“A toast, perhaps?” she says, raising her glass.

He smiles and raises his own. “A fine idea,” he replies. “To friendship?”

“To friendship.”

#ffxiv #ff14 #final fantasy 14 #ffxiv fic #ffxiv fanfiction #ffxiv wol #aymeric de borel #aureia malathar #oc tag #writing tag #long post #in case the read more breaks there's +7000 words in here ahhhhhhhh

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