#Gwencred

[starswornoaths]

The Deal We’re Making

Commission for @eremiss of Gwen and Thancred. I absolutely adore them, have I mentioned that? Thank you so much for your patronage, friend!

Spoilers for 4.4, however vague, below the cut!

Commission info!

For all the upheaval and mutiny that had shifted the tectonic plates of Ala Mhigan political landscape, Gyr Abania itself looked more or less the same as it always did from here. To observe the sandy, slaty plains brushed with autumnal foliage and freckled with pockets of civilization, Gwen could almost pretend naught had happened at all. 

Almost, she thought, and without conscious effort, spared a glance at her Scion accomplice.

Thancred’s eye could no longer catch hers, blind even behind the eyepatch as it was, but even still he must have felt her look at him. That he had to turn his head further to meet her stare was an adjustment he was still clearly not accustomed to, reluctantly craning his neck as he did. Still, his smile seemed easy enough, even as his eye glanced down to her journal, laid open in her lap. 

“Chronicling our adventures for future bards to turn to song, are we?” He asked with that familiar roguish grin. 

As if anyone but him read her journal. As if anyone but him were permitted. Gwen pursed her lips to hide her smile.

“Not unless you might be able to turn uneventful reconnaissance into a ballad to stand the test of time?”

“Challenge for the ages, truly. One that not even a bard of my caliber could manage— not even one with a muse so lovely as mine.” Thancred replied.

When his eye squinted shut oddly and sharply, Gwen couldn’t help but cock an eyebrow at him in confusion. After a moment of puzzling out what had happened, she chanced a guess: “...Was that...your attempt at a wink?”

“I am at a bit of a disadvantage, dove.” He blanched, offering her a plain look. “Cut me some slack.”

The bark of laughter that bubbled up from her throat felt sharp, and she barely managed to hide how the sound startled her with a cough. Just down the slope of the cliff, Duskfeather ruffled at the disturbed quiet, but resumed his vigil with minimal fussing. 

“You of all people, asking for some slack while on the job?” Gwen asked playfully, closing her journal.

She didn’t need to see both of his eyes to realize he winced at the comment, and she bit back a curse at her thoughtless words.

“Trying to get better at it, perhaps.” Thancred said in a voice just airy enough to tell her that she’d unintentionally needled at an old bruise. 

“I’m— I mean that it’s a good thing,” Gwen tried to hopelessly correct herself. “I should say— I’m glad that you’re—”

“I know, dove.” Thancred reassured her just as quickly, and despite them being afield, he reached over and gently squeezed her hand briefly. Nothing too untoward or unprofessional, but grounding. Solid, amidst ever shifting times. Enough, for the both of them. “It’s fine.”

The tentative but warm touch also reminded Gwen of why they were there in the first place. Check the patrol routes for the Resistance and Alliance forces, teach the locals how to protect themselves against the bigger threats they would commonly face, prepare them to stand on their own two feet— and all before the Eorzean and Doman Alliances came together to discuss a union of banners against the Garlean Empire.

But for such a monumental meeting to even happen, those in power, both within and without the Eorzean Alliance, had to take a hard look at their fault lines and begin to at least patch the cracks— and for that, the Scions were once more relied upon.

For all the apprehension that she had in dwelling on anything beyond the meeting itself, Gwen hoped their preparations would be enough.

Well, she hoped for that, and for a chance to breathe between now and that meeting. Ideally, to breathe alongside Thancred, but that was a fantasy, and she knew that. It had felt like they had just kept going, going, going, since the banquet— and while that distance had been crossed, Gwen wondered if she was the only one that questioned if they had really taken stock of how they had changed— together and alone. She wondered if he had allowed himself a moment to let it all catch up to him. 

“Dove?” Thancred inquired quietly. It was just loud enough to pull her from her reverie, enough for her to see he was watching her with concern writ plain on his face. “Are you alright?”

In his careful examination, he leaned close enough to her that her world only smelled of sandalwood, the wildflowers and fresh air fading in the background. All of her focused on all of him, and she swallowed heavily, even as she welcomed being swallowed whole by every ilm of his deceptively deep waters.

“I’m fine.” Gwen insisted, and straightened out the front of her coat as if it would right her thoughts along with it. “Just have a lot on my mind is all.”

Thancred nodded in understanding, his face relaxing into something more pensive.

“A lot’s been happening, dove— and I don’t just mean recently.”

Gwen nodded. Even as she noted the aching heaviness in her shoulders, she felt that pressure weighed as it should.

“I know what we’re doing out here helps— I know that.” She rolled her shoulders in an effort to readjust her burdens. “It feels like busy waiting all the same.”

“You’ve just described most of my job, dove.” Thancred snorted a laugh. “Surely there is more bothering you than mere impatience?”

Gwen took a moment to consider what her answer should be, tested the taste of some choice words she had wanted to have, but found none of them palatable in that moment. Swallowing them was nearly as arduous a task as spitting them out, difficult enough that she had to convince herself to press them down. 

“No, nothing.” She lied with no small amount of difficulty. 

Heaving a heavy sigh and raking a hand through her bangs, she tucked her journal away in her pack. Swinging the pack over her shoulders again, she took another sweep of the valleys below their cliffside vantage point.

“Come on, one more sweep of the perimeter should do.” She brushed dirt — imagined and not — from her pants as if the motion would sweep her thoughts away with it.

“Why not take a moment longer to observe the path from this vantage point?” Thancred countered, surprising her. “One can never be too careful when surveying a road, after all. In particular when one is meant to find fault in it.”

“We’ve seen plenty— we should check the blindspots near Castrum Oriens—” When she turned away from the cliff, intent on taking the path back down to Duskfeather, Thancred caught her hand in his.

“Gwen,” he called with soft insistence. “A moment.”

She twisted at the waist, intent on debating their need for haste as she moved back down the path, but when she met his gaze, every ilm of her grew still. He looked at her as if he were beckoning her back to him, struggling with every onze of himself all the while. He looked painfully cognisant of the time and distance between them in that moment, too aware of the grief that had muted him but for his anger.

With a hum of agreement, Gwen pivoted back on her heels, her whole body leaning toward True North, to home, to him.

“Thank you.” He sighed in relief.

Some of the tension in his shoulders bled off at her agreement, if only just. There was still a tightness to his gaze, not quite scrutiny, but something close. When the weight of it was finally more than she was comfortable with, she shied her gaze away. 

“You’re staring.” She mumbled for lack of knowing what else to say.

“Appreciating.” Thancred corrected with a roguish grin. “I’ve always been a purveyor of fine art, you know.”

“Thancred, please.” Heat bloomed across her face in spite of herself. Even as the stream of emotions that rushed in rapids in the space between them raged with uncertainty, Gwen reached across with the hand he wasn’t holding and laid it gently on his arm to bridge them together. Warmth suffused through her at the contact, even through her glove, and she soaked in what comfort she could at the familiarity of it, of him. “You know that isn’t what I meant.”

The facade fell away again with a wince, and his gaze was pulled to her hand on his forearm. “You’re right— and I think I can take a guess at what’s been bothering you so.”

Gwen hummed thoughtfully. “With everything that’s happened...with so much yet to happen, I feel as though I’m in freefall.” 

“That...sounds familiar.” Thancred admitted almost too quietly for her to hear, even as close as she was. 

“I know we’ve found each other again—” she squeezed his arm to emphasize how important it was that he was there— and perhaps in part, to keep him from being ripped away from her again. “I’m happy for that, you must know that—”

“I do.” He reassured her with a nod. “As am I.”

“But we can’t— we can’t pretend that either of us are the same after...after everything.” Her shoulders slumped of their own volition, and their weight dragged her head down a few ilms, just enough to tear her gaze away from his and stare down at the white band of leather wrapped around his neck. “It feels like we’ve scarcely had a chance to breathe, let alone…”

Let alone process everything that had come before this moment. All the loss, the oppressive weight looming heavy over them like a precariously hung guillotine. Had they given themselves— and each other— even a moment to breathe since they had supped on bitter betrayal in Ul’Dah? Did they even know who they were in the wake of all their grief, and if the people they had become were still able to go on as they had?

“Gwen?” Thancred pulled her back to the Fringes, back to the here and now. Anchored by his hand holding hers, she took a shuddering breath to calm herself.

“My thoughts got away from me.” She admitted with no small amount of reluctance. Gently, she took her hand from his grasp, let go of his arm, and pushed her bangs back. “It’s...a struggle to know what to say.”

Thancred nodded in understanding, though she noted that he was looking away from her now, eye fixed on the path leading back to where Duskfeather now preened his feathers as he awaited their return. Gwen couldn’t decide whether she preferred the intense scrutiny or him not looking at her at all. 

“I imagine I’ve not made that any easier.” He spoke up.

She felt akin to a ship with no anchor in this conversation, and before she even had time to consider the tumultuous waters they had not yet sailed through her palm sought to press itself over his heart like a ship in the night following the beacon of the lighthouse on shore. 

“War has not made that any easier.” She added.

“True enough, but I won’t pretend I’ve been...available. Not as much as I should be.” Thancred admitted with great difficulty. His face twisted into a grimace, though made a point to look at her again as his hand came to cover hers and press it tighter against him. “No need to make excuses for me, dove.”

She hadn’t been— or at least, she hadn’t meant to, though she could see his point. With him in particular, even the other Scions, since they had all reunited after the banquet, had been careful to give him a wide berth more often than not, emotionally and sometimes physically, depending on how foul a mood he’d given off. 

That distance had persisted leading up to them actually, unexpectedly being able to say farewell to Minfilia. After that, Thancred had needed space to process besides...so they had subconsciously made that the new normal. Just letting Thancred process his feelings in due time while still being close enough to know they were there for him. It had been all anyone could think to do.

Even Gwen had given him space in the early months following their reunion. She couldn’t help but remember how tense he had been wound up when she found him in the Carline Canopy, just before she was meant to make for the Carteneau Flats with Cid, Nero, and the others in search of information on how to unshackle Omega. Even as she had sat in the stifling quiet and struggled to find the words to reach him in the scant moments she had stolen for them. With her forehead pressed against his shoulder and his tension bleeding into her, she felt like there was an unfathomable distance between them in that moment. 

They had found one another some handful more times since, and the letters in the space between those collisions had helped smooth over many of the uncomfortable tension that had been there, though it was hard not to liken them to calluses forming on the heart. Were they healing, or just building familiarity with the same wounds over and over again until they couldn’t be hurt by it anymore? Could either of them even tell the difference at this point?

“Sorry,” Gwen said, and with conscious effort unwound her shoulders. Her fingers flexed against his chest. “I never meant to— I only meant it wasn’t only our own struggles making things harder.”

“A fair point.” Thancred conceded with a sigh. “Still, you’re right. We haven’t truly talked, and we need to. I might not like it, but I know that we do. We just haven’t...when has there really been time?” When she parted her lips to reply he added, “When have we had the amount of time we would need to sort through everything, Gwen?”

When indeed, she thought with a pensive hum. Between the both of them behind enemy lines on two different fronts and all of the fallout that has come since the liberation of Ala Mhigo, what time they had managed to steal away for themselves was scant at best, fleeting at worst. Not long enough to have an honest heart to heart conversation— let alone enough to recover from such a moment.

“We haven’t— I know we haven’t. Even now, we’re working on a schedule with little and less wiggle room. And I’m not saying that I’m upset that we haven’t, just that we should, and it just feels...I don’t know.” She blew her bangs out of her eyes, and when the stubborn lock sprang back in front of her she tucked it hastily behind her ear with her free hand. “I hate the place we’re stuck in right now.”

Thancred gave a grunt and nodded in agreement. Acknowledgement of their predicament made it too real for her in that moment, and she cut anchor and slipped her hand away from under his, away from him entirely and set herself adrift. It was difficult to define that place, where they weren’t okay enough to go on as before, thought it was not quite limbo because it was never a matter of if they could coexist as partners, but how they could do so comfortably and without this heavy, unspoken of weight in the air when they lingered in those quiet moments for too long.

Even now, as Thancred wondered at what he could say and took the time to choose his words, Gwen felt stifled by the oppressive pressure closing in around her, as if finally giving voice and acknowledging that it was there only made its presence worse. There was a lump in her throat now that made it difficult to swallow, and she couldn’t help but fidget with her hands, fingers idly plucking at the seams of her well worn leather gloves.

Say something, she wanted to plead impatiently, though bit the inside of her cheek to silence herself. It wouldn’t do to try and apply even more pressure when treading on such thin ice as this. Not to say she worried about him exploding in anger— far from it. No, what she worried about most in giving vent to her concerns was seeing him shut down again in the wake of them if she pushed before he was well and truly ready to talk. 

“Much as I agree that we need to work through it all, it’s as you said: we’re on too tight a schedule to make that time now.” Thancred began with care. If she focused, she could hear him mentall weighing each word before uttering it. “Though I’m not too proud to admit that I still don’t know what to say.”

“Neither do I.” Gwen admitted, surprising him. “It feels like I haven’t even had the time to think about everything, let alone…”

Thancred hummed a laugh and reached across that distance that she felt a little less keenly in that moment to take both of her hands in his. She could only imagine that he was comfortable with it because of their privacy— normally, they refrained from physical affection when on duty or in public for want of professionalism. Maybe it was because they were alone for malms in the Fringes, or maybe it was because he’d felt they had more than earned this much unprofessionalism. If the latter, she was inclined to agree after all the hell they were put through.

“I’m not faring much better, for what it’s worth.” 

“Still...we should be. Thinking about it, I mean.” After a moment of debate with herself— because while they were alone, they were also technically afield— she stepped close enough to press her forehead against his shoulder. “Would that we had the time…”

“Would that we had the time.” He parroted with a sigh. He leaned his head against hers, his temple gently bumping against her own. They reveled in their closeness, and like every other moment they had stolen away for themselves, they made that enough. “We don’t at the moment, but I agree that we should make the time. This meeting marks a milestone in the conflict— an important one. Important enough that everyone will need to regroup for the next step. And at the risk of cursing it: at its conclusion, the Scions will have a moment or two to breathe, I imagine.” He stepped away enough to look her in the eye while still grasping her hands with gentle insistence. “Let us make that time ours— gods know we’ve earned it.”

Gwen gave a hum of agreement with a nod.

She felt every taut muscle in her body slacken— it was no resolution, not by a long shot, but at least there was clear intent to find that resolution. That it would happen at all was a balm on her nerves. Of their own volition, her lips pulled into a soft, relieved smile. Thancred grinned at the sight of it.

“You’re already feeling better, then.” He said, though how he’d said it made it more of an observation than a question.

Despite herself, Gwen flushed. “Maybe a little. I’m glad that we’re on the same page.”

“Well, of course we are.” Thancred said with a sagely nod. Still holding her hands, he turned them over. “Have I not told you?”

“Told me?” She asked, even as she could guess at where this was leading.

With a tenderness normally saved for those stolen moments where it was only them— and really, couldn’t she technically count this one, too? — Thancred plucked at her gloves until he slid them off of her hands in one fluid motion. He tucked them temporarily in his belt and smoothed his thumbs over her open palms. 

“Have I not made myself clear? I’ve made it a point to turn every page in your mind over and over until I memorized every part of you that I could.” He peered up at her through his lashes in that way that made the heat rise to her cheeks. “These hands are the well worn cover of my favorite book.”

He brought her hands up to his lips to press a single kiss to each palm and left little pinpricks of levin to arc through her veins until she felt her heart stutter from the shock.

“It’s been a while since we’ve had that sort of heart to heart.” Gwen croaked out reluctantly, damning herself for how easily they slipped back into such endearing familiarity in spite of everything. “I doubt I’m still the same person you remember— or that you remember me correctly.”

“Even if that’s the case,” Thancred reassured her, stepping close enough that they were nearly chest to chest. “I’m more than willing to learn anew— and this time, I’ll choose to cherish every page of your story.”

“And if the story isn’t to your liking?” She asked in spite of herself.

“Gwen.” He sighed and gently pressed their foreheads together. She felt him let go of her hands and hadn’t realized that her eyes had fluttered almost entirely shut until she felt the smoothed calluses of the pads of his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. Flustered more than she liked to admit, she kept her hooded gaze on the front of his coat. “I know much has happened, but do you trust me when I tell you that for all the change that has happened, you and I are still worth fighting for? That I want to fight for you and I, and I believe that we’re worth fighting for?”

“Yes.” She didn’t even have to use the time it took to draw the breath her answer carried to contemplate it. Even with all the uncertainty, the time and distance and horrors that had changed them both, that one truth was unshakable. She stepped back enough to meet his eye again, brushing his bangs away from his eyes. “Do you trust that I feel that, too?”

“Absolutely.” He nodded firmly, and leaned into her hand when she cupped his face. “Without question.”

The feeling in her chest was indescribable— not quite relief, per say, more because nothing was resolved, but something close to reassurance, because for all the change that had happened, they were still here. 

“That’s...that’s good.” Gwen sighed, and she felt light despite her burdens. “We’d best be getting back. I’m sure the Alliance leaders are starting to arrive.”

Thancred nodded and let his hands fall back to his sides. A seemingly needless gesture; as they walked back to Duskfeather, his fingers lightly brushed hers with every alternate step he took. When she giggled and teasingly bumped his shoulder with hers, it felt almost like before when he let out a startled chuckle and nudged her back.

Riding back to the Ala Mhigan Quarter, feeling Thancred’s hands on her hips as she guided Duskfeather felt more solid than the ground they had left behind. When he leaned closer to point out that Alisaie was awaiting them not far from the predetermined meeting place, she felt a warmth blossom from the contact and closeness that she hadn’t been able to delight in for so long with him behind enemy lines and her running herself ragged between battlefields.

It was silly, coming the closest to giddy she’d felt in some time when Thancred hopped off Duskfeather’s back first and practically lifted her off as she dismounted. And yet, Gwen took a moment to feign righting herself from the landing to squeeze his shoulders a moment longer. He seemed to notice the subtle want for lingering contact, as his lips quirked in that roguish grin she adored briefly as he held her by the waist under the same pretense.

“Ready to head in?” He asked, an almost playful lilt to his words.

“Certainly not alone.”

“I’m with you, Gwen.” Thancred reassured her, and braced a hand on her back once they’d disentangled and made for the entry to the Ala Mhigan palace.

As they were waved through by the guard and resumed their respectful, professional distance, Gwen took immense comfort in the fact that he was here, and just this once she wasn’t made to face such a daunting task alone.

#Eremiss #writing commissions #Guinevere Ashe #Thancred Waters #Gwencred #thank you so much for commissioning me!!! #you were a delight to work with!!!

[eremiss]

10. Heady

The words on the page are the same as they were the last time she read them, but once again they’re slipping through her fingers. Instead of processing the text in front of her, her mind jumps between a dozen scattered thoughts, flitting from one to the next as they each fail to hold her attention.

She scolds herself under her breath and adjusts in her seat, trying to reign herself in. 

Her side throbs, duller than before but still plenty sharp and almost uncomfortable enough to make her wince. She gingerly rubs it, feeling the texture of the tender scar beneath her clothes.

A storm must be coming… The scar from Nidhogg always aches before a storm.

Gwen sighs and sinks back in her seat, reaching for the tumbler of amber liquid waiting beside the documents she’s trying and failing to read. The liquor bites her tongue, burning despite the chill of the ice shard, and flavors reminiscent of smoke, brown sugar and something vaguely like a fall evening linger after she swallows. The liquor burns all the way down her throat, melting into heady warmth and then disappearing entirely somewhere around the middle of her chest.

She doesn’t often care for liquor, but the taste of brandy and whiskey do appeal on occasion, plus alcohol is good for taking the edge off of minor aches like her scar. 

It’s also good for making the words she’s struggling to read even more difficult, and her thoughts a bit more slippery and loose, and her eyelids a bit heavy.

Her chronometer chimes softly behind her, reminding her of the late hour.

I’m almost done, Gwen tells herself, doggedly staring at the pages again. Just a few more pages and then she’ll be done, and then she can go to sleep. 

Even though reading the pages doesn’t do her much good if she can’t retain any of the words, especially when her thoughts are starting to lag and turn a bit hazy around the edges. 

Gwen finally reaches the bottom of the page… 

...and not only does she not remember a word she read, there’s five more to go.

She groans aloud and pushes back from her desk. Clearly this isn’t working. She’ll just have to sleep and try again in the morning. 

Her body is heavy and loose as she gets to her feet, and her balance wavers as if she’s walking on ice. She checks her glass again and realizes she’d finished it off. Ah. That explains it. 

Rather than her bed or closet, however, her feet carry her to her door, then down the hall, and down the stairs to the lower level of rooms. She doesn’t realize what she’s doing until she comes to a familiar door. It’s locked, but somewhere along the way she’d remembered to grab the key, and she manages to fumble the door open. 

Thancred isn’t here. He’s out on assignment in parts unknown again, sneaking and skulking about and gathering valuable information.

Gwen sighs, not even bothering to turn on a light as she shuts the door and locks it again. There’s enough moonlight leaking through the high, narrow windows --as he’s ever conscientious of security-- for her to make out the general shapes of the furniture, and she’s familiar enough with the room for that to be all the guidance she needs. It helps that he keeps his room neat, too, as she pads through the dark for his dresser and steals a shirt for the night.

Nutkin chitters at her from above, irate at being disturbed. She didn’t bring any treats to bribe the little creature with to try and earn its favor, and instead blindly feels about for the tin of treats Thancred keeps stashed in the back of his dresser, stored safely away from nutkin’s clever little paws.

Something doesn’t feel right as she puts the lid back on the tin and puts it back in its hiding spot, though she isn’t sure what. Maybe it’s a little loose? Nah. It’s fine.

She offers up the treats and nutkin snatches them away, stuffing its cheeks for later. 

Gwen staggers gracelessly over to the bed as she fumbles her way out of her clothing, the scar on her side aching distantly with every step, dulled by the whiskey but still present. 

Perhaps tomorrow she could fly for a few bells, then get to work. It’ll be easier to focus if she tires herself out first. That’s something to think about later, as the moment her head hits Thancred’s pillow and she breathes the scent of his hair, she’s out like a light.

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Heady - adjective Intoxicating or stupefying. Tending to upset the mind or the balance of senses.

I WROTE THIS IN 30 MINUTES BECAUSE I FORGOT I NEEDED TO HAAAAAAAAAAA

But I think it came out well :D

When your SO is gone, go sleep in their bed and cuddle their pillows. 10/10

#FFXIVWrite2021 #Guinevere Ashe #My writing #WoL x Thancred #Gwencred #Gwen mostly drinks wine #sometimes beer brandy or whiskey #wrote this in <1 hour!! :D

[eremiss]

(new) Perspective / (self) Reflection

Takes place during/after Lvl 77 MSQ More than a Hunch

Part 1 here

To call the day ‘long’ would be an understatement. It feels like a sennight, or even longer, has passed since Gwen woke bright and early that morning to make for Naabath Araeng. It boggles the mind to think so much could happen, could even fit, within one day.

But they did, somehow. Which is probably why Gwen is so thoroughly exhausted. 

It’s the nature of long days to be draining on both mind and body. The events that stretch the seconds into minutes into bells demand strength and endurance to overcome, and mental fortitude and determination to push forward. 

Yet a sense of something left unfinished is tugging at her, steady and insistent.

The day had started just after dawn in Twine and, given the darkness outside, it should finally be coming to an end.

And yet, somehow, it still isn’t done.

Finally coming to the right door, Gwen takes a moment to catch her breath before knocking. Everything about her is loose and heavy, her muscles full of hot sand and her thoughts lagging. She’s more out of breath than a slayer of primals and Light Wardens really ought to be after only climbing a few flights of stairs, particularly when she wasn’t even in a rush.

Instead of thinking about that, or the events that had left her so exhausted, she scolds herself for not coming by earlier. She’d meant to write just a bit while she waited for everyone to retire after their meeting with the Exarch, to just lay out groundwork that she would build off and expand on later, after she’d visited the others. But, as she should have expected, once she’d sat down with her journal and put pen to paper the proverbial floodgates had opened. 

The thought of all that writing draws the quiet pain in her hand and wrist to the front of her mind. The ache lingers even when her hand is idle and loose, spiking sharply whenever she has the audacity to try and use it. 

She massages her palm and forearm, trying to relieve whichever muscles are responsible for the cramp. Her hand had started cramping up less than a bell in, but she’d pushed through it for another two anyway. Unwise, maybe, but she’d desperately needed to vent.

Musing over this being the first time she’s had writers’ cramp in ages is enough to keep her distracted from the persistent trembling of her fingers. Before tonight she’d been neglecting her journal, and herself by extension, practically since before she arrived on the First, which is plenty of time for all the stamina and strength she’d built up to start dwindling. Clutching the pen so tightly and bearing down on the pages like she had been had meant even more strain, too.

She wonders how long this ache will stick around.

Ardbert had poked his head in earlier to check on her, and just the sight of her hunched over her desk had seemed to tell him everything he’d needed to know. Their myriad conversations since her arrival on Norvrandt had wound up skirting the edges of uncomfortable, untouched topics a time or two, despite her efforts to steer clear of them, and the topics she avoided had told him just as much as the ones she’d prattled on about. He was a Warrior of Light, too, and he understood what that entailed, what that meant, in a way no one else did-- or even could, though not for lack of trying.

He hadn’t begrudged her preference for lighter topics over heavy questions, or for using their conversations as a brief distraction from troubling things like Ascian plots and the Light, but he had never let her avoidance of a subject pass without comment. “That’s not going to just go away, you know.”

And he was right, of course. Thankfully, he’d only made a few little remarks about it before leaving her to her writing.

It’s uncomfortable to acknowledge how much she’d been avoiding, and how much of a toll it had all taken on her. She’s felt like a piece of cloth that’s been worn too thin and stretched close to tearing for more of her time on Norvrandt than she wants to admit, the stress of her mental gymnastics and the intangible weight she’s been carrying whittling away at her even in her sleep.

Laying out everything at once had forced her to recognize just how much she’d been trying to hide from and avoid through willful ignorance and stubbornness, and just how futile it was to will herself to be fine when she very well knew she wasn’t. It forced her to recognize that she’d developed an unfortunate habit of burrying problems she didn’t want to have and the questions she didn’t want to answer.

But rather than quietly disappearing like she’d hoped, they’d gone to seed and festered at the back of her mind, growing in the spaces between her thoughts every time she pretended they weren’t there. 

Then she’d sat down and forced herself to confront it all at once.

Three bells later she had an almost-full journal, a cramping hand, and the clearest head she’s had in… much too long. There are still some knots and clutter to work on, but the worst of it has been dealt with, or at least broken down into more manageable pieces. She can finally breathe.

Her hand isn’t the only thing that’s aching, either. Her mind is raw and tender like she’d just spent those bells scrubbing and scalding away moons of caked dirt and grit, clean and unburdened but sore. Her head isn’t full of static and dissonant ringing anymore, and her thoughts aren’t cramped and bent out of shape by all the useless clamor that had filled every last ilm of space between her ears.

As much of a relief as it all is, she can’t help but feel guilty for having been in such a state in the first place, especially when she’d known all along how foolish she was being. But it had been far too tempting to cover her ears, soldier on, and hope things might resolve themselves without her.

Gwen heaves a sigh, flexing her fingers and staring at the door in front of her, drawing her thoughts away from her journal and her hand.

For all she’s been through since setting foot on Norvrandt, and even since her friends were Called to the First, Thancred has endured a great deal more. The years on the First have taken the greatest toll on him out of anyone and, despite everything working out in the end, today was likely the heaviest of them all. He had looked almost ready to collapse when they’d parted ways in the Exedra, tiredness making him lean heavily against her when she’d eased his not-unfounded suspicion about Y’shtola’s request to speak privately with her and Ryne.

Judging by the look on his face and the way he’s seemed so much lighter since Ladle, he’s finally found the closure and peace of mind he’s been bereft of since Matoya’s cave and the aftermath of the Bowl of Embers. Despite his blatant weariness he’d managed to stand a little taller and breathe a little easier after Ladle, visible signs that his heart and mind were lighter, freed of some of the things he’d carried alone for much too long.

Though she’s glad for his newfound ease, she worries what scars or marks  may yet linger. Perhaps none, or ones that merely need time and distance to soften. She hopes so. Either way, there isn’t much help she can offer for them just yet, with everything still so fresh.

How he’s faring physically, however, is a different story. 

He’d looked positively hellish sitting on those steps, and things had only gotten worse from there. She’d caught more than enough grimaces, sharp inhales and small adjustments to his posture to know he was far from fully recovered, though he’d stubbornly acted otherwise. 

Knowing him, he likely hadn’t allowed Y’shtola and Urianger to heal him to their fullest extent, wanting them to save their energy for the Lightwarden, or simply not waste it on him, or… or some other excuse, the ridiculous man… 

Gwen smiles despite herself.

He has more than a bit of recovery ahead of him, whether he likes it or not, and perhaps a bit of care or a helping hand would help it feel a bit less tedious. Being cared for can mend wounds both within and without, and even do as much to help the healer as the one they’re tending to. To that end, mayhap she can convince him to let her fuss over him a bit.

If he’s awake, that is. It’s late, and it’s been a terribly long day.

Which... she hadn’t thoroughly considered until just now. 

She worries at her lip and finds it uncomfortably tender under her teeth. That figures, given how much she’s abused it today, especially while she’d been writing. The inside of her cheeks are sore, too, though she hasn’t yet broken the skin. If she’d let her hair down she likely would have pulled a bit of it out, or given herself a headache tugging on it. Or both. 

Well, she’s already here, and concern is plucking at her heartstrings, so she can at least knock.

She lifts a hand.

The door swings open. 

Gwen freezes, blinking dumbly. Her hand hovers for a moment before dropping listlessly back to her side.

Thancred’s preemptive unwelcoming glower cracks immediately, softening into a look of mild surprise.

She ought to say something. Instead she notices the bruise on his cheek is still there, lighter than it ought to be considering how fresh it is. A hair-thin seam is the only remaining evidence that his lips had been split, and it doesn’t look nearly so bad now that he’s had the chance to wash away all the blood and dirt.

Her gaze trails down from his face to his bare chest, taking in the scattered seams and mottled bruises splattered all across his torso and arms. He’s holding himself more stiffly than normal even as he oozes fatigue, lingering discomforts instilling a hint of prudent mindfulness in his posture. Every little sign of discomfort and mark make something in her stomach twinge and knot.

When her gaze drifts back to his face she notices the weight of the shadows hanging under his half-hooded eyes, and the way his features are drooping with tiredness. He looks like he wants to collapse on a bed and sleep for a week. She’d like to do that too, honestly.

“I thought I sensed someone at the door,” Thancred says eventually, leaning against the doorframe. 

Ah, of course. Gwen had gotten a bit lost in her thoughts, and hovering at the door for a minute or two is plenty of time for him to notice her presence. 

“Did I wake you?” she asks, even as she wonders if he could have sensed her loitering if he’d been asleep.

He shakes his head. “No.”

That’s a small relief; she didn't want to disturb him. And a small disappointment, as it’s late and he needs to rest. “I’m surprised you’re still up.”

“I was about to say the same thing,” he says conversationally, folding his arms --slightly to one side to avoid a bruise on his chest-- and giving her a knowing look. “According to a certain acerbic thaumaturge you retired bells ago.”

Gwen simply hadn’t had the will to bicker or protest when Y’shtola had ordered her to bed. She’d wanted to save what little energy she’d had left for writing about all things things that she’d been wrestling with since the trek to Malikah’s Well. 

Her uncharacteristic willingness had earned a relieved but worried look from Ryne, and a much more surprised and contemplative one from Y’shtola. She knew she should’ve at least tried to phrase her acquiescence as a joke, but she’d been too preoccupied to manage it. Thankfully they’d both simply accepted it and sent her on her way.

“Ah. Well,” she hedges, leaning back on her heels and glancing aside, “I... meant to.”

Thancred scoffs. “Got distracted along the way, did you?”

In a sense. She’d been so focused on writing and working out every last bump, kink and loose threads that she’d sort of... forgotten about everything else. Even her own fatigue.

Gwen replies by way of a tired half-smile and a small shrug. Something like that, yeah.

He gives her an openly appraising look, eyes roving over her as hers had him. Then his lips twitch with a smirk, “You look as tired as I feel.”

A wave of nostalgia washes over her, filling her head with thoughts of standing in a dark hallway at gods-only-knew-when at night and waking up together in Duskfeather’s stall. 

Her heart skips and her head goes a little light, her balance suddenly threatening to turn precarious. She lets out a breathless, slightly dazed laugh, struggling to regather her suddenly scattered thoughts.

What had been his reply when she’d said that exact same thing to him? It’s been years. She remembers, she just has to dig through all the tiredness and rosy fluff to find it.

Gods… that night somehow feels like it happened ages ago and just the other week at the same time. The two of them are so different now, so much has happened. Yet they’re still them.

“I, ah,” she can’t help a little giggle, her shoulders sagging with relief she hadn’t entirely expected. “I’m told pots and kettles have a lot in common.”

He gives her a tired, easy smile, and looks the slightest bit relieved himself. Then he steps back from the door and invites her in with a nod, and she follows him.

Gwen glances around the apartment as Thancred closes the door and turns on a few dim lights. It’s just about as spartan and practical as his room at the Rising Stones, with nothing on the walls but coat hooks, a weapon rack, and blackout drapes for the large windows. The layout is generally similar to hers with the exception of two additional doors, one tucked in a nook just off the kitchen and the other taking the place of the armoire she has in her room. They must be bedrooms, as the alcove where her bed would be instead houses a couch, two chairs and a tall, mostly-filled bookshelf. 

His coat is draped over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, his armor and gunblade strewn haphazardly on and around the table without any of the care and consideration he typically shows his gear. The display just serves as further proof of his exhaustion, as he’s normally far more mindful and organized, not to mention the fact that Ryne has proved to be a stickler for cleanliness--

“Ryne’s asleep?” Gwen asks, glancing between the doors her apartment doesn’t have and wondering which room is whose.

Thancred’s gaze automatically flicks to the door by the sitting area. “She’s not here.”

She tilts her head inquiringly.

“‘Twas Urianger’s idea. She’s with him,” he says with a shrug that implies he didn’t have much say in the matter. “He thought it a good idea that the both of us have some time to ourselves, room to breathe, and… I forget what else. He rambled on for a while, as is his wont.” He rolls his eyes, and she laughs under her breath. Much as Thancred acts otherwise, she knows he pays attention to their long-winded friend. 

Thancred’s tone has been different with Ryne ever since Ladle, though Gwen can’t quite describe how. He’s smiled at her more than he used to, too, or at least more openly. 

“So,” he moves to the kitchen table and leans his hip against it, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I wanted to make sure you were alright after,” there are too many things to list, and she falters for a moment, “everything.”

He heaves a weighty sigh of agreement, recalling the day and looking more tired for it. “It’s certainly been a hell of a day, hasn’t it?” 

To put it mildly, she thinks, lips pulling slightly to one side as she joins him at the table. “How are you feeling?”

“Well enough, all things considered,” he says without much thought, making small adjustments to his posture to appear suitably relaxed while still being mindful of his injuries.

The corners of her mouth tug down a little as she looks him over again. For what it’s worth, being up and about doesn’t seem to be taking too great a toll on him... She shifts her attention to his face, studying his expression and searching for some hint of exaggeration or falsehood, some sign of greater discomfort that he’s trying to hide with nonchalance. She would be relieved if he truly was fairing well after everything, but she can’t quite be sure how honest he’s being-- about either his physical or mental hurts.

He endures her scrutiny for an admirably long time before finally huffing and rolling his eyes. “I’m not up for dancing a jig or walking around on my hands, if that’s what you’re wondering. And,” he gestures at the bruise on his cheek, “I’ll have the souvenirs for a few days yet, but otherwise,” he shrugs again, unconcerned

Gwen hums, more acknowledgement than agreement, her eyes lingering on his bruised cheek again. The sight of him on those steps flashes before her eyes and her stomach clenches. 

“What about you?”

She pushes the image away, blinking owlishly, “Me?”

“I’m not the only one who faced an ordeal or two today,” he says, his tone just barely lacking a leading edge. He looks her up and down again, exaggerating it a bit to get his point across.

“Ah. I’m… I’m well enough, all things considered,” she parrots with a weary shrug. She purposely avoids thoughts of the Light and the painful crackling that had erupted in her chest after absorbing Storge’s light, in the Exedra, and even her own room.

He shakes his head exasperatedly, muttering under his breath, “What am I going to do with you…”

The bruise on his cheek pulls at her attention again, like a magnet, threatening to pull her thoughts back to that afternoon again.

She looks away instead, down at the pouches on her belt, and suddenly remembers that she’d brought something with her.

“Oh, here.” Her shaky fingers momentarily fumble with the buckles. “I brought you this.”

The jar of salve is half-empty, but there’s nothing she can do about that without returning to the Source. The alchemist or Spagyrics might carry something similar, but the former has been closed for bells by the time they returned to the Crystarium, and the latter hasn’t yet recovred and restocked from the Eulmoran attack on Lakeland.

“You come bearing gifts,” he drawls, glancing at the proffered jar. He pauses, recognizing it. “That’s…” 

A strange look filters across his face as he stares at the little jar, as though he’s struggling to process the sight of it. “Your blend. From the Source.”

She nods, a bit tickeled that he recognizes it so readily even though he's had years to forget.

Several seconds pass, and he makes no move to take it. He looks... much too confused, almost like he doesn’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

She cocks her head, trying to make sense of his expression.

He finally speaks, his tone matching the skeptical arch of his brow, “Just so happened to have that on you when the Exarch brought you over, did you?”

She blinks slowly. “I didn’t go and get it just now, if that’s what you mean.” 

And he is far too relieved to hear that, letting out an audible sigh and visibly relaxing.

She’s not sure what’s more ridiculous: that he thought she could manage the trip in such a short amount of time, or that he’s so very relieved she didn’t try. “Did you really think--?”

“--that you would not hesitate to go back to the Source for any of our sakes, no matter how minor the errand?” he interjects wryly. “Yes.”

Well, he has her there. Her mouth works uselessly for a moment while she tries to compose a suitable reply, only to come up with nothing. After several seconds of struggling she closes her mouth and pouts, admiting defeat.

He grins smugly, absently shuffling a hand through his hair to get it falling properly around his face. “I know you’re no stranger to defying the odds, but even you must admit it’s quite the stroke of luck that you happened to have a cure for ails with you when the Exarch brought you to the First.”

Gwen looks down at the little jar, running her fingers over the smooth glass.

Yes, technically it was luck. But she’d rigged the odds somewhat by keeping the salve and a few other things on her at all times after Ghimlyt, when Alisaie had joined her brother and the other Scions in Dawn’s Respite.

The ointments and salves were useful to have on the battlefield, for one. For another, she’d desperately hoped it was only a matter of time before she could do something to save her friends, before she finally figured out what had happened to them and could bring them home, and whenever that time came she wanted to be ready.

Her smile quirks slightly, and then fades.

It was a well-intentioned plan, except for the fact that carrying those supplies would have been utterly pointless if her soul had been taken from her body, like theirs had been.

She’d been aware of that every time she’d tucked the jars into the pouches on her belt, but she’d done it anyway. It had almost felt like being prepared, like doing something, rather than simply sitting around uselessly.

“...I suppose,” Gwen says at length.

Thancred is studying her face, a small frown on his lips and crease beginning to form between his brows.

She looks away and moves to open the little jar, suddenly fidgety. “Here, let me--” 

Sharp pain jolts through her palm and wrist as she grasps the lid, reverberating all the way to her elbow. She jerks back with a grimace, sucking a breath through her teeth.

He tenses immediately and pushes himself off the table. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she assures exasperatedly, her cheeks abruptly hot. “Just a cramp.”

“Cramp?” he echoes, puzzled, as she gingerly flexes and curls her fingers.

“From writing. It’s nothing.” She stares uselessly at the closed jar, then offers it to him.

He ignores it, peering intently at her with a sort of shrewd, insightful focus that makes her feel like she said too much and gave away a secret.

Then Thancred takes the proffered jar and sets it aside with more care than he had shown any of his discarded gear, and more than the tough little container really needs. Gwen rubs her aching hand, trying again to work out whatever knot is pulling too tightly and wondering what to make of the way he’d been looking at her.

When he turns back his expression has shifted and relaxed somewhat, thoughtful but still subtly odd in a way that makes it difficult to decipher. It’s not fair that he can leave her so stumped after all these years, especially when he can read her so easily.

He takes her cramping hand in both of his with that same care, nudging her rubbing fingers aside and replacing them with his own. He presses harder than she did, rubbing slow patterns over her palm. It isn’t entirely pleasant, but it stops well short of being painful.

She knows she should protest, and almost does; he’s the injured one, on top of enduring a far more difficult day. Half the reason she’s even here is to help take care of whatever hurts are still bothering him. 

But, the simple, thoughtful gesture is comforting and familiar in a way she’s been sorely missing, so much so that she can’t quite manage to string together any sort of protest.

After everything he’s been through and all the concern and nagging he’s put up with, maybe he ought to be allowed to fuss a bit, too, if it suits him. Just for a little bit.

“Didn’t think that could happen to you, of all people,” Thancred says as if their conversation had never stalled. “You put novelists to shame with how much you write.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Gwen replies without conviction, watching his hands on hers. 

“Barely.” He shoots her a look that says they both know he’s right.

Does she want to admit to how little she’s been writing? He surely knows already, given his tendency for snooping, but it’s not as though he can admit that. Then again, he might’ve had too much on his plate to go digging around in her private thoughts like he used to what with everything that’s been going on. 

Whatever she says, and whatever he does or doesn’t already know about her neglected journal, he’ll have no trouble reading the tacit admission between the lines of a truthful answer. But she’s fully tired of pretending to be alright when she isn’t, and she’s seen time and again, particularly on the First, how harmful it can be. There’s no reason to hide how much she’s been struggling, except her own reluctance to admit it or burden others with her problems.

She can at least give him the means to talk about what he already knows without incriminating himself.

“I’ve fallen a bit out of practice, actually,” Gwen admits, glancing at the dusty toes of her boots. Her feet hurt.

Thancred makes a sound that matches the pensive look coming over his face. “A bit, eh?”

In truth, she’d begun shying away from her journal after the Ghimlyt Dark, when she’d felt as though she was talking herself in circles for pages on end only to come away feeling more knotted and twisted up than before.

Norvrandt had provided enough distraction and excuses for her to keep up with her ill-advised habit. She’d half-heartedly tried to write again after Il Mheg, but all she’d managed to do was wind herself tighter and tighter until she’d started to fray,

She hesitates, shifting her shoulders. “Perhaps...a bit more than a bit.”

One corner of his mouth tightens slightly, and he shifts his pensive look to her hand. “That would explain why it seems as though I’ve barely seen you writing. I’d almost thought I was imagining it.”

He threads his fingers through hers and wraps his other hand around her wrist to hold it steady, mumbling for her to relax before starting to press, pull and tilt her hand in different directions. 

It’s tempting to curl her fingers and grasp his hand, craving the affectionate connection more than a cure for her aching wrist.

She shifts her weight forward, then back. Her hand stays relaxed, fingers limp.   “I decided to make up for lost time when I got back to my room and, well...”

“Well,” he drawls, bowing their hands downwards. Her fingers make a startlingly audible series of pops. “I hope it was worth the cramps.”

She hums and nods. He’s pleased to hear it.

A comfortable silence settles over them as he repeats a few of the stretches he’s already done.

She starts mustering the will to protest, wading through the dozens of small distractions suddenly trying to get in her way. Her fitted clothes have gone from snug to confining, the sturdy cloth and leather clinging too close and fitting too tightly in the wrong ways. Her braid is too tight and she can feel the faint tension of it across her whole scalp. It’s a wonder she doesn’t have a headache-- or maybe she does, and it’s just slipped her notice because of all the other aches and pains that are badgering her.

“I should be doing this for you,” Gwen says finally. Her hand and wrist are relaxed and loose, and she’s not sure further ministrations will do any more good.

“I’m beginning to wonder if your visit might be less about checking up on me,” Thancred says knowingly, giving her a lopsided smile, “and more about getting a chance to fuss.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

He cants his head agreeably, his gaze holding hers for a moment before dropping back to their joined hands. His touch is lighter now, less attempting to massage away the cramp and more mapping out her palm. It stirs up memories of similar times on the Source, back before this whole mess started.

Gwen doesn’t think about reaching for him so much as she realizes her free hand is moving, drifting up towards his face, and doesn’t stop it. He notices, too.

She hesitates at the last moment, giving him the chance to protest or pull away. He does neither, simply waiting, expression neutral but as difficult to decipher as ever.

She rests her palm against his cheek, a trickle of relief loosening the knot of uncertainty things that had made her hesitate. Her thumb brushes against the healed cut on his lips, the texture of magically knit skin conjuring up the image of him from that afternoon: covered in dirt and dust and looking like hell, dried blood crusted on every cut and smeared on his armor. It still makes her stomach twist and her thoughts go staticky around the edges.

A mix of sympathy and protective irritation sparks in her chest, and a beat later she realizes her features are tightening into a wince. Regret for leaving him behind pulls her one way, begrudging acceptance of his desire to fight Ran’jit another, a thin reminder that what’s done is done and not to dwell on it threaded between the two. Everything worked out in the end. But... But if she’d stayed and he’d gone, or if they’d fought Ran’jit together...

Thancred’s expression doesn’t soften so much as gradually ease and relax, drooping with palpable weariness that’s altogether different than the physical tiredness that has been weighing on him since the Exedra. A shadowy weight behind his eyes softens and dissolves in a way that reminds her of a frozen lake thawing, not growing deeper so much as opening up; the depths were always there but obscured by warding ice, and now they’re coming into focus. 

Gwen shifts towards him without thinking, the simple openness to beckoning her closer. She slips her other hand from his to smooth her fingertips along the line of his jaw, lighter than she might have on the Source and mindful of his bruise. 

He relaxes as if he’d just stopped holding his breaths, his eyes closing for a moment before fluttering open again.

He looks like he’s going to speak. A beat later he thinks better of it.

She speaks instead, though the only thing that comes to mind is the reason she’d paid him a visit so late. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been worse,” he replies, evasive but honest.

She hums a chiding sound, fingers wandering lightly over his face.

“I’m fine,” he insists, leaning into her hands like he’s tired of holding his head up.

She rocks up onto her toes to nudge his nose with hers, “Let me take care of you?” 

He leans after her but stops himself at the last second, remembering he’s supposed to find her concern exasperating. He huffs into the space between them, mustering a resigned tone, “Fine, fine, if you’re going to be so insistent...”

As his earlier glance had suggested, Thancred’s room is the one off the kitchen. It’s large enough to comfortably fit his bed, a dresser and a desk, but not much more. Gwen wonders if the other room is the same size. If not, she’s certain this is the smaller of the two, and she smiles at the thought.

Thancred sits on the edge of his bed and lets her fuss over him, only half-heartedly keeping up his act of begrudging acceptance as she examines his injuries. 

“You’ve been itching to do this since Ladle, haven’t you?” he complains mildly, whorls of conjury magic unfurling across his skin like a gentle breeze. 

She hums a confirmation, both relieved and a tad disappointed to find there’s naught to do but let time handle what remains of his injuries. There’s nothing she needs to worry about, but there’s also not much help she can offer besides the salve. If she hadn’t gotten so wrapped up in writing earlier she might have been able to buy a potion or elixir. 

Gwen perches beside him and tugs off her gloves while he opens the jar and the familiar, earthy scent of the salve drifts into air, noticeable but mild enough to be inoffensive. After another quick assessment she starts with the darkest bruises, careful to be sparing with the salve and delicate with her touch.

The silence between them is more comfortable than it has been in weeks, no unspoken discomforts or irritations lurking restlessly beneath the quiet. Hints of something like hesitance or uncertainty flit by every now and again, but they disappear as quickly as they come. 

Thancred’s attention is a constant, gentle weight as she works, noticeable but not uncomfortable. He isn’t critiquing or scrutinizing, simply watching.

It almost feels like before-- before his soul was stolen away and so much came to separate them. That’s happening a lot tonight, now that she’s thinking about it.

Gwen gradually notices the vaguest hint of anticipation hanging over them, less expectant and more... simply waiting. As the silence stretches the feeling grows, and no amount of focusing on her task disperses it. 

Thancred’s expression remains relaxed and easy as the minutes pass, content to sit under her hands and watch her work.

So the feeling is coming from her, then. Strange. Why? She’d wanted to check on him and care for him --’fuss’ as he liked to call it-- and she’s doing just that. What else--

Oh.

Ladle. 

Recalling the way she’d grabbed his collar and swore at him, venting a part of the storm that she’d allow to brew in her head and heart for too long, makes her stomach twist and her heart sink a little lower in her chest. 

The idea drifts by that maybe she… doesn’t need to bring it up. Thancred hasn’t said a word about it, and doesn’t look like he intends to, plus he seemed to recover from the whole thing pretty quickly, so...

Her mouth wrinkles and she pushes the thought aside. She just got done dealing with the consequences of avoiding things, she’s not going to start again now.

“That bad is it?” he drawls.

She starts, jerking her head up. “Hm? Oh--no, no. I just, ah…” She drops her eyes back to her hands and the bruise she’s tending on his shoulder, shuffling around the words on her tongue until they fit together right.

“I wanted to apologize for… earlier.” Hardly direct, but not so vague that he won’t know what she’s talking about. 

A smirk plays across his mouth at the edge of her vision. “I assume you’re referring to your impassioned speech in Ladle?” 

A nervous titter slips past her lips and pink splashes across her face, his easy demeanor softening a measure of the tension trying to build in her chest. “Impassioned, was it?”

“Quite.” 

Gwen fights against another giggle, shaking her head to realign her thoughts. “Whatever you want to call it, I…” The words stumble to a stop on the tip of her tongue and she takes a bolstering breath before pushing them out, “I’m sorry for losing my head like that. For yelling at you, and for swearing, and being so, ah… Harsh.” 

His smirk grows wider and tilts wryly. “You call that yelling, do you?”

A rush of inane embarrassment makes her cheeks hot and hikes her shoulders up a few ilms. “Ah, well,” she concedes, “perhaps more in spirit.”

“I’m impressed, honestly,” he replies. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Neither did I, really... and it’s far from her finest moment. She fights a wince and only partially succeeds.

“I was… more overwhelmed than I realized, and it got the better of me,” she says slowly. “So much has been going on, and then today was…”

“Hellish,” he offers. The persistence of his irreverent amusement helps smooth out a few more wrinkles in her conscience, his utter lack of discomfort easing her overabundance it.

She laughs softly, bobbing her head. Yes, that about covers it. “I was so frustrated about everything with Ryne, with us--”

And maybe his expression changes a little at ‘us,’ but she doesn’t let it distract her. 

“--and I was so… gods I was so angry that you wanted to stay and fight alone, and furious at myself for abandoning you--”

The angle of his brow and the tilt of his mouth suggest a protest, but she keeps talking before he can voice it.

“--and from the moment I lost sight of you I was so--” the end of the sentence catches in her throat.

She takes a breath and tries again. “It was the Sultana’s Banquet all over again, and I was terrified that you might…”

The end of the thought gets stuck again, too large to fit past the sudden tightness in her throat.

The look on his face is soft yet heavy, pieces of a wince flitting by ever time she didn’t quite finish her thought.

Gwen offers a self-deprecating smile, trying to lighten the sudden weight in the air. “Though I know it, ah, didn’t exactly seem like it, seeing how the first thing I did when I saw you was--”

“Throw your arms around me and hug me rather desperately, if memory serves,” Thancred interjects.

No, she’d-- Wait…

Her train of thought hits a snag and falls apart, and she flounders to put it back together again. It’s not easy, weariness catching up with her now that she’s lost the momentum to keep ahead of it. It’s been such a hellish day, and he’s not at all bothered by her yelling at him even though he should be, and the more she relaxes the more she remembers how tired she is, and...

She laughs weakly, at a loss, and her shoulders slump in defeat. “That is the first thing I did, isn’t it…”

“If it’s any consolation,” he offers, “your concern was abundantly clear.”

She scoffs quietly. “I thought the only ‘abundantly clear’ thing was that I, ah… spent time around Limsa’s dockworkers.”

“That, too.” He smiles briefly. “Being upset I’d almost gotten myself killed, especially for the sake of proving a point, sounds like concern to me.”

‘Upset’ is far too mild a word for the overwhelming hurricane of emotion that had driven her to within a hair's breadth of collapsing in a heap in the middle of the desert.

“I insisted on waiting for a ‘right time’ that I knew would never come, and then put myself in a position to be out of time altogether. I would have rather risked my life than be open and honest with Ryne, or myself.” He looks like he might go on, but settles for, “It was reckless. And selfish.”

“Don’t forget foolish,” she mumbles without thinking, full consideration about whether or not she ought to keep the remark to herself coming far too late to matter. She blames it on fatigue and his ability to be so vexingly disarming.

He chuckles ruefully, “Can’t forget that.”

Only a hint of discomfort seeps between her thoughts as she recalls the one-sided exchange again, remorse no longer needling so sharply at her. “Still, I shouldn’t have… I should have waited until we were in private, or at least until I’d calmed down. I should have talked to you, not ye--” she narrows her eyes at him, “not snapped like that, especially not in front of the others.” 

Thancred sighs. Making light of a topic works only so well when one of the participants insists on addressing it seriously.

“You tried,” he reminds her. “More than once, if memory serves. But I wasn’t willing to hear you, or explain myself.” 

He leans back on his hands, frowning thoughtfully at the opposite wall. Eventually he speaks, his tone suggesting he’d already given the subject a great deal of thought himself. “I’m not going to claim I didn’t deserve… some of the criticisms I’ve received from you and the others. Especially in regards to being so closed with Ryne, and not doing more to allay her doubts.”

He clearly has more to say, so Gwen continues working in silence, letting him mull over his words in peace.

“Whatever decision Ryne made today, I wanted it to be wholly hers, free of outside influence, or any desires but her own--including mine. I had hoped inaction would prevent me from inadvertently affecting her decision, so I kept silent, even when I shouldn’t have.” 

He pauses for a beat, remorse tugging at his features and frustration putting a small wrinkle between his brows, “But inaction is an action in and of itself, of course. And silence speaks in its own way.”  

Gwen hums softly, smoothing her fingers over the back of his hand.

It’s reassuring to know she’d been right, in more ways than not, about what was going on inside his head-- even as a pang of sympathy makes her heart ache.

He wouldn’t have been able to live with himself if Ryne had given up her life for his sake, but he couldn’t bear the thought of her choosing a life she didn’t want just because of him, either. 

He’d always known all of this would end with him losing someone he loved, no matter what he did. He’d moved forward as best he could, but it couldn’t have been easy. What outcome could he have even hoped for, besides a miracle?

But she’d missed the mark on a few things, particularly in regards to today: how he would handle the aftermath of Nabaath Araeng, and what state he’d be in when all was said and done.

In that, she’s glad to be wrong.

Thancred heaves a sigh, shaking off the gloom trying to gather at the edges of his expression. “Suffice it to say, I have no shortage of amends to make and missteps to correct. And not only with Ryne.”

He glances at her, offering a small, rueful smile, “After all, ‘twould be fair to say I’ve been something of an arse of late.” 

Then his smile widens and tilts wryly, a jest, “Sorry, I mean a stubborn, thickheaded hobson.”

A laugh bursts past her lips, so abrupt it’s nearly a snort, and then more bubble up after it. She wonders if she ought to tell Giott she was rubbing off on her. The dwarf would surely be proud.

The slight tension that had started to build in his posture melts away, his smile growing easier. “Lest you worry, I don’t intend to warrant such scolding again.” He feigns a shudder, “I’d sooner face the whole of the Imperial army with my hands tied behind my back.”

That gets her giggling all over again, and him chuckling along with her. 

She takes a few steadying breaths to get herself under control before hefting herself to her feet and stepping in front of him. “And I have no intention of, heh, making a habit of such ‘scolding,’ either.”

They share a bit more quiet laughter that peters out into quieter sighs.

Just like that the last hints of discomfort in the air vanish. 

More invisible weights vanish from her shoulders, and her heart sags with relief. She’s suddenly light and loose in a way that makes her feel a bit precarious and wobbly, like the pressure that had been crushing her had also been holding her together, and without it she’s at risk of coming apart. Maybe that wouldn’t be a bad thing... though now might not be the best time.

Gwen checks how much salve is left, taking the moment to steady herself. The jar isn’t quite empty, but they’ll have to check with the alchemist if his injuries need more tending tomorrow. Thankfully, she’s already covered all but the bruise on his cheek and the one hiding up in his hairline.

Thancred straightens up, grimacing only slightly with the motion, and parts his legs so she can step between them. He watches her through half-closed eyes as her fingertips drift along his brow and then up, into his hair. She combs his bangs back, finding no hidden scabs or abrasions on his scalp and savoring the soothing sensation of his hair sliding between her fingers.

Physical connection offers a tangible sort of reassurance that is far more effective than simply reminding herself that he’s alive and well, and she can’t help stealing just a bit more of it when the chance presents itself. His eyelids sag further as her hand slows, drawing out the moment just a little longer.

The salve slowly trickling down her fingers tugs her out of her reverie and brings her focus back to her task. 

His eyes flutter fully open, slow to focus and dull with tiredness, as she gingerly tends to the last of his bruises with that same lingering touch. Once that excuse as been spent she makes another out of fixing his hair, nudging his bangs around until they’re falling correctly. 

His hands find her waist, light at first and shifting indecisively as if trying to remember exactly where they used to go, before settling comfortably.

He quirks a charming, if tired, smile. “Mayhap I can convince you to stay?”

A gentle, fluttery feeling squeezes her heart and turns the cottony tiredness in her head into rosy fluff. She hums softly, cupping his face in her hands and leaning her forehead against his. 

His expression lifts with relief, the corners of his eyes wrinkling faintly. He draws her closer and wraps his arms around her waist, stopped from bringing them fully together by her knees butting up against the edge of the bed.

She leans into him, reveling in the quiet moment. She presses her lips softly to the healed cut on his, sharing half a breath before he turns to meet her in a slow, tender kiss. Time stops and her mind goes blank, the whole of her attention narrowing to the weight of his arms around her waist and the languid slide of his lips against hers, one kiss melting unhurriedly into another, and another.

They part slowly, noses bumping affectionately before she settles her forehead against his, head pleasantly light and thoughts slow to put themselves back together. 

The peaceful night is sinking into her bones, weighing on her eyelids when she wrestles them open. Gwen sways into him and hums quiet, meaningless little sounds of endearment that somehow don’t disturb the silence. 

Thancred mumbles back, eyes falling shut as she slides lazy fingers through his hair. He looks more content and at ease now than he has since she arrived on Norvrandt. 

She curls her fingers, nails scratching lightly, and he lets out a low sound of relief. He angles his head slightly and she obliges the unspoken request, dragging her nails over a different spot. He groans softly, goosebumps briefly prickling under her fingers as his already lax posture loosens further, as if she’d hit a pressure point.

His exhaustion feeds her own as seconds turn to minutes of simple, quiet intimacy, and her grasp on consciousness starts to slip in earnest.

Her vision slides out of focus, slowly growing darker. It takes her too long to realize that her eyes are sliding shut.

When her arms become too heavy to hold up she drapes them around his shoulders. He doesn’t mind, resettling his own around her waist.

Her breaths grow slower and longer, her little hums growing softer and slower as her thoughts drift and blur.

Thancred says something that lifts at the end like a question. He sounds surprisingly lucid.

Part of a reply almost makes it to her tongue  as comfortable darkness closes slowly around her.

He tugs at her waist and her balance threatens to shift. She wobbles but stays standing, leaning more heavily against him to keep her balance.

There are smaller nudges and tugs at her waist, her back, her thigh, coaxing her to move and trying to guide her. She’s slow to follow them, lethargic, clumsy, and unable to remember why she needs to move when she’s so wonderfully comfortable where she is. 

A fond sigh. A touch at her cheek, nudging her head up. Then gentle hands grasp and pull, gathering her close and holding her steady while the world shifts around her. 

All of the moving stops when she comes to rest on pillowy softness that smells of sandalwood, gunpowder and metal. She almost falls asleep right then, but clings stubbornly to the last dregs of her consciousness because somewhere amidst the transition Thancred slipped from her grasp. She reaches blindly for him, mustering the strength for a questioning hum. 

His lazy chuckle is somehow distant and close at the same time, as warm and soft as a spring evening. He gives her searching hand a little squeeze before nudging it aside and unwinding her braid with gentle fingers. Then there’s a tug at her waist and on her legs, a few quiet clinking sounds, and then comfortable looseness. It takes entirely too long for the sounds to register the buckles on her belt and boots.

Thancred moves, the mattress dipping briefly before his warm weight settles at her back. He winds his arms around her and brings them snugly together, molding around her and weaving their legs together so there’s not an ilm of space between them. 

They fit together perfectly.

Gwen nestles against him, utterly content, and breathes out the last of her strength in a blissful little sigh.

His lips are soft against the nape of her neck, breath whispering through her hair as he shapes words against her skin. She’s too far gone to catch any of them.

———————————————————————————-

Hello yes I still write LONG THINGS.

This was definitely more of a challenge than the first part, as evidenced by how long it took me to write it, but I’m really happy with how it turned out :3

I’m not exaggerating when I say I had 4 different drafts (anywhere from 40-75% complete) of this story, the last of which ended up morphing into this one. They were all generally the same, but had very different events, vibes and approaches to the conversation (which was THE hardest part) that never seemed to quite fit what I wanted, which led to a lot of fiddling and then eventually deciding, “well, I don’t think I’ll use it... but there’s good stuff I should save” and then making a new draft lol.

And in the end: THIS!

All the thanks and hugs in the world to @rhymingteelookatme who’s been the best, most patient beta reader ever!!! Thank you so much <3 <3 <3

I’ll move this over to Ao3 soon, but for now I need to give my brain a break lol

#Thancred Waters #Thancred x WoL #WoL x Thancred #Guinevere Ashe #Gwencred #late 5.0 MSQ #Shadowbringers #ShB Spoilers #Navaath Araeng #Minfilia #realizing you've been doing some ~unhealthy coping~ #and by Coping I mean ~If I ignore it really hard it will fix itseeeelf~ #and apologizing for blowing your lid when you were So Absolutely DONE #apologies #forgiveness #understanding #cuddles #'can we go back to having a real relationship now?' #'please yes' #my writing #LONG #LONGK BOI

[eremiss]

12: Tooth and Nail

(light cw: descriptions of post-fight injuries and being poisoned/drugged. Takes place during Post-HVW MSQ “Consequences”)

Ten minutes, Thancred had said. Ten minutes for Gwen to try and wait out the lingering symptoms of the poison she’d been dosed with, make sure Falcon’s Nest wouldn’t fall apart in their absence, and try to find Honoroit --”If you truly must.”-- then they were heading back to Ishgard to deliver the news of the disastrous Conference. His tone had brooked no room for argument.

She took extra care to mind the time, as being late would likely have Thancred assuming the worst. They’d already had quite enough excitement for one day and she had no desire to add to it, plus his mood was already poor enough.

Ten fruitless minutes later Gwen trudges up the ramp to the landing platform, shoulders hunched and spirits low. The garrison’s morale is understandably poor and there’s naught to be done about it, though it seems her departure isn’t cause for it to deteriorate further. There was no sign of Honoroit anywhere, and the people she’d spoken with hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him.

Her stomach rolls and twists, a weak, nauseous ache permeating her limbs that shivers up her throat whenever she moves too quickly. She’d retched up the tainted wine the moment she was able, but it had plainly been in her system long enough for its effects to linger. 

If I knew what was in it, I could maybe try and counteract it somehow… But she doesn’t, and the woman who does is likely dead.

The landing platform is deserted and quiet, the chocobo stables practically empty compared to when she’d arrived. Apparently she’s the one that has to wait for Thancred for a change.

Whoever is supposed to be on watch has abandoned their duty for the moment, and no one around to see her wander past the gates. The wind is faster and sharper without buildings or mountains to block it, cutting through her outer layers and straight down to her bones. She shivers harshly and crosses her arms tightly across her chest as her bangs whip her face and her ears burn themselves numb, missing the sweltering heat of the barracks. At least the sharp chill doesn’t make her feel ill.

Gwen sweeps her eyes across the empty platform, wondering where Honoroit could have gone, and what he might’ve been thinking. There’s no way he just up and abandoned Emmanellain, surely? He’s stuck to his master’s side like glue through everything until now. He couldn’t possibly…

There’s a lump on the far side of the platform. A small figure with brown hair dressed in familiar blue and white garb. It looks sort of like--

Her heart leaps into her throat. “Honoroit?”

He twitches and raises his head, peering blankly at her as she rushes over to him. “M-Miss Ashe?” he croaks, confused. 

“Hush, hush, don’t talk,” she chides gently, panic and worry tightening like vices around in her chest as she kneels to inspect his wounds. 

Bruises are splattered across every ilm of bare skin, and his clothes are torn and dirtied with patterns that distinctly resemble boot prints. His face is mostly black and blue with a nasty cut over his brow and on his lips, one of his eyes swollen nearly shut. 

Honoroit tries to sit up, slow and careful as he shifts his weight and favors his right side. He only makes it halfway before he grimaces and sinks back to the ground with a pained sound. 

A fresh surge of concern mutes the dismayed, impotent static buzzing through her thoughts. Questions and anger can wait. She lays a light, comforting hand on his arm and hopes she isn’t touching a sore spot. “Be still, Honoroit...”

He needs to get somewhere warm, first of all, as his lips are distressingly blue. Ideally that will be somewhere with a healer, as her initial assessment of his injuries isn’t good. Even natives of Ishgard aren’t immune to the cold, and she has no idea how long he’s been out here lying on frozen stone. But how to move him without worsening his injuries....

“Honoroit!!” Emmanellain’s distraught voice cries from behind her.

She lifts her head as two sets of footsteps rapidly approach, the nobleman making panicked sounds every step of the way with Thancred, expression grim, just behind him. 

When Emmanellain is finally able to see the extent of Honoroit’s injuries his face twists with horror and he drops to his knees by Gwen’s side. “No, no! What have they done to you!?” 

He reaches towards Honoroit, and Gwen puts an arm in his way. He whirls on her, his stricken glare demanding an explanation.

She tries to appear calmer than she feels and makes a mollifying gesture, shaking her head. You shouldn’t move him.

A wash of different emotions twist Emmanellains face one way and then another, and he looks like he has half a mind to shout at her. Instead he makes an aggravated, high-pitched whining sound and slaps his hands down on the stone ground.

“Is that you, my lord?” Honoroit offers a feeble smile and struggles for a light tone, as if making a jest, “You... you seem rather flustered.”

“Because of you, you imbecile!” Emmanellain exclaims, “What in the seven hells happened to you!?” 

“My… my apologies… Some few of the guests expressed a wish to leave...and I implored them to stay.” He makes a weak imitation of a laugh, “It would seem they took issue with my request.”

Rings would explain the small cuts and abrasions in the bruises on his face... 

Gwen’s stomach lurches in a way that has nothing to do with the poison she’d been dosed with. All of her worried thoughts take on a frazzled, angry edge that wears at her already thinned nerves. A twinge in her clenched jaw and a telltale ache shooting from her teeth to her temples signal that she successfully kicked off a headache.

“Gods forgive me…” Emmanellain groans, burying his face in his hands. “If I had only been more careful with my words!”

“Do not blame yourself my lord,” the younger elezen insists. “I know… I know that you and your brother have Ishgard’s best interests at heart. That poor woman… She lives in the past, clinging to memories of the lost.”

He’s admirably composed considering everything that’s happened, even accounting for the fact he’s generally more mature and levelheaded than his master. Empathy for the dissidents and protesters has only made his conviction for Aymeric’s cause that much stronger.  

“But the future holds so much promise. So much joy. And you…” His voice wavers and Gwen tenses, her heart skipping a beat. “You... know that better than any…” His words fade to nothing and his eyes slip closed. Then his head lolls to his chest.

Gwen immediately checks his pulse. It’s steady, thank the Twelve, as is his labored breathing, but his complexion has gone frighteningly pale. 

“Honoroit?!” Emmanellain half rises, panicked. His mouth works uselessly for a moment before he turns his fearful eyes on Gwen, “Gwen, do something!” 

Her chest constricts sharply and she freezes

Ever since the Vault she can’t...

Couldn’t, a small voice corrects. Y’shtola has been tutoring her for more than a moon, and she’s made enough progress that she’s begun regaining the ability to use healing magic. It’s feeble and terribly taxing, a far cry from the white and red magic she used to wield, but she can manage it. As she is now, weakened by that poison and with a fresh host of doubts welling up and knotting in her chest...

But Honoroit needs help. And she can help, at least minorly.

She bites her lip, voices she’ll never hear again murmuring at her in time with her heartbeat. One rings out louder than the others, gentle despite the volume.

For those we have lost. For those we can yet save.

She can’t fully mend his wounds, but she can at least ease his pain. No matter what her clinging doubts try to mutter, she knows she can do something. Not much, maybe, but not nothing, and that’s enough. It has to be. However draining it is on her, she’ll manage. She’s had worse, after all, and she can rest and recover once they’re back in Ishgard. For now... She has to at least try. 

Gwen takes a steadying breath and makes a clear place in her mind before holding a hand over Honoroit’s chest. She closes her eyes and breathes, gathering her focus and recalling Y’shtola’s patient instructions, replaying the simple exercises they’d practiced for bells. When it all feels solid enough to work with, she begins to mumble an incantation.

As the spell takes shape a weak light flickers to life under her hand, drifting over Honoroit like mist. She senses bruises of all shapes and sizes, cuts, cracked bones... no internal bleeding or anything blatantly life-threatening, at least. It’s an issue of quantity, the sheer multitude of otherwise-lesser injuries amounting to something more severe. 

With the injuries assessed, she shifts her intention to healing. Immediately the spell begins to pull at her in earnest, drawing out her energy and replacing it with intangible weight that begins to pile on her shoulders.

Even a layman could tell that her conjury is that of a novice, at best. But, feeble as it is, it’s still enough to slowly mend cracked bones and knit broken skin, and the cuts on his lips and brow gradually close. Hopefully he’ll be able to rest a little easier.

She knows it won’t be long before fatigue settles in, but hopefully Thancred and Duskfeather will make sure she at least gets back to Ishgard before she falls asleep on her feet. Her head is still pounding a dull rhythm, and she’s sure it will likely start to worsen soon, too. It’s fine… So long as the spell is working, it’s fine.

“He’ll live, but it’s imperative we get him inside and into the care of a chirurgeon once he’s stable,” Thancred says calmly. With any luck his steady composure will help Emmanellain pull himself together. “Gwen can only do so much.”

“Only so much?!” Emmanellain demands shrilly.

Gwen winces, squeezing her eyes more tightly shut against the kick of doubt and frustration that tries to crack her barely-solidified concentration. She screws up her mouth and works to ignore that, too.

Thancred’s tone hardens, “It’s a sight more than either of us can offer, unless you have knowledge of conjury that you’ve been keeping secret.”

Emmanellain struggles for a response, half syllables coming out one after another before he settles for an angry hiss. “Gah! We were so close! Why does it all have to fall to pieces!? Don’t they want to live in peace!? Don’t they want to be happy!? We all want the same thing, and still-- STILL it falls to pieces!”

The words buzz in her ears like stinging bugs, the volume piercing her focus. Suddenly she can feel sweat gathering on the back of her neck despite the wintry chill, and the edges of her vision are doing strange things. 

“Tell me, what--what was I supposed to do, hm?!” He demands, a desperate, petulant twinge cracking his voice. 

She can feel the way each throb of her head rattles the focus she’d worked so hard to gather, pain and exertion freely jostling her thoughts. 

He stomps his foot furiously, “Someone, anyone, tell me: what was I supposed to do!?” 

Her vision warps and her headache throbs in her teeth. The spell unravels in her thoughts and on her tongue, and she abandons the incantation with a pained groan. 

It’s hard enough to heal Honoroit between her struggles with conjury, the headache, and the lingering symptoms of poison, and now Emannelain is making it all worse by yelling. 

She drops her head into her hands and gulps steadying breaths, fingers icy and numb against her pounding head. Stop being dizzy, stop being dizzy... She isn’t sure if it’s her numbed fingers or a genuine fever making her skin so hot to the touch, but the sheen of sweat suggests the latter.

His voice cracks with panic when he realizes she’s stopped her healing spell. “What are you doing?! Don’t stop!”

The Banquet, the Vault, Azys Lla, the Antitower, faces she’ll never see again, and too many other godsamned things shove up up against the inside of her skull until her head feels like it’s going to split in two.

All at once her throat itches with a stifled scream, her eyes sting and her chest aches like she sprinted for malms without stopping.

She doesn’t know what she should do, what she wants to do, but her nerves are bristling, her heart is pounding, and her body is thrumming with desperate, impotent fury, and she’s so sick and tired of losing people, of failing, of being so useless-- of-- of--

A hand clamps on her shoulder and gives one firm shake.

Her thoughts upend and crash back to the earth, abruptly deflating and crumbling into splinters and shards.

“Breathe.”

She sucks in a mouthful of wintry air and chokes on the cold. After a few tries she catches her breath enough to loosen some of the knots in her chest. When did she start holding her breath...?

Gwen’s head is still a litlte woozy as she looks up. Thancred is leaning over her, his mouth set in a firm grimace and his expression woodenly calm. He twitches his head towards Honoroit, Focus. Heal him.  

The tide of anger and adrenaline passes as quickly as it came, taking the dizzy spell and a modicum of her headache with it. Gwen wipes the sting out of her eyes in place of shaking her head, pushing away the briars and splinters clinging to the inside of her head. She’s no less overwhelmed than she had been a minute ago, but she’s pushed off the worst of it for the moment. That’s good enough.

Thancred releases her shoulder, straightens and turns to face Emmanellain. The nobleman is being surprisingly quiet, perhaps realizing he’d overstepped.

She counts the breaths hissing between her teeth and grasps for calm, pushing her shoulders down and trying to clear her mind. The sight of Honoroit, battered and unconcious, is sobering enough to quell the last simmering strains of irritation and get her mind back in line again.

She closes her eyes and re-gathers her focus through the haze of her headache, trying to ignore the briefly-forgotten fatigue that’s still hanging on her shoulders. Twelve but white magic is so much more taxing than it had ever been--than it should be.

Gwen rests her hand on Honoroit’s chest to center herself and stubbornly, purposefully mumbles the incantation over and over until the sounds and shapes of the words hollow out a big enough place to hold her concentration. 

Emmanellain speaks, “Well? If you have something to say, say it!”

The spell takes shape again, magic trickling from her into Honoroit and flowing out to the worst injuries yet in need of attention. She can feel that the spell is weaker than before, that it’s working more slowly, but it’s still helping. That’s what matters.  

Thancred’s voice is hard and flat, scolding, “Stop looking to others. You make your choice and you live with the consequences.”

There’s brief sputtering followed by a few harsh, seething breaths.

Suddenly there’s a short, hard impact. Instinct identifies the sound before her mind can: a punch.

“And what would you know about consequences!?” Emmanellain spits bitterly. “You, who always knows just what to say and just what to do! Your every deed is greeted with a round of applause!”

Gwen winces away from the words, bitterly wondering how fate’s timing could be so spectacularly terrible. There couldn’t be a worse time for such perfectly aimed words. Matoya’s cave and the Antitower are scarcely a sennight behind them. People claim fate likes to ‘jest’, and apparently its sense of humor is twisted and cruel. 

All at once the air grows close and heavy, bristling with energy like the calm before a storm. Apprehension tightens across her back and she catches the inside of her cheek in her teeth, worrying thoughtlessly at it. It is much too quiet...

A much louder, harder impact rings out, more like a thunderclap than a drumbeat. 

Emmanellain’s yelp of pain is abruptly cut off by the heavy, metallic thud of a chainmailed body hitting stone ground.

Thancred’s voice is low and furious, the point of a knife sinking home. “You know nothing about me. I have fought tooth and nail for the people I hold dear-- done everything in my power to save them, to protect them...and I have failed.” A beat of silence filled with a harsh breath, “Learn to live with it. I have.”

A heavy feeling settles in her stomach, apprehension morphing into worry that convinces her turn her head. She opens her eyes and peeks over her shoulder, keeping the majority of her focus on her tenuous spell. 

Thancred is standing over Emmanellain with a face like a thunderstorm, fists clenched tight at his sides. Emmanellain stares silently up at him, frozen in shock. 

Thancred seems unharmed, while one side of Emmanellain’s face is rapidly darkening and his jaw is hanging at a slightly awkward angle that suggests it might be broken. 

Gwen has never heard Thancred so furious before. She’s never seen him snap. He spat those words like curses, like they’re a burden he’s suffered and agonized over for ages without reprieve. They speak of a kind of deep ache and near-hateful sort of guilt that Gwen is much too familiar with. 

Thancred turns brusquely on his heel and storms away in silence. 

Gwen avoids Emmanellain’s gaze and turns back to Honoroit. 

She immediately resolves to talk to him, but not until he’s had time to cool off and settle out. She’ll do what she can for Honoroit first, then she’ll go after him.

Gwen is more than a little wobbly on her feet as she staggers back down the ramp into Falcon’s Nest. Her vision is behaving itself, but her head is throbbing, her legs are weak, and her stomach is refusing to settle down. 

Though it took entirely too much effort, she still finds no small amount of satisfaction in successfully managing healing magic again. She’s improving, slowly but surely.

Casting her eyes around the open square turns up nothing, and she rubs at her heavy eyelids with a pout. She’ll have to go searching, then. But where to start? On a whim, she turns for the barracks.

She finds Thancred in an out-of-the way spot a stone’s throw from where she’d hidden earlier to purge the tainted wine from her system and wait for her grasp on conciousness to solidify. He’s leaning against the wall and radiating the air of a man better left alone, arms crossed tightly across his chest and a stony glower on his face. 

He glances up as she approaches, shrewdly scrutinizing the rhythm of her steps and the way she’s carrying herself.

Concern, discomfort and reemourse coil around her chest and tie knots in her head, images of Matoya’s cave flitting past her vision. She takes a slow breath, feeling a bit like she’s readying to try more healing magic.

Mourning and grief do crazy things to people, and no one handles it the same. Gwen knows that. She withdraws, physically and mentally, growing hollow and distant and numb. She wilts and shrinks, always drained and slow as if she’s wrapped in a layer of lead that separates her from the world, trying to insulate and protect herself. She hasn’t yet mastered pulling herself out of it, but she’s always --eventually-- managed it with the help of her friends.

Thancred closes himself off and binds himself to his mistakes, as if not forgiving himself for them means he won’t make them again. He pushes others away and walls himself in with his hurt, treating it as a lesson to be learned rather than a wound to mend. It lies just beneath the surface and drives him to lash out when it grows too painful to hold, like on the landing platform, and over time it sinks into him, a weight he carries that he never speaks of or shows even as it changes him.

But...

It’s not that Gwen thinks he doesn’t have the right to his misery or grief, especially after losing someone so dear as Minfili. The events of the Antitower are barely behind them. Of course he’s still hurting and struggling with all of it. 

It’s how he’s handling it--or rather, not handling it, and what it’s doing to him that she’s worried about. He’s hurting. He’s insisting on struggling alone, on holding everything in and carrying it with him, like he did after being freed from Lahabrea, and refusing to allow it to rest.

It’s too soon to really begin healing, maybe, but not so much that she can’t remind him that he isn’t alone.

Gwen stops in front of him, just out of arm's reach. Her limbs are heavy, her head is throbbing and her stomach is shifting unpleasantly, but she does her best to keep her discomfort to herself. She settles her weight on her feet and regards him with a concerned and placidly questioning look. What was that back there? 

They stand in silence, simply looking at one another and waiting. 

Thancred’s expression loses a smidgen of its harshness, though otherwise remains flat. Gwen loosely folds her arms against the chill, chewing the inside of her lip and worrying the sleeves of her coat between her fingers. She can wait for as long as she needs to.

Thancred shifts against the wall and sharply turns his head, putting the black wrap of cloth towards her. A dismissal, most likely. He doesn’t want to talk, he doesn’t want sympathy and, more than that, he doesn’t want her there. It stings, even as she corrects herself that he likely wants to be left alone to brood and doesn’t want anyone around.

Blue and purple are creeping out from beneath the edge of the cloth. The evidence of Emmanellain’s punch.

Gwen shifts her weight, numb fingers prickling as they slowly warm, her teeth sharp against the inside of her cheek. Then she takes one slow, somewhat cautious step forward.

Thancred tenses but doesn’t move, clinging to the hope she’ll go away if he ignores her long enough.

She takes another step and comes to a stop, now well within arm’s reach. She cautiously lifts a hand towards his face.

The motion makes him twitch and he jerks his head back around. She pulls her hand back in time to avoid colliding with his bruised cheek.

His expression is guarded as he glowers at her, a hint of incredulity and impatience tugging at his mouth while his eye is sharp. There’s a feeling tense expectation hanging about him that has a definite, bristling edge to it. He’s braced for a reprimand or a lecture, and is plenty ready to retaliate and start an argument. In fact, he almost looks like he’s hoping for an excuse to do just that.

Gwen gives him nothing of the sort, regarding him with a calm, weary look. She tentatively moves her hand towards his bruised cheek again, carefully studying his reaction.

He allows it, watching her like a hawk.

She stops short of touching his bandana, fingertips hovering just beside his cheek. She focuses on the back of her hand and scrounges up the last onzes of her energy for just one more small conjury spell.  

Thancred’s jaw shifts beneath her hand, his shoulders tightening and lifting like he’s getting his hackles up.

A somewhat tenuous whisper of soothing magic ripples out of her fingers and flows across his skin. The effort leaves her feeling a bit like she stood up too quickly, but she sets her jaw and keeps at it. The fringe of blue and black begins to gradually soften and melt away, shrinking back beneath the edge of his bandana.

After a few slow, drawn out seconds his jaw flexes and he lets out a long, slow exhale that sounds distinctly like resignation. A bit of tension bleeds out of his posture and his shoulders begin to slowly sink back down. 

Thancred’s expression gradually smooths out, angry sparks fading and antagonistic edge dulling. Eventually it settles into the dour, brooding look she’s more accustomed to.

His jaw tenses up, relaxes just enough to shift, then tenses again. She imagines the sound of his teeth grinding.

He turns his head ever so slightly, just enough that his cheek barely connects with the pads of her fingers. He takes a few careful breaths and closes his eye, brow not quite furrowed. There’s an air of resigned expectation to his silence and the passing seconds, as if he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Gwen doesn’t say a word, maintaining their slight connection and not pushing for more. He’s free to pull away, or to lean in. He’s free to talk, or not. 

At length his eye opens again, and he looks a great deal calmer and more composed. “...I may have overreacted.” His voice is quiet but unapologetic, as flat as his mouth. “But it needed to be done. He was becoming hysterical.” 

Gwen tilts her head a little, acquiescing the point. Thancred’s reaction wasn’t appropriate, no, and it was worryingly unlike him, but it was… understandable. Emmanellain is the one who threw the first punch, in all fairness, and he’d been doing a spectacular job of hitting their sore spots before that. She doesn’t blame the young nobleman for his frustration or whatever else he’s feeling, but that doesn’t mean she’s willing to listen to him rant whilst trying to heal his manservant.

Thancred takes another long breath, gaze drifting slowly over the stones around them. Eventually the silence urges him to speak again, “I understand the desire to look for reasons. For excuses. To convince yourself you had no choice. But the past is the past, and there is naught to be gained from reliving your mistakes.” 

His tone has a heavy undercurrent of repetition to it, as though he was reciting words he was tired of hearing. Yet the words make his frown turn pensive, if a little wrinkled with bitterness, in a way that makes her think he’s yet working to fully process that statement himself. 

Gwen tilts her head the other way, giving him a meaningful look. Are you telling me this? Or yourself?

“I know this,” Thancred insists immediately. “I know this.” His expression tightens, almost slipping into a grimace, and his eye drops back to the ground, “But he…” 

He he huffs a sharp, frustrated breath and shifts moodily against the wall. He makes a point to keep his head still, maintaining their tentative connection.

She wonders how much striking Emmanellain made him realize the extent to which everything is affecting him.

Baby steps. Healing takes time. Understanding and overcoming one’s frustrations with themselves is a long road, and acknowledging them in the first place is the first step. He’s taken a step in the right direction. Hopefully.

Gwen can senses his cheek isn’t quite healed, but reluctantly admits she’s too spent to finish the job. She still has to fly to Ishgard and deliver the report to Aymeric, after all. And with her luck she’ll likely have more to endure after that, too, poison be damned.

She lets the spell peter out with a weary sigh, letting her hand linger for a few more seconds before dropping it back to her side. 

Thancred takes a long moment to look her over again, bluntly studying her face and the way she’s holding herself. "You look hellish.”

Gwen’s lips twitch with a hint of a smile. No one is around, they’re alone and in private for the moment, so she reaches out to brush the tips of her fingers along his knuckles. 

He watches, not quite impassively.

As her hand withdraws his turns, slowly as if it’s half-frozen. He curls his fingers just enough for the tips of hers to catch on his. 

It’s surprising how steadying such a small thing can be. 

Less than a breath later he lets hers drop. He shoulders himself off the wall and straightens up with a bit of muttering, brushing off his clothes. “Get your bird and let us away. We’ve important matters to attend to in Ishgard, and have kept the Lord Commander waiting entirely too long already. The lordling can arrange his return on his own time.”

--------------------

Tooth and nail - adverb with all one's resources or energy; fiercely

Oy vey @_@ this FFXIVWrite is really kicking my butt.

This is the first, and only, idea that sprung to mind when I saw the prompt. This part was so intense, and the conference just felt like the latest thing in the long list of “everything is going wrong fuuuuuu” @_@ I need to write more about this particular time in Post-HVW

#ffxivwrite2020 #Guinevere Ashe #Thancred Waters #Thancred x WoL #Gwencred #Post-Heavensward #Dragonsong War #My Writing #UGH MY BRAIN #god when he punched Emmanellain @_@ #I was like 'oohhhh shit o.o... Uh Thancred? You good my guy?'

[eremiss]

21. Foibles

Thancred knows he’s in for a tedious day when the faint tickle in his throat blooms into an uncomfortable itch and a headache begins to brew between his temples. He covers his mouth with his hand and clears his throat as quietly as he can, hoping it’s nothing.

Of course it’s not.

Within the bell Gwen notices something is off about him, even though he makes a point to not give even the smallest sign discomfort around her. It doesn’t help that his condition has decided to rapidly start worsening. Her brows tug together and start to tilt at a worried angle, and her green eyes grow sharper, scrutinizing every little detail.

He’s not the least bit surprised when she follows him to his room, her journal in her hands and a flimsy excuse about work and spending time together on her tongue. They’ve passed many a day reading and working together, after all, and she has often hidden in his room when the pressure of others’ company has grown uncomfortable. 

He doesn’t have the energy to fight with her, and stringing together sentences is terribly hard when the pounding in his head is breaking them apart, so he reluctantly accepts her company. She doesn’t attempt to force conversation or an admittance of his poor health out of him, but he can feel her eyes on him while he works --or tries to appear like he is, at any rate-- and he’s painfully aware of every grunt, groan and rough sound he makes.

When clearing his throat turns into a minor coughing fit, Gwen abandons her flimsy pretense of reading reports and writing in her journal. She appears at his side in moments, brows knit, mouth bending in a frown and eyes filled with concern.

“Just a frog in my throat,” Thancred dismisses, purposefully bending over the pages of code he’s been pretending to decipher. He can barely read the text for all the pounding behind his eyes and the fogginess in his head, but he doggedly tries anyway.

“You should lie down,” Gwen murmurs, lowering her voice and speaking softly enough that it doesn’t further irritate his head. 

Thancred waves her away, jotting down a bit of nonsense to further the illusion that he’s working. 

A hand rests on his arm, tentative yet heavy, while the other lifts his hair and braid off the back of his neck, letting a draft of fresh air touch his skin. The cool of her hands and the air feel wonderful.

“You worry overmuch,” he mumbles, his stubbornness starting to waver under the combined might of discomfort and the look she’s giving him. “It’s just a cough. It’ll pass.”

“Work in bed, then,” she says, squeezing his arm and rubbing soothing circles on the nape of his neck. “I’ll make you some tea for your throat.”

“You don’t need to. I’m fine.”

“I want to.” Her hand leaves his arm and her knuckles ghost across his cheek. Too late he realizes she’s checking his temperature and turns his head away. 

She steps away, but he never hears the door open. Instead there’s the sound of shifting cloth and flopping blankets, and when he looks back she’s turned the sheets down and rearranged the pillows so he can recline against them. Before he can protest she scurries around and finds a book with a hard, smooth cover and sets it on the nightstand--for him to write on, most likely. 

He heaves a sigh. Godsdamnit, he’s weak. 

By late afternoon Thancred is well and truly sick and doubly miserable, burning from the inside out with a slow, stifling heat that casts a haze over his senses. His skull is full to bursting, and his chest is thick with scratching cotton that won’t budge no matter how much he coughs. At the very least he’s not nauseous, which he supposes might be worth something.

Gwen’s fretting and hovering is wearing at him, but he can’t quite bring himself to be outwardly surly about her sincere concern--though on the inside he’s grumping and complaining plenty. In the end, though, keeping his low mood and irritation to himself is for the best. Growling and snapping won’t send her away, nor ease the worry woven so plainly through all this coddling and mothering. It will just make her continued presence uncomfortable for the both of them, not to mention make him feel guilty for snapping at a dear friend for having the nerve to want to help him.

Besides, he can admit it’s a relief to drop the act of good health and not force his mind or body to work when neither wants to.

Thancred grumbles under his breath, massaging his pounding temples with clumsy fingers. Too much thinking...

Gwen mumbles something in a soothing tone, nudging his hands aside. The constricting pressure around his head lessens and then vanishes as his bandana falls away, and then a cold, damp towel presses to his forehead. He shudders at the wonderful chill that sinks into his skin and dulls the feeling of nails being pounded into the backs of his eyes.

He makes a grateful sound, tilting his head back and relaxing against the pillows. The movement upsets all the loose, sticky pieces clogging up his chest, and his next breath crackles audibly in his throat. He coughs quietly to try and ease both, but to no avail. 

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Gwen tense up.

He coughs again, harder, and then he suddenly can’t stop. He struggles not to bow forward, head pounding with every spasm of his chest and resonating down his neck and into his shoulders. 

Gwen helps him stay upright and holds a handkerchief near his mouth. He takes it and muffles his coughs into it, attempting to keep his misery and whatever it is he’s hacked up to himself. He hopes he’s not going to get her sick, too. 

The moment he starts to calm she guides him back against his supporting pillows, replaces the towel on his forehead, and presses a mug of warm tea into his hands. It’s some medicinal blend that’s bitter in a way that honey and sugar can’t wholly mask. 

Thancred croaks his thanks somewhat reluctantly, irritation slinking around the back of his mind and poking at him. Gods but he hates nothing so much as feeling like a useless burden. He takes a small swig, letting the bitter warmth wash away the raggedness hanging on the back of his tongue and soothe his aching throat.

Gwen gives him a brief half-smile, hovering like she thinks he’s apt to start coughing again. Once a full minute passes without issue she finally relaxes, and he realizes just how tense she’d been. Odd. 

Come to think of it, she’s had a similarly stricken look every time he’s coughed, and she’s much more tightly wound than she usually is when one of her friends takes ill. 

Why might that be? He could ask, but he knows she won’t answer him, at least not fully honestly. Besides, he needs something to do besides sit around and be miserable, so why not try and puzzle the answer out himself?

The thought that it might be because he’s the one who’s fallen ill begins to come together and he pushes it away before it can take shape, though he can’t fully explain why. 

He makes another vaguely pained grumble and shifts his head. She reaches out to adjust the towel and hums a sympathetic sound. Her fingers trail over his face and across his shoulders, pressing here and there to try and ease tense muscles.

A few minutes later he makes a --partially genuine-- comment about the heat and she fetches a lighter, looser shirt for him. When he isn’t yet freed from all his confounded buckles and straps by the time she returns, she helps with that, too.

He feigns clearing his throat, only to genuinely cough a few times when the act inspires an unpleasant tickle in his chest. 

Her head jerks up immediately, apprehension writ plain on her face. Her hands flutter indecisively before one reaches for the tea and the other retrieves the discarded handkerchief. He detects a hint of unsteady tension, like an over-tightened bowstring, while she checks his pulse and murmurs at him. She watches him sip the bitter tea and hovers for a few more drawn-out seconds before slowly, carefully lowering herself back to the edge of her chair.

So it’s coughing, specifically, that puts her on edge. Curious.

Thancred sinks back into his pillows and ponders, and Gwen gradually relaxes as minutes pass without incident. He can’t recall all the instances of others taking ill in the past, but he’s reasonably certain their ailments hadn’t involved much coughing, at least not to the same degree as this. 

He thinks to try and ask about it. She likely won’t tell him the truth, but he might still be able to glean some insight as to why she’s so distressed by his coughing, or why she feels the need to tie herself up in such knots when a friend falls ill. .

There are a few different ways he could parse the inquiry. He knows they’ll all be met with resistance and silence, but mayhap one of them will eventually yield an answer. Concern works better than bluntness when trying to get her to open up, as is the case with many people. Concern is soft and seeps into cracks and around walls, rather than butting up against them. It’s gentle enough to tempt, to coax her to reach out rather than close herself off.

“Not that it’s out of character for you to fret when a friend takes ill,” he says without preamble.

She looks up from all the things she’s crammed onto his nightstand, a pout on her lips.

“But I can’t help thinking this is above and beyond, even for you.” The words make his throat hurt, and the more he talks the more his voice turns to gravel. “Is aught amiss?”

Her brows knit and bend, a wash of melancholy dulling her eyes. She avoids his gaze and adjusts his blankets.

“Though it may not sound like it, I assure you I'm not truly at risk of coughing up a lung.”

The corners of her mouth tighten and dip, and her shoulders tense. 

He wraps a hand loosely around her wrist and she stills. He softens his tone as much as he’s able, trying to reassure, “I’m fine, Gwen. It’ll pass.”

She glances at his face, then back down at their hands. “I know.”

“Then why do you look like I’m about to breathe my last whenever I have a tickle in my throat?”

Her brows furrow and her expression shifts, trying to close and flatten out into a look that brooks no room for more questions. It almost works. Her eyes, however, are far away and quiet, a heavy shadow rolling across them like nightfall. 

Ah...? Mayhap this is a more delicate topic than he thought. He probably should have assumed as much, and might have, if his head was clearer.

Thancred slides his hand into hers and squeezes gently.

Gwen studies their hands for several breaths. Then she rests her other hand over his, slotting her fingers between his knuckles. 

Something in his chest rattles wrong and sends a coughing fit kicking up his throat. Godsdamnit. 

She keeps him from doubling over on himself, patting his back gently and mumbling soothing things until he collapses back against his pillows, lightheaded and breathless. His head is full of thunderstorms and his throat is burned out and raw, the air like sandpaper as he gulps it down.

Cold dampness dabs at his temples, his throat, his chest, sending little shocks of chill through him that clear away the dizziness and snuff the waves of heat rolling under his skin. The cloth vanishes, water splashes and trickles elsewhere, and then it settles on his forehead again. Murmured words and ghosting fingertips conjure ripples of healing magic that do more for his aching muscles than his head. For all it’s usefulness, the list of things healing magic can’t help is surprisingly, aggravatingly long.

Drained as he is, Thancred still has the energy to take the mug when Gwen lifts it to his mouth. He’s not that bad off. The overworked muscles in his stomach and chest ache as he sits a little straighter to drink.

“Drink it slowly,” she advises, hands hovering like she thinks he’ll drop it.

He does. His throat continues to tickle and scratch even after the tea is gone and the rest of him has settled, inspiring a few small coughs here but, thankfully, not another fit.

Weary and with his thoughts lagging, he allows himself a few minutes to simply  sit and be miserable. He sinks into the pillows and lets her move his hair around, dry his face, fix his blankets and whatever else will quell her apprehension and satisfy her need to fret.

He doesn’t deserve to be fussed over like this, he knows. He hasn’t earned this time and attention, especially not from her. The Warrior of Light has better things to do than coddle him and put up with his neediness.

She doesn’t agree in the slightest and, in truth, a small part of him is grateful for it. The same part that selfishly revels in the gentle care and affection that have nothing to do with getting him back in working condition and everything to do with her genuine concern for his comfort and wellbeing.

A hand touches his cheek, tugging at his muddled awareness.

“Thancred?” Gwen’s voice is hazy.

He peels his eyes open and blinks sluggishly until they focus. His head is full of quicksand, and breaths sound rough in his ears and feel worse in his throat.

“You dozed off,” she says, still speaking quietly. “I made some more tea.”

Thancred grunts and pushes himself up, and Gwen helps him rearrange and fluff the pillows so he can sit more upright. The hot tea feels like heaven on his parched throat, and the fact that it’s a different, less bitter blend only makes it better. 

She perches on the edge of her seat, looking satisfied, and picks up her journal. Then she pauses, expression shifting slowly. She sets her journal in her lap and purses her lips contemplatively, that dullness gradually returning to her eyes as a thoughtful little wrinkle forms between her brows.

He cocks his head, curious. He’s doing relatively well, he hasn’t coughed or even cleared his throat, so what’s this look for?

“I, ah…” Gwen pauses. She sinks back in her seat, leaning heavily against the backrest. “I was thinking, while you were asleep. I… Heh, I do tend to get, ah, a little wound up when people get sick, don’t I?” The corners of her mouth tighten and lift into an awkward, guilty smile. Her tone is careful, testing the topic and his reaction.

“I’d argue more than ‘a little,’” he drawls. It makes his throat itch, so he takes another swallow of tea.

She inclines her head, acquiescing the point. “I spent a little time thinking about it,” she stops. “And I realized it’s...”

She sighs, expression tightening with mild frustration. She opens her journal and leafs through it until she finds where she left off last, one page full of writing while the other is mostly empty. She reads over the full page, fingers moving haphazardly over the words as her eyes dart back and forth.

His brain isn’t functional enough to decipher her chocobo-scratch upside down, but tries anyway. No luck.

Gwen curls her fingers over the top of the page and tips it shut on her hand, like an actress holding a spot for reference while they work to memorize their lines. Her eyes drift slowly over the room, looking around but not at anything in particular. Eventually her gaze comes to rest in the vicinity of his elbow.

“I,” her voice is soft, “had a brother.”

Hearing her say it aloud is like a cold shock of water, even though he’d already been aware of that sad truth. She’s written about him before, though only on occasion, and she was so sparing with details and accounts of him it might even be fairer to say she’d mentioned him.

In want of a suitable reply Thancred gives her his full attention, turning to better face her. 

She opens her mouth then pauses, looking vaguely pensive. Her gaze shifts around indecisively, that thoughtful wrinkle between her brows coming back. Trying to determine what to say next, and how much she needs to share to properly explain whatever thought is forming on her tongue.

Thancred asks, even though he’s half-convinced any sort of disruption will make her stop and withdraw, as if this piece of her past is a deer he can startle away, “What was his name?”

Her eyes flit to his for a moment, and she looks touched that he would want to know. 

“Aifread,” she says gently, her tone more fond familiarity than reverence. The smile that tugs at her lips is tinged with reminiscence, and he wonders how long it’s been since she last said his name aloud. 

Aifread. Thancred commits it to memory and mumbles it to himself for good measure, feeling the shape and weight of it on his tongue. 

“And he-- he.... Was younger than me. By four summers or so,” she says slowly. “So I had to take care of him.” One corner of her mouth tugs down. “Us, rather. Both of us. And…” there’s a slight pause, less than a breath, and her eyes flash, growing dark and hard, “...and father.”

The change is so sudden and sharp he’s almost taken aback. He’s seen her angry before, but this is more than mere anger. This is something deeper, something loathsome with teeth in it.

Then it vanishes, like a puff of wind, and the hard emeralds of her eyes are replaced with soft, dull moss. “It wasn’t easy but...” She shrugs, expression drooping as she reaches up to pet one of the silver streaks in her hair. 

“When I was nine summers old, almost ten, I…” She glances down at her journal but doesn’t open it. “I took ill. There’s no name for what it was, then or now. But the healers think it was the same blight that struck the lalafel who made the mill.”

Thancred lifts a hand and gestures for her to stop, a quiet, heavy hole opening in his chest. She told him enough when she said she’d had a brother, in truth. He doesn’t have all the details, but he doesn’t need them. He knows enough.

“Started as a tickle in my chest,” Gwen says anyway, purposefully looking away from his hand. Apparently she’s determined to finish now that she’s started. “Then it got worse… a few days later I couldn’t get out of bed. Then Aifread started coughing, too. Then father.”

Thancred leans over and rests a hand on the one tangled in her hair. “Gwen...” 

She shakes off the gray strands and weaves her fingers through his instead, looking faintly relieved.

Her brows bend and she-half winces at an unpleasant memory. Then a certain little wrinkle appears on her forehead. “It’s, ah, it gets-- hazy. After that,” she says stiltedly.

A lie. And a rather obvious one, at that. He squeezes her hand and says nothing.

“Next thing I remember, I…” Her voice wavers slightly and she lowers her head. “I… woke up in the Adders’ medical ward. And... “

She takes a slow, steadying breath. Her voice trembles anyway. “And I... I was alone.”

Words have always abandoned him when it mattered, and now is no different. Thancred squeezes her hand and pulls, stopping just short of hauling her out of her seat and into his arms.

She jerks her head up, green eyes glassy and confused. She’s just on the verge of tears, but still keeping herself together, if only barely. When he pulls again she lets him drag her into his arms, stiff for a moment before melting into his embrace. She hooks her hands over his shoulders and clings to him, burying her face in the crook of neck. Her breaths shudder slowly against his throat, only a few tears smearing against his neck as she fights to hold the rest in.

He wishes she wouldn’t. She doesn’t need to.

He tries to tell her so. Instead another sodding cough claws its way out of his chest, and all his half-formed words of comfort get hacked up along with one of his lungs.

For what it’s worth, Gwen isn’t upset by the sudden derailment. If anything, she’s grateful for the distraction. 

She slips away from him, producing a clean handkerchief from nowhere and rubbing soothing circles on his back until he finally slumps, wheezing, against his pillows. Somewhere in the midst of it all she rubs her hands over her face and manages to steady her breaths out. 

He all but collapses against his pillows, dizzy and wheezing. It almost hurts to breathe, though he’s not sure what’s worse: his aching chest or his raw throat.  She dabs his forehead with the cold towel, pours a fresh mug of tea, and fixes his blankets while he catches his breath, mumbling quiet, soothing nonsense and sympathy once she’s sure her voice won’t waver.

Rather than trying to fumble through expressing condolences, he settles for promising himself to be more patient with her fretting in the future and not complain about it... within reason.

“So, well...” she fumbles slowly, still measuring her breaths as she shifts her weight on her feet and tugs at her shirt. “All that to say I, ah... I only just realized that I, heh, have never really taken the time to understand where this,” she tries for a smile, “’fretting’ came from, myself. And... I have a bit of reflecting to do.”

He makes a vaguely affirming sound, unable to properly read the look on her face or the way she’s holding herself through the renewed pounding in his skull that’s hazing over his senses. Awkwardness, discomfort, maybe a bit of guilt, but he’s not entirely sure. Those, at least, are understandable. That was a rather heavy bit of history to tell someone, particularly when they weren’t quite expecting it. It’s not the sort of thing she would share with many people --or anyone-- which would only give it that much more weight when she finally decided to do so.

Gwen leans down and presses a soft, lingering kiss to his brow, then tips her forehead against his. "Thank you.”

The affection is welcome, but it doesn’t stop Thancred from confusedly croaking that he didn’t do anything but sit.

She straightens up and smooths his hair back from his face, a measure of the worry and concern she’s been carrying since she first caught him coughing replaced with something more pensive. “You helped,” she pauses, trying to find the words she wants, “clear my head a little.” 

“By sitting here?” he rasps between sips of tea.

She considers that, picking up her journal from the floor and flattening out a bent page. At length she says, “By asking. And listening.”

Asking...? What, asking why she was fretting so much? Has no one asked before?

She gives him a slight smile. “I’ll get you something to eat.” Her expression firms slightly and she points a warning finger at him. “Stay in bed.”

He grouses good-naturedly at her as she leaves, then frowns at the closed door. 

He doesn’t know how long he’d dozed off for, but apparently it was long enough for her to take a thoughtful look at the root of her anxieties surrounding illness.  Enough time to steady herself out a little and recognize her motives and behaviors for what they are, not just the good intentions she veils them in, and the toll all that worrying takes on her. Apparently she has never spared it much thought herself, though it’s hard to say whether or not that had been a conscious decision. Either way, it had surely been far easier to simply accept it as habit and dig no further.

It’s quite the step for her to take, both in confronting herself about her brother’s death and opening up to him about it. Despite the discomfort of such heavy news, he has no small amount of satisfaction, even pride, in knowing she trusts him enough to share the more painful and tender parts of her past. He imagines the hole in his chest is not going to fully go away any time soon, but it’s worth it. Aifread. 

When Gwen comes back with soup, Thancred isn’t not much better physically, but his spirits are higher. She offers, with only a hint of reluctance and a dash of awkwardness, to get out of his hair and give him time to himself.

He asks her to stay. 

They don’t talk about Aifread again, or anything else about her. But that shadow of worry from before isn’t hanging so heavily behind her eyes anymore, cracked open and broken apart into pieces she can try to work with, rather than something she simply has to carry. She still worries, of course, but she isn’t so distraught and tense, even when he starts trying to hack up his other lung.

It makes sense, he supposes. Secrets are heavy things, as are the consequences of carrying them for so long. They’re much easier to bear when shared.

-------------------

Foible - noun a minor flaw or shortcoming in character or behavior 

HNNNGGGG TOOK ME SO LONG TO WRITE AND ENDINGS ARE HARD

But overall I’m pretty happy with it!!

*is debating removing that last line hmmmmmmm....*

TY TY @evangeline-cross for the advice and the beta read :B

#ffxivwrite2020 #Guinevere Ashe #Thancred Waters #Thancred x WoL #WoL x Thancred #My writing #Gwencred #the beforetimes #or at least a mention #Sickfic #Aifread #talking about family #when you find out why someone is a worrywart when people are sick #and you're like 'o damn' #HNG 3 MINUTES

[eremiss]

5: Matter of Fact

A firm knocking sound disturbs Gwen’s dreams, resonantly logical enough for her sleeping mind to recognize it as an intrusion from the waking world.

There’s a dim familiarity to the cadence that grows clearer as she stirs, dreams dissolving into the flat blackness behind her eyes. She knows that knock.

The more she wakes, the more she can pick up on the small sounds and sensations of the real world. A knob turning. A surge of chilly air. A latch clicking, closing the chill back out. Muttered words.

The sense of familiarity flickers into recognition, simultaneously solidifying her consciousness and muffling the instinctive apprehension and suspicion bubbling up beneath her lethargy.

She sluggishly drags her head from her pillow and hums inquiringly at the darkness.

“Apologies for waking you, dove,” a voice replies, tight and trembling slightly as it moves around the room. The characteristic squeak of her wardrobe doors opening rings out, shortly followed by them closing again. “I thought it safer than risking getting skewered in the dark.”

Gwen pries her eyes open as dry wood hits iron grates and looks towards the sound. The darkness flickers when metal scrapes stone, and she blinks laboriously to make the crouched, hazy figure come into focus, “Thancred?”

He grunts in reply and stands from the hearth, the fire successfully rekindled and quickly spreading over the new logs. 

She sits up and knuckles at her eyes, rubbing away the last of the haze and the slight sting of the light.

“Now, now, don’t get up on my account,” he drawls, tugging at his belt and kicking off his boots.

The heavy curtains around the door to the balcony are askew, letting in fingers of pale moonlight and glimpses of falling snow. She recalls that burst of wintry air. “Did you,” she murmurs confusedly, “come in from the balcony?”

“I did.” Thancred’s jaw is rigidly still, his teeth locked together, and when he opens his mouth to talk it trembles. His movements are quick and terse as he jerks at his clothing, his whole body tense.

She blinks, watching him clumsily discard each article of clothing as he hovers in front of the fire. There are damp spots all over his clothing, particularly his pants and boots. “Why?”

“Because I doubted the Fortemps’ doorman was amenable to visitors in the middle of the night.” He wrestles his way into one of her spare sleep shirts and chafes his hands against his arms, curling tightly on himself. He jerks his chin dismissively and adds, "Speaking of, you should go back to sleep."

Gwen frowns at his back, noting how rigidly he's holding himself and the faint jitters in his shoulders. She makes an inquiring sound to draw his attention, then gestures to the unoccupied side of the bed. While she doesn't doubt his ability to sleep standing if he's of a mind to, surely curling up together beneath the warm blankets would be a far more satisfying way to chase away the chill after not seeing one another for more than sennight.

Thancred looks back at the fire, muttering something under his breath. A beat later he crosses the room and crawls into bed, quickly burrowing under the covers. He makes no attempt to move closer as he bundles himself in the blankets, apparently intending to keep to his side.

Despite the expanse of bed between them and the layers of blankets, she can see him shivering from head to toe and hear how his chattering teeth are chopping up his breaths.

"Are you alright?" she murmurs, scooting closer.

"M' fine," he grunts back.

She frowns, unsurprised at his refusal to admit his own discomfort even when asked. She’ll do it, then. "Are you cold?"

Thancred laughs dryly. “As a matter of fact,” a block of ice shaped like a hand wraps around her arm and she yelps. “I’m freezing.”

He tries to withdraw back into his cocoon of blankets, but she catches his hand covers it with her own. "Come here, then."

“So you can freeze too?” he asks flatly, not moving.

Gwen tugs insistently at him. He stays put once again, frowning at her and clumsily shaking off her hands. 

She moves instead, pressing close to him and trying to worm her way into the cocoon of blankets separating them.

Thancred makes a sound of protest, only able to retreat a few ilms before being trapped at the edge of the bed. When she slips through his barrier of blankets and nestles against him he grumbles, "I'm fine."

“You’re freezing,” she insists, wrapping her arms around him. Her forehead knocks against his and she finds his hair and skin are damp with melted snow. Each touch of her warmed skin against his, even where there’s a barrier of nightclothes between them, is a new shock of chill that sends shivers racing up her back. It only makes her hold him closer, rubbing her hands over his back and shoulders to chafe warmth into his skin.

He shudders and leans into her, resolve wavering. "Gwen, I--"

She lifts her head enough to meet his eyes, staring meaningfully at him.

He frowns at her, almost managing to look stern rather than grumpy. Then he mumbles under his breath,  wraps her up in his trembling arms and pulls her against him. There’s an undercurrent of stubbornness that suggests he might be hoping she’ll change her mind, or recoil from his icy touch and retreat back across the bed. 

She shivers violently at the press of his cold skin but resolutely stays put, tangling their legs together for good measure. If he's forgotten how stubborn she is, that's his own fault.

Twelve, though, he’s freezing. Hardly surprising given how damn his hair and clothes are, she supposes. What was he doing? How long was he out in the cold? 

Gwen fusses with the blankets, ignoring Thancred’s pout and the occasional obstinate shift while she bundles them together. While she’s busy tucking the excess tightly around them he dips his icy hands beneath her shirt and splays them against her back. Her reflexive jerk and squeak put a small, smug smirk on his face, and her disapproving glower only makes it grow wider. A petty victory, but a victory nonetheless. 

Mollified, he surrenders to temptation and buries his his face against her neck with a low groan of relief, gratefully soaking up the warmth she's so readily offering. Despite being so thoroughly bundled together he manages to cuddle closer still, until they’re thoroughly entwined.

Soon enough they’re both trembling, though neither of them say a word about it.

Slowly, he thaws.

Once they’ve both stopped trembling and the cocoon of blankets is comfortably warm inside and out, they share a sigh of relief. Thancred is all but limp in her arms, lazily stroking her back with hands that no longer feel as if they’re made of ice

Content, and with the hour catching up with her, Gwen allows herself to relax.

When sleep starts to tug more firmly at her she asks, just to make sure, “Warm?”

“Very,” Thancred mumbles drowsily

An idea winds lazily through her head and she laughs under her breath. “Hm... now that I’m thinking about it--”

“You’re surprised I didn’t suggest a more amorous means of warming up?” He grins against her neck, stubble tickling, and trails his fingers up the line of her spine. He leaves it at that, hand coming to rest placidly between her shoulder. “Would that my day hadn’t proved so overlong and tedious. Alas.” 

She hums, wondering what had happened to make his day so ‘overlong and tedious.’

“Disappointed?”

She shakes her head, running her fingers through his hair to make sure there are no tangles. All things ‘amorous’ have been about the furthest thing from her mind since she woke to him knocking on the balcony door. 

“Where have you been?” She murmurs into his hair, concern leaking into her curiosity. What happened? Why were you half-frozen?

“Working." His tone isn’t hard, per say, but it’s final. That’s the best answer she can expect to get out of him, as is often the case with his assignments, particularly whilst he’s still in the midst of them. It’s just the nature of his work.  

Gwen has never liked it, but there’s naught to be done about it. 

She hums, unsatisfied but understanding, and closes her eyes, content to remain comfortably entwined for the rest of the night. “Wear warmer clothes next time.”

-------------------------

 Matter of fact - phrase in reality (used especially to correct a falsehood or misunderstanding) 

When the boo is cold so you snuggle for warmth <3

I actually started writing this for clinch, for the embrace-related use of the word, but ended up deciding against it.

#ffxivwrite2020 #Thancred x WoL #WoL x Thancred #Thancred Waters #Guinevere Ashe #Gwencred #cuddling #sometime around the Dragonsong War #Cuddling in the Fortemps' house lol #Matter of Fact #my writing

[eremiss]

Departure

set post 5.2/pre 5.3    Thancred is setting out to follow Elidibus.

The sky is just barely tinged with the first hints of dawn when Thancred slips out of bed. He always preferred to set out on an assignment in the wee hours of the morning when he could, and it seemed five years hadn’t changed that. What had changed, though, was that he’d taken the time to properly bid farewell and trade reassuring quips and jokes with the other Scions the previous evening, rather than suddenly vanishing without a word.

Gwen is awake, too; her repose so restless and light that the slight shift of the bed and the absence of his presence beside her is enough to wake her. She remains motionless and feigns sleep, giving herself the chance to calm the anxious twisting in her thoughts while granting Thancred a bit of time to himself. 

She can’t hear him padding around the room and gathering his gear despite the silence. The evidence that his skills with stealth hadn’t suffered despite his change of weapon and tactics is more reassuring than she expected, yet it feels like only a few drops compared to the well of apprehension in her chest. 

She has always found it strange to have perfect confidence and faith in someone, yet still worry. Shouldn’t that not be how it worked? She didn’t doubt Thancred in the slightest. He’s skilled, strong, cunning and resourceful. He can take care of himself. 

But it was an Ascian he was dealing with. An Ascian tethered to a hume body, maybe, but an Ascian all the same. All of them are uncomfortably aware that there is far more to Elidibus and his schemes than whatever they know--or think they know. 

After what Gwen judges to be a handful of minutes she finally shifts around and pushes herself upright

Thancred is carefully inspecting each piece of his gear as he buckles on his armor, checking straps and looking for signs of weakness and damage. There are none to be found, thanks to Axel and the other menders. He turns towards her and pulls on his coat, giving her a wry smile, “Did you even sleep, dove?”

“A bit,” she says, climbing out of bed. She didn’t sleep well, but she did sleep.

He checks the buckles and straps of his weapon belt while she locates and tugs on the sleep shirt he’d so enthusiastically divested her of the previous evening. Once his belt is fastened into place he turns to his small collection of knives, six short, sharp blades, inspecting each and then tucking them away in his belt, his boots and somewhere in his gauntlets.

Next is his gunblade. He starts at the handle and moves up, checking the trigger, the hammer, the cylinder, the barrel, and then finally the blade itself. The keen edge is the only thing on the blade that hadn’t been purposefully dulled with special paints and oils that would keep the metal from glinting or reflecting in the light. 

Finding it satisfactory, he reaches for the cartridges Ryne had charged the previous evening. His hand meets Gwen’s in a gentle collision instead. 

“I suppose it would be a bit ridiculous of me to ask if you’re really sure this is a good idea,” she mumbles, drawing his hand up to her face. 

“It’s a bit late to change my mind, seeing how I made such a show of my farewells,” he says, cupping her cheek. “I’m afraid my hands are tied.”

Gwen breathes the scent of leather and gunpowder on his glove as he draws her in, trying to hang on to the details. She wraps her arms around him and finds she’s not sure if she would rather have hugged him with or without his armor. Without, she would have felt the warmth of his skin and heard his heartbeat; with, she leeches reassurance in the hard, unyielding shell that has protected him from the worst Norvrandt has to offer.

Well… Most of the worst. 

He leans his head against hers and squeezes, firm but not too tight so the buckles and edges of his armor don’t dig at her. She takes slow, measured breaths, breathing sandalwood soap, oiled metal and the faint scent of smoke that no amount of washing has ever managed to purge from his coat. 

Gwen breathes a deep sigh, memorizing every little detail, and squeezes him back. 

“Don’t have too much fun while I’m gone,” Thancred says softly.

She buries her smile against his neck, taking another slow breath, “I’ll do my best.”

When they eventually draw apart it somehow feels like their embrace lasted bells and seconds. Thancred resumes his task of readying to leave and Gwen hovers nearby, stealing more seconds of contact with a hand at the small of his back, reluctant to part but not wanting to get in the way. 

He checks over his cartridges then loads six into his gunblade, depositing another ten in his cartridge belt. He moves his hands a few different ways, letting them brush or hover over a few places on his coat, pants and belt to reaffirm everything is in the right place.

Then he takes a long steadying breath, “Alright. I’d best get going.”

Gwen pulls him into another embrace before he can take so much as a step, and he almost seems to deflate a little as he winds his arms around her. She whispers against his lips, “Be safe.”

“As safe as I can be, dove,” Thancred murmurs between slow, lingering kisses. “You have my word.”

There’s a knock. Tiny, polite and hesitant. They draw apart, more slowly and reluctantly than before, and Thancred tugs the door open.

Ryne stands on the other side, bleary-eyed and drooping with tiredness. Her face suddenly goes as red as her hair and she covers her eyes, recoiling, “Sorry! Sorry!”

Sorry…? Oh.

Gwen dashes to the closet for pants and Thancred poorly covers a chuckle with a long-suffering sigh.

Out in the living room Ryne is toeing the carpet abashedly, “Sorry. I was worried I might’ve missed you.”

Thancred looks like he might melt for a moment, then pulls himself back together. He sighs again, looking from Ryne to Gwen. “Did either of you sleep?”

“I slept a little bit,” Ryne says. 

He shakes his head, putting his hands on his hips. “What am I going to do with you two?”

Gwen smiles warmly at each of them, her nervousness muted for a moment by a rush of affection. “Whatever it is, it’ll have to wait until you get back. You have plenty of time to figure it out.”

Thancred opens his mouth to retort, then Ryne throws her arms around his middle and hugs him tight. He sighs, smiling the soft, fond smile he only ever has when it’s just the three of them, and hugs her back.

When he eventually straightens up, Ryne doesn’t let go. He hesitates, struggling with how to best extricate himself, and glances at Gwen for help.

She leans up to kiss the corner of his mouth, “Come back soon, darling.” 

When she leans away Thancred looks both relieved and a bit dazed. “As soon as I can,” the barest hesitation while he meets her gaze, “love.”

Her heart pounds against her ribs, skin tingling and thoughts stalling for a moment. Love. He’s never...

Ryne adds, firmly as if she’s scolding him, “In one piece,” and finally releases him.

“Make my job harder, why don’t you,” Thancred grouses with a smile, running his hands over his face. He shakes his head, mumbling something to himself, and when he drops his hands his expression is composed and collected again. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

It feels so strange to watch him step out of the front door without them. He turns to wag his finger at them, a fond smile ruining his attempt at a stern expression, “Back to bed. Both of you.”

Then he vanishes down the stairs.

------------------------------

:D :D :D

I realized I never wrote a pre-5.3 thing and really wanted to, so I did lol

HE SAID THE L WORD OMG time for Gwen to start overthinking again

#Thancred #Thancred Waters #Thancred x WoL #WoL x Thancred #Guinevere Ashe #Gwencred #Shadowbringers #Pre-5.3 #Cuuuuute #'Oh god please don't get killed' #'The most I can promise is to try' #confession of loooove <3 #sort of lol #It was in spirit and they both know it #even though he didn't say the three words SPECIFICALLY #<3 #love #My writing

[eremiss]

28. Irenic

Continued from “When Pigs Fly”

Gwen is curled on the couch, a mug of masala chai in her hands and a book Urianger recommended in her lap. Ryne is at the table, diligently filling out a worksheet about Norvrandt’s plants she was tasked to complete before her next lesson at the Horotium. 

The front door opens, then closes with a snap. Gwen glances up and watches Thancred shuck off his coat and not-quite-storm into the kitchen.

Clearly the argument about whether or not porxies counted as flying pigs hadn’t gone in his favor.

She and Ryne trade looks. 

“I heard that,” he warns, cabinet hinges squealing and glasses clinking.

Rather than point out they hadn’t made a sound, Ryne pretends she never stopped working and Gwen goes back to reading and sipping her chai.

She’s halfway through a description of a fantastical fairy city when her book is abruptly pulled out of her lap.

Gwen barely has time to make a sound of protest before Thancred has flopped down on his back and plopped his head where her book had just been. He sprawls purposefully, taking up the entire couch in a way that’s both comical and obviously petulant.

She pouts at him, but he pays her blatant disapproval no mind. He’s much too busy shifting around to get properly comfortable and glowering at the ceiling, brows furrowed and mouth bent sourly.

Yes, he definitely was not the victor of that argument. 

Once he’s settled she gives him a few seconds to return her book. When he doesn’t, she makes an expectant sound and taps a finger on his chestplate. He hands it over, looking terribly inconvenienced by the request. Of course he’d saved her page. 

She balances the book on the arm of the couch, then passes her tea to one hand and curls the other in his hair, scratching light, soothing patterns on his scalp. “Everything alright?”

He grumbles vaguely in reply, eyelids drooping ever so slightly. “Porxies aren’t pigs.”

Gwen cocks her head curiously.

“Alisaie is insisting they are.”

She shouldn’t ask. She should not ask. “Why?”

Ryne shoots her an uncertain look. Be careful...

“Because she’s decided that ‘when pigs fly’ is not merely a turn of phrase, and porxies qualify as flying pigs,” Thancred grumbles, simultaneously explaining everything and nothing. 

Why? perches on her tongue again. Were they arguing about the phrase itself, Alisaie choosing to take it literally while he didn’t? Or were they arguing about him refusing to do the thing he’d never intended to do, and it devolved from there? Maybe both?

“She argued about it for more than a bell. Apparently that’s a hill she’s ready to die on,” he goes on, conveniently forgetting that it takes two people to argue. He scoffs, “That’s a chunk of time I’ll never get back.”

Gwen hums a vaguely agreeable sound. 

 “If you’re curious about the outcome, there isn’t one. I left.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve just got better things to do than spend all night debating the differences between pigs and porxies.” Thancred quickly adds, “I did not concede, whatever she tries to claim.” 

She nods agreeably. While neither he nor Alisaie are going to be happy about the lack of a decisive victor, both of them walking away dissatisfied is probably the best outcome.

He lets out a quiet sigh and closes his eyes, satisfied and content to linger under her touch while he finishes cooling off.

Gwen turns back to her book, sipping her chai and steadily dragging her nails through his hair. Instead of reading, she finds herself idly considering the question: are porxies pigs?

Well, they… kind of are? Sort of. Ish. They’re certainly pig-like --porcine?-- in most regards, except for the overly large wing-ears, the ability to fly, and the tiny matter of them being fae creatures created from animated clay. So it’s more they’re… based off of pigs, or maybe modeled after them, which isn’t the same thing as being pigs. 

But on the other hand, it doesn’t feel like much of a stretch to say porxies are fae pigs. Which would mean they are pigs, after a fashion. She wonders what Ezel II would think of being called a pig rather than a porxie.

...Thancred is giving her a mistrustful, narrow-eyed look. For some reason she feels like she’s been caught red-handed, and she can’t help tensing up. 

“And what is your take on the matter?” he asks flatly.

“My,” Gwen blinks confusedly, “take?”

“Are porxies pigs?” he asks, his tone entirely too serious for such an inconsequential and frivolous question.

Aw hells. 

This isn’t fair. Gwen doesn’t even care.

She sips her tea, stalling.

Ryne is hunched over her homework, looking like she’s torn between wishing she was somewhere else and wanting to hear Gwen try and talk her way out of this corner. If she agrees with Thancred, she’ll be in trouble with Alisaie; likewise, siding with Alisaie will lead to a sulky, irritable Thancred. Not forever, of course, no one stays mad at each other for too long, but she’d rather just avoid that sort of mess altogether.

“I think,” Gwen says slowly, “they’re certainly pig-like.”

He folds his arms, unimpressed with her nonanswer. 

“They’re modeled after pigs, so they are intended to look, ah, porcine,” she continues, attempting an irenic tone. “But even so, they’re hardly the same. Pigs aren’t fey creatures, they don’t have any magical abilities, they can’t fly and none of them can talk. Plus, porxies are sculpted from clay and animated with magic, and pigs aren’t. Well. To the best of my knowledge.” She smiles, somewhat feebilly.

He doesn’t.

Yeah, alright, fine… “But, ah, well. So. They’re similar, and they’re certainly pig-like. But whether or not being pig-shaped or pig-like is enough to be a ‘pig’ is, ah, debatable. Porxies could be called fae pigs, certainly, which could make them pigs. They fit all the other criteria, snout, curly tail, entirely pig-shaped, and they even oink, but you could hardly eat one, unless you have a taste for clay, so…” She trails off and shrugs.

Thancred studies her face, frown lingering but gradually lessening in severity. Eventually he sighs. “Leave it to you to choose a balancing act instead of picking a side. I don’t know what I expected.”

Gwen sips her tea, tension evaporating as she twirls his hair around her fingers, “I find it helps keep me out of trouble.”

He snorts and grumbles under his breath, the shadow of irritation that has been hanging over his face slowly dissolving. He unfolds his arms and relaxes into the couch, mumbling, “Fair enough.”

She’s pushing her luck, but she asks anyway. “What is it you supposedly agreed to do ‘when pigs fly?’”

Given their current arrangement, it’s rather obvious when he abruptly begins looking everywhere but at her. He firmly says, “Nothing of any import.”

-----------------------

Irenic – adjective Favoring, conducive to, or operating toward peace, moderation, or conciliation

Gwen has +5 in diplomacy. Dat middle ground lol. She generally tries to stay neutral in her friend group, and in most situations, with a few exceptions such as being strongly opposed to the world Ending and having a strong aversion to pranks, particularly mean-spirited and harmful ones.

#ffxivwrite2020 #Guinevere Ashe #Thancred Waters #Thancred x WoL #WoL x Thancred #Ryne #My writing #Gwencred #silliness #When you're looking for backup for your dumb argument #and the boo is like 'Nope. I'm not in this'

[eremiss]

17. Fade

They aren’t out of reach at Gwen’s apartment, but it’s about as close as they can --and are willing-- to get. Her apartment feels a great deal more private and secluded than either of their rooms at the Stones, despite the other residents in the surrounding rooms. It’s a small luxury to be able to spend bells comfortably idle, relaxing and talking without postponed responsibilities weighing on their consciences.

Gwen builds a small fire in the hearth to keep the apartment comfortably balmy and Thancred dims the lights to a soft glow, saying something about ambiance and a relaxing atmosphere. They share a bottle of wine and the food they’d bought on the walk over to the Sultana’s Breath and spend the evening talking about anything and everything that isn’t primals, Garleans or anything else to do with their work. Standing at the counter and eating, not even bothering with plates or glasses, transitions to lazing together on the couch and watching the fire, passing the bottle back and forth and letting the conversation ebb and flow as they pleased.

The world fades away piece by piece, pushed out to the edge of her thoughts until she all but forgets about it. Then she has room to breathe, to let her hair down, to slouch and drag her feet. She revels in the simple, easy contentment of spending bells doing nothing of any import, talking about meaningless things, joking and laughing, and curling together on her couch. 

Watching Thancred do the same inspires no small amount of satisfaction and only makes the idle bells that much more pleasing. She watches his posture gradually ease and the subtle changes as his focus gradually shifts until he’s wholly there, mind and body both settling into the moment, into the peaceful evening and easy conversation, instead of roving far afield, preoccupied and restless.

She studies the way the firelight and shadow play over his features as he takes a long swig from the bottle, half-wondering how much of the languid warmth seeping through her is her own and how much is the wine. Her eyes wander along the bend of his arm to his shoulder, over his choker and sage brand to the line of his jaw until her lazy path is interrupted by his black bandana. 

Gwen reaches out and trails her fingers over the path her eyes had taken, fingertips gradually transitioning to the whole of her hand along the way. He’s wearing a pleased, faintly amused grin as he tilts his head slightly away, welcoming her hand to trail up his neck. She feels the shiver that he tries to suppress when her fingers trail along his choker, grazing across the edge of the ticklish spots he works so hard to hide and protect.

He tenses very slightly and shoots her a warning look. She's free to do as she pleases, but retribution will be swift and merciless. Ticklefights always are.

She grins, coyly tracing her fingers along the edge of the cloth before moving up to his sage brand. Another, different sort of shiver ripples through him as she traces the dark lines, idly wondering what went into applying and affixing such a mark and what it felt like to receive one.

She relaxes further, wandering hand resuming the trail her eyes had picked out. His stubble scratches lightly at the pads of her fingers as they trail along the line of his jaw, short and neat like he prefers to keep it. When she finally reaches his bandana she tilts her head inquiringly and gives it a little tug. 

He pulls it off, not even bothering to untie it, then shuffles his fingers back through his hair to get it all settled in place again. Though he still keeps his pale eye covered, he’s no longer so bothered by it as he used to be. She’s even seen him around the Stones without his bandana a time or two.

She begins to forget about her apartment just as she forgot about the rest of the world, her loose, slightly hazy focus narrowing to just the couch, the two of them and the way the shadows, dim lanterns and flickering firelight play on his face and make him look particularly rakish.

Gwen slides her fingers into his hair, pushing it back from his face and savoring the texture between her fingers. Her hand drifts aside, fingers trailing behind his ear and around the corner of his jaw, and she watches the way the shadows on his face move and change as his hair falls stubbornly back into place. 

His lips curl with a lazy, charming smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle.

She grins back, heart squirming pleasantly.

He idly strokes her arm with the backs of his fingers as she caresses his face, eyes falling half-closed as the pads of her fingers smooth along his cheek, his brow, down the bridge of his nose. He kisses her fingertips as they drift by his mouth, sending pleasant little tingles along her arm.

Her hand moves down to his neck as his trails up to her shoulder, savoring the simple, slow connection and exploration. He turns his hand over, presses just firmly enough to dimple her skin with his fingertips, and draws his fingers down the length of her arm in one slow, smooth motion. A warm little shiver ripples across her skin that makes her cheeks warm and her heart flutter.

Thancred curls one of his fingers to catch hers, his lazy smile spreading into a positively lascivious smirk that has anticipation curling up her back. He watches her from beneath his lashes as he lifts her hand and turns his head so his breath splashes over inside of her wrist. “Touchy tonight,” he rumbles, not minding in the least.

Gwen’s hum of reply shivers apart when he places a feather-light kiss on the inside of her wrist. Her pulse spikes beneath his lips, heat unfurling beneath her skin that has her mouth feeling dry. 

He looks so damnably, alluringly smug as trails his fingertips ever-so-lightly over the back of her hand and presses another, firmer kiss to her fluttering pulse. Then another, a little further along her arm, and another, and another. 

Time stretches, seconds expanding into something longer, everything fading and falling out of her thoughts until she can’t think of anything but him, the touch of his lips and the desire sparking in her veins. She even forgets, for much too long, that her own hands are free, held in place by nothing but his thorough distraction.

She leans towards him as he shifts closer, and all at once her clothes are stifling and in the way but she cares far more about sating her need to touch him than solving that particular problem.

She drops her hovering hand to his shoulder and presses the other to his waist, dragging them slowly over his chest as his mouth drifts over her shoulder and his fingertips wander over her back. His arm curls around her like he means to draw her in, but instead remains hovering, loosely caging, and his touch remains ever so light against her back, conjuring ripples of little goosebumps.

Her hands slip eagerly beneath the hem of his shirt to splay against his stomach and feel the heat of his skin, and she melts at the low, pleased sound he makes.

Gwen cants her head to the side as he noses along her collarbone. His breath whispers across her throat and her skin tingles in anticipation of the same light kisses he’d trailed up her arm. Then his teeth nip at her earlobe, a sharp little pinch that sends sparks tickling down her back. She whines in complaint and surprise, and he chuckles, unapologetic.

He splays his hand against her back, touch –finally– gratifyingly firm and burning through the layers of her clothes. He leans into her and murmurs, “Lean back, dove. I have you.”

She shudders at the timber of his voice, mind going staticy at the heat of his breath, the drag of his lips against her ear and the rasp of stubble against her jaw. She pushes his shirt up higher as she wraps her arms around him, clinging to keep him close and keep her balance as she leans back and trusts him with her weight.

He tips her back and guides her down, leaning with her like they’re doing a dip in a dance until her back meets the cushions in a gentle collision. He follows after her, pressing her into the cushions with the weight of his body against hers, not an ilm of space between them. 

His lips hover over hers for a tantalizing second, quirking with a sultry yet soft smile that matches the smoldering heat in his eyes and hers. Then he steals her breath with a slow, searing kiss that makes her mind blank out entirely.

------------

Fade – verb Gradually grow faint and disappear

Definite case of “I had an idea and I really want to write it, quick shove the prompt word in” lol but thankfully fade is a nice easy one to work with.

I’ve been really wanting to write something slower and softer and more intimate for a little bit, and yaaaay I got to! XD

#FFXIVWrite2020 #Guinevere Ashe #My writing #thancred x wol #wol x thancred #Gwencred #soft that turns into steamy #:D #This is how Gwen usually prefers to initiate #building up instead of jumping right in

[eremiss]

25. Wish

“Do you ever wish,” Gwen starts, then stops. It’s late and fully dark in her room, but neither of them have done more than doze.

“Hm?” Thancred rolls on his side to face her, finding her hip with a searching hand.

She mumbles vaguely, reshuffling the question on her tongue a few times. “Do you ever wish… things had happened differently?”

He makes a thoughtful sound, tracing circles on the peak of her hipbone with his thumb. “Do you?”

Gwen makes a subvocal sound, shifting under his hand. She reaches out, fingers bumping into his chest and then traveling up, finally coming to rest on his face. At length she says, “I don’t think so.”

“Really?” After how much she’s been through, how much she’s suffered, it’s more than a little surprising she wouldn’t wish things had played out differently.

She shrugs, sliding her hand into his hair and slowly combing her fingers through it while she considers her answer. “I…” she pauses, “There are things I wish had gone differently. Or hadn’t happened at all. But if things had been different we might not be here, now. And,” she scoots closer and nestles against him, tucking her head under his, “and… I don’t know.”

Thancred curls his arms around her and squeezes, warmth swelling in his chest.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, fingers sliding through his hair again. “I’m keeping you up.”

“You apologize too much,” he replies simply. “But you should try to get some sleep all the same.”

Gwen shifts around and settles in with a hum of agreement.

He never answered the question, but sleep is more important than pondering hypotheticals that will never come to pass. What they have is better than fantasizing.

————————-

What even is mobile formatting, anyway

#guinevere ashe #thancred waters #thancred x wol #wol x thancred #Gwencred #my writing #Wish was kinda challening actually o3o #so have some cute #ffxivwrite2020

[eremiss]

19. Where the Heart is

Gwen drums her fingers on the counter, waiting for the coffee to be ready, and casts her gaze around the room. It’s not her room in the Pendants, specifically, but she’s here often enough it may as well be.

It’s a familiar, comfortable space, now bedecked with her own personal touches like plants and books on botany and alchemy. Since the trials and tribulations of the light, the place has become a second home.

Sometimes she idly wonders why that is.

Because she’s here often enough? Because she’s made the place her own? 

Maybe, but likely not. ‘Home’ isn’t a place, at least not entirely. When her parents had reminisced about Rabanastre and Dalmasca, they’d more sounded like they’d been mourning people, rather than places. That place hadn’t felt like home to her, despite all of her parents’ fond words. Perhaps that had something to do with the sorry state the capital had been left in. Or maybe not.

Gwen pours the coffee into three mugs. She adds cream and sugar to one until it turns a pale, sweet tan. She adds a dash of cream to the other, just enough to soften the deep brown. And the last she leaves black. She nudges the lightest one to a prominent place at the edge of the counter, blatantly within view of the yet-closed door across the room, then picks up the other two and pads over to the other bedroom.

Does the Pendants feel like home because of the familiar faces of the other residents, and all the people of the Crystarium? Somewhat, because home is as much the people as it is the place itself. But it’s not familiarity with her neighbors and other residents that make the Pendants home now when it hadn’t been before.

Home is the people she loves. They’re where her heart is.

And, for the time being, her heart is groggily sitting up in bed and knuckling drowsiness out of his eyes.

“Morning, dove,” Thancred mumbles, accepting his mug of black coffee.

Gwen hums, hovering expectantly. He rolls his eyes fondly and scoots over to make room for her to sit on the edge of the bed beside him. They lean comfortably against one another, savoring the coffee, the comfortable silence and the simple, quiet time together.

-------------

:D

That break really helped, hot damn. I wrote this in like 30 minutes and I’m actually really pleased with it.

I kinda wish I’d been able to make it longer/bigger --aka: had more time by starting on it sooner, but also had a bigger idea in general-- but I think this is pretty good as it is :B

#FFXIVWrite2020 #Guinevere Ashe #My writing #Thancred Waters #Thancred x WoL #WoL x Thancred #Gwencred #Coffee #Home #cute #somft

[eremiss]

2. Sway

Set post-5.3, spoilers below the cut

The suggestion that the recently-recovered Archons attend the Moonfire Faire had been unexpected but not unwelcome. “To celebrate everyone being home again,” had been Tataru and Krile’s explanation, coupled with the sentiment that, after everything they’d gone through on the First, they’d more than earned some quality relaxation and time to themselves. 

It had raised a few eyebrows, certainly, but at the same time no one had protested, nor been able to come up with any objections. They were each fairly recovered from the whole out-of-body ordeal, and they had no pressing or urgent matters to attend to, as Eorzea was --tentatively, briefly-- at peace. Such opportunities were rare and always fleeting, so why not make the most of it while they still could? 

The sun is almost fully set on the Scions’ first day of vacation, and the beach is gradually filling with Faire-goers patient,or stubborn, enough to lay early claim to their spots for the fireworks display. The balmy air is thick with the sounds of revelry, music, the smell of seasonal fare and the din of lapping ocean waves.

Alisaie and Tataru convince Gwen to teach them the Flame Dance she’d learned during the scant bell she’d been off exploring on her own earlier in the day. What inspired her to learn the dance herself, Thancred isn’t sure. Perhaps it was just for fun, with a healthy dash of getting caught up in the revelry of the Moonfire Faire and the general carefree atmosphere of Costa del Sol. Or perhaps it has something to do with the gossip he’s heard about… something to do with ‘Bombardiers’ and a giant shark? He’ll have to get the real story later.

Gwen tugs at her pareo, making sure it’s securely tied about her hips, and asks if anyone else wants to join. No one takes her up on the offer, the lot of them perfectly content to lounge on sun-warmed towels and blankets and observe.

Thancred stretches out on his blanket and props his head on his fist as the trio start going through the motions, pondering how much he’ll learn just by watching. Maybe he’ll join them later, if the mood strikes in time.

Y’shtola mutters beside him, words dripping with mirth, “Hoping for a private lesson, perhaps?”

It’s obvious Gwen didn’t hear the little jibe, as she hasn’t tensed like a startled antelope and turned red as a rolanberry. He half wishes she had, as he’s morbidly curious what Alisaie might do as revenge for tampering with their fun.

Thancred makes a show of rolling his eyes as Gwen starts to demonstrate how one should move their arms. He drawls blithely, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Of course not,” she says, smirking down at her book. 

Urianger poorly stifles a chuckle on her other side. 

The sour look Thancred shoots them only makes Y’shtola’s smirk grow wider. He turns his head away with a scoff and pointedly ignores both of them in favor of watching the dance lesson. 

The Flame Dance is simple enough, mostly stepping from side to side and waving arms one way or another. Alisaie and Tataru master the motions fairly quickly, and it isn’t much longer before they stop following Gwen and start moving at their own pace. Soon the three of them grow bored of the same motions and start adding in little variations like kicks and twists, occasionally throwing in something particularly ridiculous just for a laugh. 

The longer they dance, the more Thancred’s attention lingers on Gwen. The Flame Dance is hardly complicated or showy, even with their additions, but there’s a certain ease to the way Gwen moves that keeps drawing his gaze back whenever it happens to wander. 

Her skin is glistening with sea spray and sweat in the setting sun, her smile spreading ear to ear and her eyes twinkling with delight. The occasional breeze off the ocean plays with her hair, and for a moment he catches the scent of the flowers tucked behind her ear. His eyes follow the flow of her arms and the sway of her hips, tracing the shape of her legs when she steps just so and her pareo falls open. 

Every step and twirl of her wrists, every twist, every laugh, every toss of her hair steals a little more of his attention until he's forgotten about the others entirely.

Thancred belatedly realizes he should be making some effort to not look so outwardly enamored, or at least try to stare a little less blatantly, but right then and there he can’t muster the will to try. Clearly his attention isn’t doing any harm— except to his pride about his poker face and his own preference to appear aloof and unflappable.

Besides, he’s a bit preoccupied by the fact that the longer Gwen dances, the more keenly he recalls they’ve refrained from touch all day, as is their habit in public. They’ve scarcely touched beyond little nudges of elbows and a quick squeeze of the hand. Normally it’s an inconvenience, or at worst an annoyance. But, normally, she isn’t dancing in naught but beachwear, a wrap of airy cloth and a brilliant smile.

Thoughts of a ‘private lesson’ had been passing fancies, just idle musings, when Y’shtola had made her remark. Now, though, the idea is considerably more appealing. 

The longer Gwen dances, the more Thancred is tempted. He could ease up beside her and join in the dancing. He could grasp her waist and dance with her, feel the heat of her skin under his hands as they moved with one another. He could press his smile to hers and pull her hair aside to taste the salt and sun on her skin. He could tug at the knots holding her top and pareo until they came undone…

The music comes to an end, and so do Gwen, Alisaie and Tataru’s dances, each of them flushed and satisfactorily winded. Thancred shakes his head, a little dazed, and ensures his shameless gawking had been his only display before pushing himself upright. 

The trio gradually wander back to the Scions’ little camp of blankets and umbrellas, still giggling and teasing one another about their antics. Alisaie declares her intent to seek out refreshments and turns to head for the heart of the Faire, Tataru trotting along after her.

Thancred entices Gwen to stay and sit with him by offering the last of his drink. She accepts and sinks down beside him with a grateful hum, giving his elbow an affectionate nudge as she tucks her legs to one side to keep her sandy feet off his blanket. As she sips his drink and tilts her head to listen to whatever Y’shtola and Alphinaud are discussing, Thancred takes a moment to study the sky. He judges there’s still time enough before the fireworks to steal a few minutes of privacy.

He catches Gwen’s eye and gives her a charming smile. “Care to go for a stroll?”

---------------------

Sway - noun 1. a rhythmical movement from side to side. 2. rule; control

:D

This was so much easier than Crux, haha. And I like how it came out! Though it was surprisingly difficult to come up with ways to describe the way Gwen was dancing and the motions and all that. I don’t write about dancing or fighting often, so it was kind of a challenge!

I debated writing more, specifically getting to the NSFW part, but it just wasn’t happening. I’ll save it and see if I can use it for another prompt ;B

I actually have another Moonfire Faire-related idea from their ARR days. We’ll see if I have an excuse to write about that later, too!

#5.3 #5.3 spoilers #FFXIVWrite2020 #thancred x wol #wol x thancred #Guinevere Ashe #Gwencred #My writing #beach episode #Moonfire Faire #The Moonfire Faire outfit is so cute this year! I love it!! #Especially the bracelets #Thancred was definitely staring aaaaall day lmao #Fun times #Dancing

[eremiss]

ღ Who distracts the other from trying to work at home and Who orders lunch?

ღ Who distracts the other from trying to work at home -- They both do when they know the other has been pushing themselves too hard or pulling too many all-nighters. Extracurricular activities are a popular means of distraction ;D It’s more often Thancred distracting Gwen, as she has difficulty grasping the whole “downtime” and “day to rest and relax” concept and is in the habit of keeping herself busy when she has a break from her WoL/Scion duties. She’s bad at taking time to stop and relax on her own, and needs a bit of intervention. ღ Who orders lunch -- Someone else, usually lol One of the other Scions, Tataru, or someone from the kitchens. (I imagine it’s sort of a communal lunch thing, so it’s more like someone else coming and dragging them to the kitchen/dining area at lunchtime) They’re equally accustomed to skipping meals or just plain going without, so neither of them bat an eye when it’s 7pm and they haven’t eaten anything substantial (or at all) since breakfast. Noticing the other is has skipped a meal or seems to be slacking on the self-care is what gets them to (lovingly) force food on them. “Lunch time! Go eat food because I know you haven’t! ...And I will too, because I haven’t either.”

#asks #Thanks for the ask! #Thancred Waters #Guinevere Ashe #Gwencred #couple things #they're both bad about work #and food #Thancred is used to long hours cramming and researching #plus his assingments #and Gwen is used to having to work all day in one form or another #just trying to get by #they're both dinguses #bad at taking care of themselves #but great at getting on each others' case about it #and taking care of each other #darantha

[eremiss]

Nameday

Given how Gwen wasn’t generally inclined to share much about herself, it came as no surprise that it took the Scions quite a while --far too long, truth be told-- to realize none of them had any idea when her nameday was.

It also came as no surprise that she didn’t actually answer when asked. “Oh, not for a while yet.”

And so it was that her first nameday in their company came and went unacknowledged.

The second did as well, though that arguably had more to do with the consequences of Lolorito’s schemes and Ilberd’s betrayal than the Scions’ thoughtlessness.

The Fortemps, however, proved more stubborn than the Scions when it came to weaseling out information. Twelve know Emmanellain could wear anyone down if he was in their company long enough.

Or perhaps they were just better friends to her than the Scions had been.

Thancred bristles when he thinks about it, aggravation, jealousy and more than a little guilt clanging around in his head. 

Even Alphinaud knows, for Twelve’s sakes.

He tries to ignore those less-than-just feelings by focusing on the upside: Emmanellain can’t shut his mouth to save his life, and it was easy to steer him into telling Thancred what he wanted to know while the nobleman remained oblivious.

Gwen’s nameday is the 26th Sun of the third Umbral Moon. 

 ---

The door finally opens. Thancred tries to look particularly casual leaning against Gwen's desk, snuffing out the last of the annoyance that has been prickling across his shoulders ever since he received word the courier would be late. They’d made it, thank the Twelve, but only barely.

Gwen pauses in the doorway, the surprise on her face quickly morphing into amusement. She drawls, “I don’t recall giving you a key to my room.”

He replies with a puckish grin. “You didn’t.”

“Hm.” She gives him a playfully dubious look as she shuts the door, And yet here you are.

He spreads his hands and shrugs. “I have my methods.”

Gwen huffs a laugh and heads for her wardrobe. “And reasons, I presume?”

Thancred could assert that he always has a reason of one form or another, but decides to stick to his initial plan. “Do you know what day it is?” 

She pauses, blinking at the handles on her wardrobe for a moment before tugging the doors open. “The 26th, I think. Why?”

“Indeed.” He puts a teasing lilt to his tone that suggests he knows something she doesn’t, “But do you know what day it is?”

Gwen is shrugging out of her coat and armor, trading them for lighter loungewear that’s better suited for a muggy afternoon of paperwork. “Ah… Firesday?” she says guilelessly.

His grin flattens slightly, his hopes to build some anticipation falling utterly flat. Given how she always dodged around questions about her nameday in the past, he probably should have expected this sort of insouciance. 

He pushes himself off the desk and ambles to the wardrobe, tugging the little box out of his pocket and wincing internally when the contents shift. He might need to have a few words with that curmudgeonus goldsmith about taking more care packaging his products. 

“What? Did I forget something?” Gwen asks, clearly puzzled. She genuinely doesn’t seem to know what he’s trying to hint at.

There’s no way she could have actually forgotten her nameday, surely…

Unless the date she’d told the Fortemps was merely to appease them so they’d leave her be? Thancred hadn’t considered that option, and the idea gets discomfort worming into the back of his mind. He'd confirmed the date with Tataru, but she'd apparently learned it from them, too.

“T’would appear so,” Thancred replies without the slightest hint of doubt. 

Gwen turns towards him, only half-changed, and before she can speak he offers a plain-looking box that’s small enough enough to fit in his palm. 

She pauses, a complication of emotions flickering across her face.

Surprise first. Then happiness that’s slanted with curiosity, her eyes flicking up to his and then back to the proffered box. 

He hopes she doesn’t mind the lack of wrapping or adornment, as he hadn't had time for either thanks to the delay in delivery. That’s what he gets for deciding to go with a goldsmith all the way in Ul’dah despite being so last-minute.

A puzzled wrinkle forms between her brows as she continues to glance between his face and the box, trying to make sense of the look on he’s giving her that says she ought to know what this is about. 

Her eyes suddenly light up with comprehension, her lips parting in a silent ‘oh’ as a fresh wave of surprise washes across her face.

That momentary doubt about the date vanishes beneath a swell of smug satisfaction that has him grinning like the cat that caught the canary.

Gwen’s expression melts into something warm and soft, lips curving with a small, shy smile. Her brows are still tugged thoughtfully together, eyes bright and curious as she curls her fingers into her hair. Her lips shape a few words she doesn’t quite manage to say until, eventually, she lets out a small, astonished laugh.

She asks, utterly baffled, “But how did you…?”

Thancred leans closer and asks teasingly, “What day is it, dove?”

Gwen glances aside, smile quirking bashfully and face darkening with embarrassment at having forgotten such an obvious thing. “It’s, ah, my nameday.”

He offers the box again, shamelessly pleased. “For a moment I was worried you’d forgotten.” 

Gwen huffs defensively at him, even as her tickled little smile refuses to leave her mouth. “How did you know?” 

“Tataru,” he replies simply. And the Fortemps, he doesn’t add.

She hums and nods, attention drifting back to the box. Her eyes trace the shape of it, eager and curious about what could be inside. Then her gaze lifts to his face again, searching. Either she’s unsure if she’s allowed to take it now, or she’s trying to judge if he plans to tease her with a bit of keepaway.

He’d been leaning towards the latter, truthfully, but she looks so excited…

Thancred waggles his hand, “Go on, it won’t bite.”

She rolls her eyes theatrically and accepts the gift with the utmost care, holding it delicately like the little box itself is precious. Her expression bends with something deeply tender and grateful, and she murmurs, “You didn’t need to get me anything…”

“I wanted to,” he replies, letting a smidge of honesty touch his tone. 

Gwen’s eyes sparkle, wrinkling at the corners when favors him with a sweet, adoring smile he can’t possibly deserve. A light, fond thing blooms in his chest that makes him feel a fulm taller and a bit lightheaded. He smiles back somewhat awkwardly. 

Her attention returns the box and she turns it over in her fingers, inspecting and pondering. She’s handling it so daintily, like the flimsy cardboard is as valuable as the contents. “What is it?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” Thancred replies matter-of-factly, getting his footing again. He wonders, not for the first time, how long it’s been since anyone –even Gwen– had so much as acknowledged her nameday.

He gestures at it and prompts, “The gift is inside the box, you know.”

The way she pouts at him can’t quite disguise her relief at being given such explicit permission, hesitance visibly oozing out of her.

Anticipation tightens across his shoulders as she tugs at the lid, doubt suddenly wrinkling his confidence. He may or may not hold his breath when she finally gets it open.

Gwen lights up like the sun, delighted.

It’s a struggle to not let out an explosive sigh of relief.

Thancred watches her unconsciously reach up to tug at her bare earlobe, as if only just remembering she’s been without her earrings for weeks. She’d lost one some time back and removed the other for the sake of symmetry, but she’s never had the chance to replace them. 

In a way he’s grateful, as otherwise he would have had a much harder time figuring out what to get her.

Gwen’s smile is small, almost private, but it’s so heartfelt it makes his knees weak and his heart skip. She runs her fingers over the golden hoops and murmurs, “Thank you,” so sincerely it nearly drives him to fidget.

He’d been prepared for happiness and gratitude, but not for her to be so sweetly, genuinely touched. Not that that’s a bad thing, just… the way she’s looking at him is... He isn’t accustomed to this sort of soft, open adoration, even from her, and he doesn’t know how to react. He’s off-balance in away he’s not used to, and he’s not sure how to feel about it. 

Thancred covers his floundering thoughts with a corny bow. It earns him both a fondly exasperated laugh and a moment to get his head in order.

As he straightens up he asks, just to be sure, “I take it you like them?”

“I–? Yes!” Gwen replies immediately, still beaming. “Yes, they’re wonderful. I…” She tilts her head towards her bathroom hopefully, asking a question with her expression. 

He shoos her away with a flick of his wrist. 

She scurries off, disappearing to thread the hoops through her ears in the mirror. He uses the time to shake his head and compose himself again, taking a calming breath and clearing out all the disorienting fluff. 

It’s heartening, truly, to see her so very tickled and happy. But at the same time he can’t help realizing just how unaccustomed she is to being shown such thoughtfulness.

Gwen returns, still wearing that elated little smile and positively glowing, lightly tugging at her new earrings as if assuring herself they’re real and at no risk of falling out. The gold hoops aren’t ornate or flashy, but they’re finely crafted and just the sort of clean, simple design she favors. There's something particularly satisfying about seeing her wear earrings again, and he realizes that these last few weeks have been the only time he's ever seen her without that particular accessory.

Thancred welcomes her embrace, his thoughts threatening to turn fuzzy again when she presses her smile to his and murmurs, “Thank you,” against his lips.

On a whim, just for a moment, he lets himself get lost and indulge in her wonderful giddiness and affection, reveling in the satisfaction of being the cause.

She’s still grinning by the time they part, guiding him down to rest his forehead against hers and swaying lightly from side to side. Always fidgety, he thinks fondly, swaying with her and trying not to grin like fool himself. Her lifted mood is proving rather contagious.

He holds her a little tighter and murmurs, “Happy nameday, dove.”

---------------------------------

Happy nameday Gweeeeeen <3 <3

I was on the strugglebus for this for suuuure but I like how it came out lol I was determined to get this posted today.

I forgot I made the intro so fuckin’ angsty lmao

#Thancred Waters #thancred x wol #wol x thancred #Guinevere Ashe #Gwencred #nameday #nameday gift <3 #Birthday #<3 #Gwen hasn't had many namedays with friends #especially ones close enough that she might expect a gift from them #and she isn't a big party person anyway #my writing #short ish

[eremiss]

FFXIVWrite2020 Master Post:

A full list of my submissions for the 2020 writing challenge :D

AO3 Link Also!

Total word count as of posting: 35533

content/spoiler warnings are posted at the top of each entry

Crux

Sway

Muster

Clinch

Matter of Fact

Free Day

Nonagenarian

Clamor

Lush

Avail

Ultracrepidarian

Tooth and Nail

Free Day - Specific

Part

Ache

Lucubration

Fade

Panglossian

Where the Heart is

Free Day - Preference

Foibles

Argy-bargy

Shuffle

Beam

Wish

When Pigs Fly

Free Day

Irenic

Paternal

Splinter

Favorites: Clamor, Tooth and Nail, Fade, Where the Heart is, Preference, Beam, Wish, Irenic, Paternal

I didn’t get quiiiiiite all of them this year @_@ But overall I think I did pretty good!! I’m happy I got a nice mix of Pre-WoL Gwen, and stuff from across all of the expansions :D

Thanks @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast​ for organizing and running it again!

#FFXIVWrite2020 #Thancred x WoL #WoL x Thancred #My Writing #Guinevere Ashe #Gwencred #ooh about 4k less words than last year :O #I'm gonna take that to mean I'm getting better at writing shorter things! :D

[eremiss]

Soft starters are so cute! Gonna keep that in my drafts! How about “You’re not in bed. I came looking for you.” for Gwencred? I am a weakling for things like that. :B

Set some time between 2.2 and 2.4...

Someone is playing a lute, the notes of a tune Gwen hasn’t heard before traveling steadily through the hall. The Stones is quiet and mostly still at this hour, but the tune is calm and not overly-loud, so no one is taking issue with it.

Gwen slowly unwinds her braid as she follows the music down the hall. She tries to concentrate on the sound and not the nebulous discomfort and restlessness that have been pinching at her thoughts all day. Even after a bell in front of her journal she still hasn’t been able to find a concrete cause, leaving her to think today is simply ‘one of those days,’ which does little in the way of helping her settle out and go to sleep. 

She huffs softly to herself, supposing she should be glad it’s nothing rather than something. 

The music draws her to the library, through the shelves and off to the right, where towering bookshelves obscure a few desks, chairs and a couch. 

She’s fairly certain she knows who’s playing and hopefully he, or his songs, can help put her mind at ease.

As Gwen nears the final row of bookshelves the song abruptly changes, picking up into a lighter, more whimsical tune that she recognizes. 

“‘Twould seem I’ve attracted an audience,” Thancred’s voice says from the other side of the bookshelf.

She rounds the corner and finds him laid out on the couch with a light-colored lute balanced on his chest. He greets her with a lopsided grin, “Recognize the tune?” 

Gwen hums and nods, hovering indecisively for a moment before perching on the arm of the couch by his feet, following along in her head with the lyrics he isn’t singing. She watches the way his hands move gracefully along the strings, never faltering or hesitating as he crafts a song out of thin air. 

Watching him play, his experience and practice manifesting in the form of casual skill and near-thoughtless ease, stirs a feeling of longing that’s equal parts admiration and wistful desire.

Gwen doesn’t know how to play the lute--or any instrument, for that matter. The entirety of her musical experience comes down to poking the keys on a piano and plucking at a harpsichord a time or two. She didn’t have the means to pay a teacher, nor acquire an instrument and teach herself, and she’d kept herself so busy she wouldn’t have had the time to practice, anyway.

But, she thinks idly, things are different now. Maybe I could give it a try? It wouldn’t be terribly difficult to save up enough for a beginner’s instrument and a few lessons, if she felt truly inclined. And there are plenty of musically-inclined Scions who would probably be happy to help her get started if she decided to teach herself. That would mean she’d need to decide which instrument she wants to learn, though.

Could the Echo help? It let her comprehend and internalize magic and combat techniques more quickly than normal, so perhaps that could apply to learning music, too? It doesn’t seem like that much of a stretch.

...But, that wouldn’t be a very practical use of the Echo, would it? She’s supposed to use Hydaelyn’s gift to protect Eorzea and from Primals, Imperials and Ascian schemes, not play music.

Thancred strikes the last note with a flourish.

Gwen replaces whatever expression she’s wearing with an appreciative smile and applauds. His valiant attempt at a gracious bow from his reclined position leaves them both chuckling.

She gathers her hair over one shoulder and curls her fingers in it, “I haven’t heard you play in a while.”

Thancred shrugs, reaching for one of the tuning pegs. “It’s become a rarity, I admit. I’m more given to song and story these days.” He pulcks at the corresponding string, the note bending upwards ever so slightly when he twists the peg.

She realizes she hasn’t heard him sing in a while, either. 

“I haven't played in moons,” he goes on, “but, happily, my skills have hardly suffered despite the neglect. I’ll be back in proper form in no time, should I make a habit of practicing.” He plucks the string again, humming with satisfaction once the rebellious pitch has fallen in line.

Thancred starts on another little ditty that sounds vaguely Lominsan and Gwen watches with rapt attention as his fingers move along the strings with lazy precision, quick and confident despite his obvious inattention. Even as she watches his hands move she’s left wondering how he could play so many notes and make so many sounds all at the same time--especially when his hands barely seem to move at all. 

If she did decide to learn an instrument, would she ever be able to play with that same sort of ease? Eventually, perhaps; after plenty of time and practice. Learning an instrument is one thing, but mastering it like Thancred has would be a long-term commitment.

It sounds far more daunting than it should.

“When did you get,” she nods to the lute, “this?”

“I borrowed it from F’lhaminn for the evening. She hasn’t had a great deal of time for music these days, either,” he replies with a shrug that somehow doesn’t disrupt the song in the slightest. “Tis a shame to leave such a fine instrument collecting dust.”

When Gwen has nothing to add but an absent nod, most of her attention still on his hands, he adds, “Ah, but I ramble. You sought me out for music, not prattling.”

I ‘sought you out’ because I’m too restless to sleep and you weren’t in bed, so I came looking for you. I thought chatting could maybe help get my mind settled. Gwen keeps her correction to herself, absently combing her fingers through her hair. “I don’t mind chatting.”

He hums thoughtfully, studying her expression. He brings his song to a rather abrupt end, laying his hands on the strings to fully silence the fading notes.

Confusion and mild disappointment flicker across her thoughts. She meant chat while he played, as he seemed to have no trouble managing both. Perhaps she should have been more specific.

He pushes himself upright, then offers her the lute with an inviting smile.

Gwen stares, nonplussed.

“You’ve been staring rather intently,” he teases. “And I would fain not deny you.” 

Well, she has been paying rather close attention to his hands. But enough to give him the impression she wanted a chance to play herself? Apparently so.

When a suitable way to decline the offer fails to materialize on her tongue she merely shakes her head.

He looks faintly amused as he turns to sit properly and make space for her on the couch. “Pray don’t deprive yourself on my account, dove. I don’t mind, truly.” 

She shakes her head again with a small, self-conscious laugh. “Really, it’s alright. I’d rather listen.”

Confusion flickers across his features and vanishes. He shrugs and rests the lute in his lap, rescinding the offer. “If you’re sure.”

Gwen slides down from the arm to the cushions. Then she shifts over to properly sit beside him. Not as close as she’d like, not close enough to lean on him or rest her head on his shoulder, but she doesn’t want to be a hindrance when he starts playing again. 

If he starts playing again, she corrects herself. She hopes he will, as both the music itself and watching him play had been pleasantly distracting.

“I appreciate the offer, though,” she says.

Thancred flashes her a smile and shrugs. A look that’s both thoughtful and faintly teasing comes over his face before he adds, “I forget how unfond you are of having an audience.”

He’s not wrong, but he’s not right either. She sinks back into the couch with a noncommittal sound, studying the far wall and hoping he’ll start playing again. She isn’t much in the mood for quiet at that moment, unpleasant things threatening to resume bothersomely nudging and tugging.

“What do you play, by the way?” he asks conversationally. “It occurs to me I’ve never asked.”

Gwen considers how to answer for a moment, then settles for a simple shrug. “Nothing.”

“Oh?” Thancred looks honestly surprised, even though she’s never implied that she had any musical skill. 

She feigns a forlorn sigh and makes a bigger show of another, more hapless shrug. “There was a harpsichordist who didn’t mind letting me pick a few notes every now and then, but I don’t think that counts.”

“It didn’t appeal?” Thancred asks.

“No, I...” She tilts her head one way, then the other, thinking. “It wasn’t really an option.”

He considers that, then nods. “Instruments are costly and picking flowers isn’t the most profitable of professions?” He suggests knowingly.

Gwen’s lips pinch into a pout and she narrows her eyes at him.

He replies with an easy grin. “Am I wrong?”

“Hm.”

Thancred grins for half a moment then looks down at the lute, thinking and drumming his fingers on the neck. Wondering what to play next, maybe?

His expression suddenly brightens, “Well, fear not,” and he pushes the lute into her hands, “that’s a problem easily solved.”

More concerned about dropping or damaging the lute than protesting, Gwen clutches it awkwardly, delicate but firm as if it were fine glass rather than wood. She makes a vague sound of dissent before finding proper words, “I don’t really-- I didn’t wasn’t trying to--” she shakes her head abashedly, “Really, I just wanted to listen.”

Thancred merely chuckles as he shifts over and settles just beside her, her fumbling protests inspiring nothing but amusement. He pulls one of her hands to the neck and the half-formed objections suddenly settle on her tongue and fade away. She stills, unsure if she should maybe try and make room for him or just let herself be moved. 

He leans into her and wraps an arm around her shoulders so his free hand can find her other, nudging his way half-behind her. “Here, hold it like this. Gently, now.” He pauses, “Well, I would say ‘like a lady, not a weapon’ but I don’t know if that would be terribly helpful.” 

Gwen sputters ineffectually, skin prickling --not unpleasantly-- under the weight of his arm and the press of his side. Her back is ramrod straight, but she manages to not quite go rigid. A smidgen of curiosity nudges its way to the front of her thoughts, tempted by the chance to play. 

Undeterred by her sudden motionlessness, Thancred sets about getting her hands into place. “Hands here and here, light but firm. Ehh, you’ll get it. Now, straighten your fingers out-- I didn’t say splay them, dove, you won’t be able to play like that. Yes, that’s better. Here, put your hand in mine and push back against my fingers. Not too hard, just a bit.” 

She tentatively presses back against his hand, firm but not so much that he can’t readjust her grip. She’s reminded that his hand is larger than hers, though not by much. 

He has to adjust a bit so he can properly press down on her fingertips with his own, and her fingers bend along with his. Their layered hands curl a bit awkwardly around the neck to hover over the strings, but they manage it. “Good. Try to maintain that. So, first things first, this,” he shifts their hands a bit and presses her thumb to the top string, “is the E string.” 

He rattles off the letters for each string, pushing her fingers to touch each one in turn. Gwen can barely hear him, too distracted by his presence, the heat of his hands on hers, the pressure against her back, his chin brushing her shoulder and the occasional whisper of his breath through her hair or against her cheek. Somewhere in the back of her mind she wonders if there is any benefit at all to trying to teach like this, or if it’s solely an excuse to be close and touch. If it’s the latter she… doesn’t mind, really, though a bit more warning would have been appreciated

“Let’s start simple, shall we? Careful not to touch the other strings.” He spreads his fingers and hers belatedly follow, then guides them to pin two of the strings under her fingertips. “Curl your fingers up a bit more. More.” 

She has to shift her arm and crane her wrist at an awkward angle to arch her fingers over the neck and avoid the other strings. She wonders how he’d made it look so natural, even comfortable, when he’d been playing. 

“Good. And now,” his free hand finds where hers is sitting, forgotten, on the body of the lute, and guides it to the strings, “strum. Ah, but don’t use your nails. Use,” a nudge, a little twist, and he presses the outside of her thumb to a string, “the side of your thumb here. Alright, give it a try.” 

At a loss, she lets her thumb fall down the strings in a way that’s a bit like someone staggering down uneven stairs. 

A tottering chord blooms in the air, the notes choppy but all in harmony. 

Thancred hums approvingly, “Again, one fluid motion this time.” 

Gwen strums again, her touch a little heavier and smoother, and the same chord rings out louder and more steadily. Played properly, she recognizes it as one of the chords from that little shanty song he’d been playing.

Oh. That’s...rather simple--or simpler than she had expected it to be, somehow. But that’s how a lot of complicated things work, isn’t it? The individual pieces aren’t difficult, it’s when one tries to make something of them, or use many at once, that things become complex. Notes and chords might be simple and easy enough on their own, but being able to actually play is something else entirely.

“And look at that, you’re already playing,” Thancred says approvingly. “Not so hard, is it?”

“It’s not,” Gwen agrees, studying the position of her fingers and the two strings she’s pinning.

Thancred’s fingers ease off and hers lift with them. “And then here,” he moves their hands down the neck, pressing down strings with her index, ring and little fingers. The bottom string --E? No, the top one was E, wasn’t it? Are there two? She should have listened-- is noticeably thinner than the rest and digs a little more sharply. “Arch your fingers. Good. And…” 

At a prompting nudge she brushes her thumb across the strings again, making a new note. 

Gwen smiles to herself, a modicum of tension leaking out of her shoulders and back. 

“You’re a natural,” he hums.

“I’ve played two notes,” she replies.

“Chords,” he corrects. “And you played them well.”

Gwen shoots him a sideways look and stiffens when she’s reminded his face is only ilms from hers. He grins guilelessly in reply.

She shakes off the minor surprise and works her expression into something skeptical before casting a meaningful look at their hands: hers on the strings with his to guide them.

Thancred rolls his eyes, “Fine, don’t take the compliment. Now, here...”

He guides her to the next note, and the one after that until they fall into a steady, slow rhythm. The lazy pace and gaps between each note made it a little odd-sounding, but the fact she hadn’t yet managed to hit a wrong note boosts her confidence.

Gwen lets herself be absorbed in the moment, concentrating on her hands and trying to remember which strings to press or strum for which notes. Her mind starts to haze over a little as she gradually relaxes, growing more comfortable and content with the press of his arm and his hands around hers with each note. 

She finally notices that his hands are calloused and rough like hers, and then realizes she’s not wearing her gloves. That’s probably good, actually, as they likely would have gotten in the way of playing.

She shifts a little, resettling a little more comfortably, and he does the same. They manage to not upset their slow song, and she smiles to herself.

The notes start to come more slowly, the pauses between them stretching longer even though the song isn’t over.

Gwen doesn’t notice when they stopped altogether until the last note has fully faded from the air. She blinks the haze away and lifts her head, feeling oddly groggy, “Hm?”

“Oh, you are awake,” Thancred says with a laugh. “And here I thought you’d dozed.”

“Ah, sorry.” She realizes how heavily she’s leaning against him and sits up, heat sparking in her cheeks, “I, ah, heh, seems I’m more tired than I thought...”

He gives her an easy smile, “Tis the nature of music to let time get away from you. Mayhaps we should call it a night?” 

He releases her hands and takes the lute as he leans away. The places she’d been pressed against him feel a little cold. It’s easy to distract herself from that, as the wrist she had craned around the neck is complaining enthusiastically and her fingertips stinging from the strings, each with a small little dent in them. “My wrist would appreciate a break,” she says with a laugh, rubbing at the ache.

Thancred chuckles sympathetically, “Ah, right. You’ll get used to that if you keep up with it. We can continue our lessons another time, but...” he catches her hand and ducks his head to brush his lips against her knuckles.

Gwen stiffens again, the nearly-extinguished sparks bursting into a full blush. 

He grins, a little smug, “...Perhaps at a more reasonable hour next time?”

-------------------

do not ask me how long I’ve had this 85% complete because the answer is SO. FUCKING. LONG. adlfjaskldfjasoidfjalskdnfa

Endings are hard lol but I think this came out alright!

Thanks @rhymingteelookatme for beta-ing! forever ago OTL lmao

Is this even a semi-legitimate way to teach someone guitar??? Probably not

#Thancred Waters #Thancred x WoL #WoL x Thancred #Guinevere Ashe #Gwencred #asks #thanks for the ask! #I wanted non-angsty fluff #and this is what my brain came up with #she never learns to play even though she wants to >.< #the-divine-miss-blue #my writing #Answered