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minttoy · 5 years

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Wayward

CHAPTER ONE

Summary: The night at the Goddess Tower, Dimitri wished for a world in which no one would be unjustly taken away. Byleth made her wish in silence - that one day she would see him freed from his darkness.

She wakes up five years later, only to learn the world hasn’t been kind.

Missing scenes post time skip (Blue Lions route).

Pairings: Dimitri/Byleth

Genre: Romance/Angst

Click here to read on FF.net.

Click here to read on AO3.

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I wish for a world in which no one would ever be unjustly taken from us.

She treads up the stairs with light, careful steps. She has to tiptoe and maneuver around dead bodies and old carcasses strewn over the floors, follow dried blood stains splattered across the walls. Her nose crinkles at the smell of metal, iron and blood. Byleth wonders what horror these Imperial soldiers must have seen before they were killed.

That’s a wonderful wish.

The last time she visited the Goddess Tower had been a joyous event. The ballroom filled with life and holiday cheer. Students dancing in step. Professors indulging in fancy drinks. Even Byleth herself, watching it unfold with curiosity, because the party had been the first she ever attended. Every single one of them oblivious, and too swept up in excitement that besides Edelgard herself, no one predicted the foreboding war, or suspected what lurked underneath.

She finally reaches the top of the stairs and catches the view from the open window – a peaceful dawn on the horizon. She only revels in it for a second before she shifts and finds him there, sitting in dark shadows. She suspected it briefly, having identified the mortal wounds on those soldiers as pierces slashed with angry lances and biting force, cutting through even the toughest armour.

Her lips form a frown. For a moment, she thinks ‘please’ and considers ‘maybe it’s not him’, because she doesn’t want to believe. But he looks up to the click of her heels and the blue of his single eye is the same as she remembers. Her breath cuts short and she almost falters in her step.

Oh, Dimitri.

His hair has grown, lathed with gunk and dried blood. His cheeks are dirty and muddied. Confusion and blankness cloud his visible eye, where she once saw determination burn bright so many years ago. His body is dragged and worn and scarred from battle. Even as she steps into the light, his expression is unchanged. She doesn’t know how to explain with gentleness the reason she’s been gone for so long, especially when she barely understands it herself.

She reaches an open hand out to him, tries to share her light, but he doesn’t take it. He groans when he moves, and turns away.

“I should have known…” His voice is raspy, like it hurts to speak. “…that one day, you would be haunting me as well.”

Her face falls, and she cannot fathom the swirl of emotions that course through her mind, beat at her heart. Above all else, sadness lingers foremost. She’s almost unable to bear it, not used to such strong emotions that she has to cast her gaze elsewhere. With it comes a sudden, phantom pain throbbing in her chest she doesn’t fully understand.

He gets up eventually, gripping his lance for balance and stands his tall height. She observes him more carefully, and can’t help but think of a creature in the night. Swathed in blood and dirt. Disheveled and dressed with coarse furs. Tall and looming, bloodlust in his eye. She imagines him prowling the grounds, cold and unfeeling. No less than the beasts they’ve fought as teacher and student. Humanity all but intact, and underneath all that metal armour, she knows he is hollow.

He demands she not look at him with scorn, even though she feels nothing of the sort, and then swears darkly to himself that he will sever Edelgard’s head himself. Threats of death and destruction roll so easily off his tongue. She wonders briefly when this violent and uncontrolled temper had taken root, but even after his angry tirade, she can’t bring herself to stop him. Not yet, at least. Her words won’t find their mark, not when she knows nothing of the missing years.

Instead, she says the only she thing she knows for sure, “I’m glad you’re safe.”

He only scoffs at her, “Am I?”

Byleth opens her mouth and nothing comes out. Her hesitation betrays her, and her silence is more than telling. He walks off without a second thought, and before following after him, she quietly reminds herself of the wish she’d made here years ago.

I wish one day I could see you freed from your darkness.

----------

Everybody remembers their promise.

As they work to defend the monastery from a band of thieves attempting to steal what little is left, they show up. Even five years past, they fall back to their old battle formations and await her command. She hardly has the time to register their new faces and growth, only fathoms the reunion as painfully bittersweet. After all, Dimitri had been the one to suggest the idea.

She keeps a close eye on him in particular, watches as he strikes down his foes with no mercy. He’s out for blood and terrifyingly violent. The honour of battle is lost on him, even though she knows she taught him better than that.

They gather at the centre afterwards and Byleth finally inspects each and every one of her former students. She’s most surprised to find Gilbert here, who claims he’s been tracking down Dimitri for a while now. When he asks the prince how he managed to escape the fortress prisons of Fhirdiad, the worst is confirmed.

Dedue is allegedly dead.

She closes her eyes and offers a silent prayer. There’s a collective silence from the group and at this point, she doesn’t know if she can stomach much more. After all, a teacher shouldn’t have to mourn their student.

----------

She leaves them in another room to catch up with one another. Some of them take the time to grieve. Mercedes marches straight for the church afterwards, followed closely by Ashe and Annette. For her, that time will have to come later. She doesn’t even wholly believe it.

Eventually, Gilbert approaches her in the council room. She keeps busy after the battle, rigorously polishing and sharpening her sword with a whetstone she found on the training grounds. As a former mercenary, or a Professor even, she was never one to remain idle. What little emotion she feels throughout the day is taken out on grinding the dull edges of her blade.

Gilbert narrates the events of the past and present – who’s taken control of what territory, what vast expanse of lands the Empire has already conquered, how his search for Dimitri has led him here, and why he set out to accomplish a seemingly impossible task. From his explanation alone, she gathers that Gilbert carries his own ghosts and unfulfilled promises.

“Thank you,” she says softly, chancing a glimpse of the tired man. “For finding him.”

He shakes his head. “It was not me who found him. It was you, Professor.”

She stiffens in her seat, but says nothing.

Gilbert sighs and scratches the back of his head. He casts his tired gaze towards the window. “I’m sure you find Dimitri has…changed, over the years.”

Clack!

The whetstone slips from her hand, almost cutting an edge of her finger. Gilbert alarms at the sight, but she quickly waves off his concern. She puts the weapon down immediately, deeming her mind unfit for the task. Instead, she leans her elbows on her knees, buries her hands in her face and rubs at her temples.

He is not the same.

After practicing much restraint and disbelief, the truth finally surfaces and the pain is akin to a hard punch to her gut. The gravity of his situation and character finally weighs down on her. All of a sudden, she finds herself missing him, of all things.

The boy wise enough to notice a young girl being dragged around, because her path had been decided by adults in a drawing room. And so he gifted her a dagger so she could carve a future for her own, one that she wanted for herself. Even back then, he understood well that your life was yours to live.

The student who desired to teach orphans, even when he still had much to learn. She watched from the sidelines as he showed them how to hold their ground, corrected their stances, practiced with dull wooden weapons and repeated several times that weapons were tools for protection and nothing else. He already knew all too well how quickly the world could turn.

The young man focused so rigidly on his studies and training. His compassion had been enough to elicit a few small smiles. She’d gotten loose with herself, slowly easing out of her stoic demeanor and mercenary mentality. It was an uncomfortable, but not unwelcome change. He willingly called her out when she slipped, saying her smile was ‘mesmerizing’. He always said it with encouragement. She thought nothing of it back then, but realizes now it meant so much more. Jeralt commented once how her students brought out her humanity in ways even he couldn’t.

And now.

Five years have passed and she struggles to feel anything beyond the melancholic haze surrounding the monastery. Perhaps none of this would mean so much if she hadn’t made that wish. Or perhaps he’s still the same person she met so many years ago. She just didn’t know him at all.

He always had that lingering darkness, even at the best of times. Underneath that façade festered a hunger for vengeance. Young Dimitri phrased it so clearly. Sometimes the darkness takes hold, and becomes impossible to suppress. The five years he spent unhinged and wandering in darkness nurtured his lust for revenge. Nowadays, people only laid hands on him with the intent to kill, and he had no choice but to do the same.

Gilbert clears his throat, drawing her out of deep thought.

Forgetting her place, Byleth straightens her spine. She tries to mirror his tired expression.

“Dimitri has lost himself,” she says, following up on his earlier comment. She doesn’t know how else to put it.

The man shifts his weight to the other foot and rests his chin in one hand. “Yes. I fear his deep hatred and solitude have consumed him for far too long,” he explains with a downcast expression. “We must bring him back from the edge on which he stands.”

She nods in agreement, unable to word it better herself.

He hums with uncertainty. “It will not be a quick or easy task. In truth, I’m not even sure if my words will…” he trails off, but eventually shakes his head. “Never mind, it must be done, regardless of whatever circumstance. He is still needed in his Kingdom.”

She finally looks up at him, assurance in her eyes.

“I’ll do it,” she offers, even as she sees dark times awaiting them in shadowed corners.

“Are you sure, Professor?”

She nods. For his sake, she would have to.

----------

Later, everyone is gathered in the council room. She stands to one side, casting inspecting gazes to each of her students as Gilbert and Seteth discuss strategies between themselves before presenting it forward. There is much on the agenda. Talks of battle tactics, recruiting soldiers, rebuilding the monastery and more. Everybody has agreed the Empire needs to be stopped.

Eventually, Annette calls out the elephant in the room. Her leg hasn’t stopped fidgeting since she sat down.

“Erm, perhaps we should wait for Dimitri?” she pipes up anxiously. “He should be here, right?”

There’s a scoff from Felix, and the gesture is oddly nostalgic. “Hmph. The boar is holed up in the cathedral right now, talking nonsense to himself. I don’t see him getting out anytime soon.”

No one says anything, much less argues with him. Byleth just assumes everyone has seen for themselves how the years have hardened and changed their former house leader. The air is stricken with gloom now.

Naturally, Gilbert turns to her.

She promised to handle affairs concerning the wayward Prince. She figures most people are rather…fearful in discussing Dimitri’s condition. The way she sees it, it matters not. At the end of the day, their end goal is the same: Halt Imperial conquest and take back the Holy Kingdom. Somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, she is certain Dimitri feels the same way.

She straightens up from her spot and gathers the attention of the room. “We can resume in his absence. I can debrief him of our plans afterwards.”

----------

People have always flocked to the church in times of need. Although their numbers have dwindled, guards, monks and merchants alike have all paid a visit at least once.

Dimitri is here all the time. From morning till night. Akin to a lost soul wandering in limbo or purgatory, waiting for judgment to strike down like lightning. He occupies the space in front of the rubble, frequently muttering to himself. Sometimes, he speaks of destruction and violence. When the voices get too loud, he pleads and begs for forgiveness. Sometimes he says nothing at all.

For him, there is only one end in sight. Edelgard’s death and after that, his own. A preposterous notion – as if she would ever let him get that far.

She’s spoken to him a few times. Tried is a better word. He tells her to scurry out of sight and curses to himself when she doesn’t. He is still unreachable. She holds her words in her tongue because they won’t find their mark. He didn’t even attend the vigil they held in Dedue’s honour.

“Look at the creature,” Felix is saying, standing a fair distance away. “It’s pitiful to watch. Professor, do what you have to in order to fix him.”

Byleth, distracted by her own thoughts, rests her eyes on the prince. The wide berth everybody gives him makes it easy to observe. No one dares approach too close. Her eyes shift to Felix next. He wears his perpetual scowl, but underneath she knows he’s trying to figure out an end to this situation. She recognizes it as his way of showing he cares.

----------

A familiar face treads towards the academy.

Byleth remembers his face. General Randolph. He stood beside Edelgard as they destroyed the monastery. Dimitri remembers too, because he’s more difficult to direct. He’s determined to ravage his foes and sort out his problems with senseless violence.

She keeps a close eye on him and the others. None of them are her students anymore, but old habits die hard. Five years of sleep catches up to her too – her body is not yet hardened from rigorous training and everyday battle – and she slips up. A fast-flying arrow is shot deep into her left thigh and she grits her teeth and hisses in pain. Before she finds cover, she knocks her own arrow towards the perpetrator before he can deliver another blow.

When she looks up, Dimitri has already caught up to Randolph. She curses to herself, quickly assesses the blood-stained grounds to find most of the Imperial soldiers either dead or subdued. She has to force herself against her own threshold, musters up strength because someone must stop him, and she limps over to him unerringly. The arrow is forcefully removed by her own hand, leaving a trail of blood in her wake as she ignores the biting pains.

She watches as Randolph is brought to his knees, on the verge of his death. Dimitri is smug and bloodlust festers in his visible eye that it sparks angers in her. Randolph pleads senselessly, claiming he must live for his family before he has the gall to call Dimitri a heartless monster. It only feeds her ire, because he knows nothing about what he’s taken from so many people, including herself.

Byleth draws the line at Dimitri carving out his eyes, and kills Randolph herself. From behind, straight through the heart, swift and decisive. She considers it mercy, because anything by Dimitri’s hand would have been ruthless and even her worst enemies don’t deserve that kind of brutality on their deathbed. She quickly sheathes her sword afterwards, because even after all this time, it’s still not easy.

Dimitri laughs heinously at her actions, telling her she should kill him herself if she doesn’t approve. Fierce anger burns so hotly that for a second, she would earnestly consider challenging him if it meant dragging him away from his bleak and corrupted cravings for vengeance. But of course, she would never condone that. Instead, she cools down the foreign, unfamiliar rage burning inside and reminds herself there is no need for more violence in a world already plunged in war and turmoil.

What he says next is atrocious. Claiming to use her and her friends to exact his revenge until the flesh falls off their bones. Shock removes all blankness in her face, and she watches him storm off towards the monastery. The rest of them are mortified, having watched in horror of what he’s become.

----------

Byleth patches up her wounds on her own. She wraps her thigh in gauze and bandages, rubs salve on her wounds and hides the discolouration of her bruises with sleeves. News will spread to the Empire that they’ve made the monastery their stronghold, and she prepares for another onslaught.

She wakes up confused on some mornings. There are times when she picks up her sword and gets ready to complete her mercenary contract. Sometimes, she goes over to her desk to review lecture notes, only to find there are none. She’d also gotten used to hearing Sothis’s voice as the goddess flitted about in her room. She has to remember these things belong in the past now.

When her mind is too hazy, or things get overwhelming, she trudges over to Jeralt’s grave. In bright mornings, late nights, rainy weather or cold winds, she kneels down on the patchy grass and solemnly wishes for a world where she didn’t have to bury him. Time is forgotten when she sits in front of his headstone, but reality always hits its inevitable stride and she remembers this is hardly the time to grieve. Not before long, she schools on a blank and vacant expression, not minding the familiar faces that watch over her in concern.

----------

“Professor! Over here!”

Byleth looks to her left, where Mercedes, Annette and Ashe are beckoning her to sit at their table. She approaches over somewhat sheepishly, because she knows she should be spending more time with her students and honing them for battle.

“Mercedes managed to convince the chefs to let her bake a few sweets. You should try some,” Annette says excitedly, pushing forward the tray of small cakes and confectionaries in her direction.

She hesitates for a brief moment before taking one of the jelly squares in her mouth. Although she never had a sweet tooth, she manages a small smile, just for them. For some reason, they all seem to breathe a sigh of relief.

“Did you know? Dedue used to help me with kitchen duty. Have you ever tried his cooking? I’d say it was his hidden talent,” Annette strikes up conversation, taking one of the small cakes into her mouth in one bite. For a small girl, she’s always had a ravenous appetite for sweet foods.

Ashe lights up brightly. “I’ve tried his cooking too! You can really taste the Duscur inspiration. He was always a much better chef than I am, that’s for sure.”

Byleth gazes over them with fondness. She’s glad they’ve forged these unbreakable bonds. Even if one of them is gone, they choose to remember the good he’s done. As the two of them continue to reminisce of Dedue and his cuisine, Mercedes quietly turns to her.

“Professor, I must say. You seem rather…sad, as of late,” the soft-spoken girl remarks, a gentle smile gracing her features. “Are you also thinking of Dedue?”

Her eyes settle on the wooden table underneath her hands. “Always.”

Mercedes waits for a moment before speaking again, “And Dimitri, as well?”

Byleth still cannot look her in the eye. “I think of him too.”

“We figured as much…” Mercedes leans back in her chair and looks up at the ceiling. Ashe and Annette have quieted their conversation in favour of listening in. “I don’t think either of us have ever seen you show so much frustration as you did in our recent battle.”

She shrinks in her seat as shame tugs at her. Perhaps she got carried away back there.

“I’m sorry,” she prioritizes first. “I hope you understand I’m not angry with Dimitri, but rather the circumstances that have led him here. He’s much different now, as you know, and I ask that you be patient with him.”

Ashe nods his head. “Of course. He’s always been good to us, just like Dedue. When we were students, he refused to let me address him so formally.”

“Me too! And he used to tell me stories of my Father even before I connected with him. It was nice, actually. He said it felt like he knew me already before we entered the academy, because Father always spoke of me.”

Mercedes hums in agreement. “Dimitri also helped me with sword training. Although I’m still lacking in that skill, I think it was sweet of him to help, especially since I almost swung at him. In return, I taught him how to mend his clothes. He was a very good student.”

Byleth softens at the stories shared around the table. She shares her own too. It’s hard to equate the man he is today to the person he was before, but if her students have no problem seeing him as such, even with his cruel and callous behaviour, then she should do the same.

“We’re confident he’ll come to his senses one day. Until then, we should help him however we can,” Mercedes pipes up, with a sense of assurance.

For the first time today, she fills with hope.

----------

He still spends most days and nights at the cathedral. It’s almost reassuring, because she expects to find him there, instead of searching the monastery in fear he has gotten up and left. The only worrying thing is that he barely leaves the church grounds. He denies himself sleep, evidenced by the darkness under his eyes. But she thinks of his health, having never seen him take a ration from the kitchen, much less eat a morsel of anything.

She swipes a couple of things from the kitchen one day and wraps it in paper. A small loaf of bread and dried fruits. Someone told her one day he doesn’t care much for taste anyway. Her boots click and echo as she draws nearer, and he turns his head away from her when she kneels on the ground beside him.

Byleth prods her offering towards him, lays it on the ground where he can see with his good eye and utters out a simple command, “You should eat.”

He closes his only eye, still turned away from her. “Go away.”

She shakes her head and doesn’t get too caught up in his brusque words. “You’ll waste away and grow weary if you don’t,” she counters.

He groans to himself. A rough, grating sound, and says nothing else. He’s rather subdued today. The last time she visited, there was no stopping the slew of threats that escaped his tongue. She’s gotten used to that side of him, knows not to indulge in his murderous fantasies. Instead, she treats him with a level of hardness, because he doesn’t recognize comfort or kindness when it’s given to him. She redirects his thoughts instead. Questions his motives with caution and reminds him to take care of himself. Never engages in a fight or argument when none is needed.

She says nothing else and leaves him for the day. Later when she checks on him again, she notes with some measure of gladness that the plate is empty.

----------

The next war council meeting goes awry.

They are short on soldiers and resources, and there are talks of requesting backup from the Fraldarius house and joining forces with them. When Gilbert asks Dimitri if they should dispatch their troops to the Imperial capital or the Kingdom capital, his answer is predictable.

“We will take the Imperial capital. There, I will kill her. Nothing could be more to the point.”

The group remains divided on the subject, but Seteth passes her the final say as the stand-in leader of the church and she chooses the opposite. For the army’s sake, and especially Dimitri’s sake, they should take back the Kingdom capital. There are so many people awaiting his return to Fhirdiad.

He turns to her, a cross look on his features. “If Lady Rhea is being held prisoner in the Empire, we don’t have time to waste taking back Fhirdiad. Can you deny it?”

He is only testing her, making her out to be foolish in front of the council. She doesn’t bite. Gilbert senses the foreboding tension and cuts in before anything can ensue. “Either way, we are in need of numbers. It is essential we secure backup.”

When the meeting ends, Byleth keeps her ground and waits until most of them have filed out of the board room. Dimitri remains, sharp and cutting words waiting in his sleeve, intended just for her.

“We’re not ready to march into Enbarr,” she says point blank.

“You understand nothing,” he scoffs, jaw clenched and hands balled into fists at his side. “The time we spend in wait only grows her power. She will have taken all of Fódlan before you finally decide to fight back!”

Byleth furrows her brow and presses her lips into a thin line. “You would rush in haste to fight Edelgard instead? You would fall on her doorstep before you even get the chance to see her.”

“That woman must be stopped!” he grounds out in exasperation, slamming a clenched fist on the desk and alerting the attention of the room. “I will go alone if I have to!”

She drops her hands and narrows her eyes at him, face lined with hardness. A bitter sensation settles in her mouth at the thought of him wandering off on his own.

“No. I won’t let you.”

Dimitri laughs. A maniacal, delirious laughter. He steps one foot forward as a crooked smile finds his lips, like a man possessed. “You, Professor? Are you going to be the one to stop me?” His voice is mocking. A taunt, above all else. And she understands he means to intimidate her when he draws closer with a crazed look in his eye. “Be my guest! I dare you to try!”

When he gets too close, she shoves him backwards with both hands, just enough to afford her some distance. The sword of the Creator hums and hangs at her hip, but she makes no motion to withdraw it.

“Don’t challenge me,” she warns and her voice is mostly even. Intimidation isn’t her strong suit, but her eyes stay fixed on his single one with a stubborn determination. Even still, she steels herself should he ever reach for the lance at his back.

He shakes his head and at her adamant insistence, takes a step back. “Then I swear to you this, my dear Professor.” The hissing voice that comes out of that mouth is a poor mockery of Dimitri’s own, dissonant to her ears. “If you ever get in my way, or you dare to stop me from severing that woman’s head, I will not hesitate to kill you too.”

With a huff, he turns his heel and gruffly storms out the room. She waits for the wave of shock to pass, and then her brave face is gone, replaced with an old and tired expression. She finally lets out the breath she didn’t know she was holding and suddenly, disappointment weighs heavy on her shoulders and she forces herself to sit down. Her breaths even out slowly.

Footsteps draw near, and she glances up to the waiting eyes of Felix and Sylvain, who’d been privy to that uncomfortable exchange. Felix is the first to speak.

“There’s no use talking to him when he gets like that. Nothing is going to reach him,” he offers rather brusquely, even though his words carry some ounce of sympathy.

She looks to Sylvain, who appears quite lax despite their circumstance.

“What he means by that is Dimitri’s had his rough patches before. Today was just one of them, so you shouldn’t be too hard on yourself. Besides, dark expressions don’t really suit you,” he remarks loosely. She raises a small brow at his nonchalance and as inattentive as Sylvain appears, he seems to read her cue. “Even I still have a hard time accepting who he is, but everyone has their faults, right? And he’s my friend, first and foremost. All I’m saying is, I’m not worrying just yet. As much as I hate seeing him like this, I have faith he’ll turn around eventually.”

“Tch. He’ll be grovelling when the time comes.”

Groveling?

She creases her brow, tries really hard to understand, but the redhead just shakes his head. “For now, the most we can do is keep a close eye on him and make sure he’s safe until he figures it out.”

“Hmph. That mind of his though. So consumed with the dead. The boar has no control of himself. I’m this close to being done with him.”

For some reason, Sylvain gets a laugh out of that one. It confuses her wildly, because they don’t seem to grasp the weight of the situation. Dimitri is on the brink of madness and they jest as if it were another day at the academy.

She thinks it over again though. They’ve known him longer. They’re more familiar with his patterns of behaviour. She remembers questioning it frequently then. The way Felix constantly muttered his distaste for the Prince and his ‘monstrous’ qualities, even going so far as refusing to call him by name. Or when Sylvain raised a brow and kept a worried expression throughout their battle in Remire, because of all the chaotic violence they witnessed. She didn’t know what all of that meant back then. His darkness had been kept a heavily guarded secret between nobles.

Sylvain is the more perceptive one once again. “I know it’s hard to forget all the awful things he says and does, but I ought to give him a chance. We’ve been friends since we were kids. I owe him that much, at least.”

She pauses her train of thought. “What makes you so sure he can change?”

The redhead shrugs, but it’s not without a level of uncertainty. “He’s done it before. Besides, he has you helping him this time. To be honest, he never meant for you to see this side of him, but the fact that you have, and you’re still willing to see him through it…well, he should consider himself blessed.”

Blessed? Mild confusion washes over again. She tries to wrap her head around it, the idea as clear as mud. And even when they leave, the thought sticks with her for the rest of the day.

----------

The meeting scheduled at Aillel isn’t without complication. Besides the scorching heat and blistering fumes in the land said to be born of the goddess’ rage, it turns out there was a spy among them and soldiers awaited their arrival. Somehow, and Byleth still isn’t sure how the goddess is carrying her this far, they make it back to the monastery relatively in one piece. Rodrigue has chosen to come with them, along with several of his troops and men. She is glad to see their army and resources growing in number.

She’s avoided clashing with Dimitri in any way she can. Their last conversation is still a fresh wound. Besides, Rodrigue’s presence seems to draw out some sense in the prince. She would be foolish to tamper with that. If she recalls correctly, this man had taken him in, even treated him as his own, when the King had passed.

Once again, she cleans her wounds on her own. She douses her burns and blisters in salt water, hisses at the searing contact, and pulls the sleeves over her arms when she leaves her quarters. Later that night, she ambles up the stairs of the Goddess Tower.

On their way back from Aillel, she came across a…revelation, so to speak. She’d been sitting with her former students, sorting out inventory of weapons and medicinal supplies. The routine has a soothing, meditative effect on her, so she was minding her own business for the most part. Somehow, they started reminiscing about their academy days – a frequent topic of conversation – and what they had done on the night of the ball. She’d been partially listening at that point, and only glanced up when they addressed her.

“Professor, are you aware of the legends associated with the Goddess Tower?” Ingrid piped up, features friendly.

She nodded. “My understanding is that wishes made in that tower will come true.” Briefly, she mulled over the innocent wish she made there five years ago and as an afterthought, she added quietly, “I’m not sure if I believe it.”

“Aww, come on. That’s only a small part of it. The tower is supposed to be a place where lovers meet, and the wishes represent the vows and promises you make to one another. That’s why the person you bring there should be important to you, like someone you love,” Sylvain explained. Ironically, he then went on to list all the girls he had taken there, much to the chagrin of the others.

Her face did not imply as much, but the information was new to her. When Dimitri asked her to meet him there, she thought nothing of it. She was clueless, even as he explained his disbelief for the old legend and still made a wish. For the sake of tradition, she made her own as well.

Afterwards, he considered if it would make more sense to wish they were together forever. By her own logic, that would cross the boundaries of their professional relationship, so she offered him a blank stare in return. He followed up nicely saying he improved in the art of joke telling.

Aware now of the romantic implications of the tower, he was right. It would have made more sense. She simply didn’t understand back then. As a Professor and even to this day, she’s socially inept at times, often failing to understand human conventions and emotions. Her students, and even other Professors, teased her often or said all kinds of crazy things to get her to emote anything besides her blank gaze.

“Professor, did you ever meet anybody at the Goddess Tower? Or made a wish of your own?” Annette had asked, giddy with a dreamy look in her eyes.

“Yes. I suppose I have,” she tells truthfully, not expecting the collective shock that flash across their faces. Much to their disappointment, she’d gotten out of that conversation courtesy of Rodrigue, who requested to speak with her.

Byleth remembers that conversation. That’s how she got here.

Resting her hand against the stone wall, she stares out at the open window and gazes out into the starry sky and white moon. The same view from five years ago, when she made a promise to Dimitri. She understands now it wasn’t a wish, but more like a vow.

She repeats it to herself again, but with more hope this time.

I wish one day I could see you freed from your darkness.

And instead of relying on old legends to make it happen, she’s determined to see it through for herself.

----------

#fire emblem #fire emblem three houses #fe3h #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #byleth #dimileth #dimileth fanfic #post timeskip #angst #romance

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thetimelesscycle · 5 years

Text

The Hobbit Fanfic: The Heart of Erebor - Chapter 65

Summary: ‘He could stand the wild light in his uncle’s gaze. He withstood the crazed glint that entered the ravenous stares of his companions. He endured seeing the dragon’s greed take them all. But when that madness seeped also into the eyes of his own beloved brother, he knew something had to be done. He just wasn’t expecting it to be this.’-The gold sickness of Erebor claims one more, and the path of destiny is irrevocably changed.

Inspired by the following quote from ‘The Hobbit’: “So grim had Thorin become, that even if they had wished, the others would not have dared to find fault with him; but indeed most of them seemed to share his mind-except perhaps old fat Bombur and Fili and Kili.”

*Cover Art Courtesy of Toastytoastie

/THE HEART OF EREBOR\

ACT VI -The King Beneath the Mountain-

Chapter 65

The Madness of Hope

It seemed strange to think that it had been less than a year ago that Kìli had stood upon the wall above Erebor’s shattered gate, believing all he had ever loved in the world was about to come to a violent and terrible end. He had been alone, abandoned and friendless, more afraid than he had ever been in his life, and certain that he was about to die. The despair he had felt in that moment remained engraved in his heart as one of the worst moments of his short life, and the days that had followed it had been no better, filled with grief and loss and pain.

And yet, it was just an echo now, an event that had been and gone. A past that felt far more distant than the short, intervening months should have allowed. He was doing his best to overlay such fading recollections with new memories, happier memories, not just for himself, but for those around him as well.

Some days it was easier than others. When wounds still raw were not yet open and weeping, and he could be enough to wrench a smile from beneath Fìli’s preoccupied frown, or to scatter the dark clouds that formed over his uncle’s head, to chase away the haunting memories that gripped his mother. Other days the events of the past were a weight they all felt, a veritable hammer above all their heads, just waiting for the opportune moment to pound them into the anvil of cruel fate.

The battles they had survived had left their scars, and he knew they would take time to fade; to heal.

Thorin’s coronation would go a long way towards accomplishing that, or so he hoped. Their victory certainly felt more certain now that the crown was resting upon his uncle’s brow. Now that oaths had been sworn and old alliances reformed. He was proud to have played a part in that, no matter how small that part might have been in the grand scheme of things. Proud of what they had accomplished, rising from the ashes of wrath and ruin to restore the Line of Durin to its rightful place amidst the Seven. Had this been one of Balin’s epics, the adventure would have ended the moment Thorin took his rightful place upon the throne. Sadly, if this quest had taught him anything at all, it was that the stories of old only ever told half the tale.

His own experiences had given him a new appreciation for the moments that the historians forgot. Those events deemed unimportant by the scholars who chose to study such things, dismissed in favour of great battles and the speeches that followed them. There would no doubt be countless retellings of the celebration that had marked the return of Erebor’s king, each more ridiculous than the last, especially with the inclusion of their elven guests. But he doubted anyone would remember him slipping away from the gathering, confident his absence would not be noticed with the festivities in full swing, to seek a moment’s solitude and reflection in what was swiftly becoming one of his favourite haunts.

The view from the wall above Erebor’s gate was a world away from what it had been months before. Gone was the pool of dammed water, meant to hold the war camp that had lain further down the valley at bay. Gone were the dotted gatherings of campfires, the sound of voices and metal carried on the wind. Gone was the terrible aftermath, the rows upon rows of dead and the stench of the wounded and the dying. Peace had slowly crept in to take the place of it all, nature gently wiping away the blood spilt upon its back, until nothing remained to speak of the tragedies that had unfolded in this place.

Where once the sight had brought him nothing but dread, Kíli could now take comfort in the vista laid out on the mountain’s doorstep. It was a sign of healing. A sign that, no matter the suffering that had passed here, time marched ever onwards, knitting over old wounds, bringing new hope to lift the afflicted from the mire of tragedy’s aftermath. He needed that faith right now as much as he had needed it then, a light to cling to, a vision of the future he could lay before others when darkness ensnared their thoughts and despair sunk its claws in deep.

Perched upon the parapet’s edge, his heels drumming an irregular beat against the stone seams, he let himself revel in the tranquility. It had been a long time since he had had a chance to simply sit and think, the world flowing peaceably by, and he intended to make the most of the moment while it lasted. Below him the celebration would continue, not stopping until well after the sun began to peek over the horizon. He did not begrudge them that, they had earned the right to their revelry, but he did not feel the need to join them. His victory was a quieter triumph, one he hoped he would be able to enjoy for years to come.

“There you are,” Fìli’s voice interrupted his musings, his brother’s uneven stride accompanied by the ‘thwap’ of his cane on the stone floor, and Kìli frowned briefly, wondering when Fìli had found time to retrieve it, and why he hadn’t asked someone to assist him up the stairs. His brother was not likely to appreciate either enquiry, however, so he held his tongue, keeping his gaze turned outwards as Fìli crossed the space between them. “You’re missing Bofur’s rousing rendition of The Cat Jumped Over the Moon.”

Kìli snorted, easily able to picture what such a thing would entail. He had, after all, seen it before. “A request from Elrohir?”

“Well, he did miss the original performance whilst we were in Rivendell.” Coming to stand beside him, Fìli leant his forearms on the wall, taking some of the weight off his bad leg. He waited a beat, letting the gentle breeze fill the space between them, then he asked, “What’s bothering you, Ki?”

“Nothing.” At his brother’s sharp look, he elaborated. “I really mean that, Fìli. Nothing is wrong right now. We’ve won. Erebor is at peace, Thorin has been crowned, and I… I think maybe I just wanted a moment to let that sink in. We’ve been so busy trying to make sure that everything else goes smoothly that there just hasn’t been time to… to… to just be.”

“I know what you mean.” Fìli nodded, his words a murmur. “It’s been months, and yet sometimes this still doesn’t feel real. Like a dream that could end at any minute.”

“I’m sure it will seem real enough once we actually have to take part in ruling Erebor,” Kìli interjected lightly, unwilling to surrender his hardwon sense of peace. “All those letters to write and documents to sign. My hand is aching just thinking about it.” That earned him an amused look, which he returned, before continuing in a more thoughtful vein, “In many ways, tonight is an ending, and not just for Bilbo’s book.”

Fìli cast him a curious look, head tilted ever so slightly to the side. “What do you mean?”

“We set out from Ered Luin to reclaim our home,” Kìli reminded him, rubbing his hands together in his lap. “To take back a mountain from a dragon. It sounded simple enough to us at the time, I’m sure, and it could be argued that that journey ended when Smaug was slain. But I don’t think Erebor was ours again, not truly, until today.”

“You think you’ll be happy, then?” Fìli enquired, his tone mild, but his words earnest. “Calling Erebor home now?”

“My family is home.” Kìli shot him a wry grin. “It really doesn’t matter where we live.”

“Even if it means being a proper prince?” His brother challenged, and Kìli laughed.

“Even then. I think I’m starting to understand that there are worse fates.”

Fìli was silent for a long moment, staring out into the night, and his words, when they came, were almost a confession. “I don’t know if I can look at it the way you do. Sometimes… Sometimes this all feels like a prison, and I don’t know if that will ever change. Everyone says it will just take time, but…”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Kìli ventured, unsure if Fìli wanted him to speak, or was simply airing his fears aloud. “And you don’t have to stay, Fì. If going back to Ered Luin would help, or paying a visit to Rivendell, then that is what you should do. Erebor doesn’t have to come first.”

“And that is why you are not going to be king,” Fìli teased him, if weakly. “Your priorities are all askew.”

“I am going to be your advisor,” Kìli reached across to swat his sibling lightly on the head. “And that gives me leave, oh future king, to rearrange your priorities however I please.”

Fìli raised an eyebrow at him, incredulous. “I do not see that working for Balin.”

“Yes, well, we both know Uncle Thorin is far too stubborn for such a strategy to be effective.”

“Oh.” Now he was affecting offence. “And I am more easily persuaded?”

“Of course. I will simply fill your room with boxes of apples fresh from Dale’s orchards and you will be halfway to Rivendell before you can say ‘burglar’.”

“Apples?” Fìli groaned. “Kìli, how could you betray me like this? Throwing your lot in with my one, true nemesis.”

“And here I was thinking that was stairs.”

“Hey.” Fìli’s indignant shove nearly sent his brother tumbling right off the wall. Laughing, Kìli overcompensated, falling backwards instead to land at his elder’s feet. Fìli glared down at him, imperious, and that only made him laugh harder until Fìli let out an annoyed huff and lowered himself down to sit beside his sibling. “You are an ass.”

Still chuckling, Kìli reached out to pat Fìli’s knee in only half mocking apology, before settling back with both his arms behind his head. His shoulder twinged slightly at the motion, but it was a passing pain, easily ignored as he let his eyes settle on the starlit sky above. Fìli was only a moment in joining him, the sigh that escaped his lips one of contentment more than sorrow, and Kìli was willing to let the silence stretch, a blanket of comfortable familiarity between them both.

He had meant what he said. Tonight was an ending. The end of the quest to reclaim Erebor, the end of so many fears; so many battles and old, untended wounds. The end of one chapter, and yet the beginning of another. The next day would dawn with Thorin as Erebor’s King, with Fìli and Kìli as princes and councillors officially sworn into their new roles. There would be decisions to make, meetings to attend, alliances to cement, duties to uphold. It should have terrified him, the weight of responsibility upon his - upon their - shoulders, but he was not afraid.

The Line of Durin had survived dragon fire, had survived madness and death and treachery. Though the challenges that lay before them were great, Kìli was surprised to realise that they no longer daunted him as they once had. Something had shifted, in the moment Thorin had been crowned, or before that even, when he had placed the Arkenstone in the hands of his fallen uncle and felt the rightness of that choice. He had no doubt that there would be further mistakes going forward, choices that would gnaw away at him, reminding him of the lives he was responsible for, the duties a Son of Durin could not escape.

But he was not alone.

That which he had sacrificed to try and save had been restored to him, a reward for his faith, a lesson learned and remembered. He had been prepared to give the Arkenstone away like a worthless trinket because he was afraid of losing that which he held most dear, and in so doing he had uncovered the true Heart of the Mountain. It was not the jewel that had so bewitched Thror and Thorin after him, or the gold that ran in rivers within the treasuries of the king. No, the beating heart of the Lonely Mountain was to be found in the merrymaking taking place in the Great Hall, in the laughter ringing out from every corner, in the quiet that had settled over he and his brother, restful and content. These moments, and the bonds that forged them, were what gave Erebor life; riches that could never be measured or bought.

It had taken him a long time to realise that simple truth, to understand that that was what he was sworn to protect, as a Son of Durin, a Prince of Erebor. He would never be a ruler with the power and authority that Thorin wielded, nor did he have Fìli’s sense of duty and calm steadiness, but he was beginning to realise that lack was not the failing he had always assumed it to be. The Seven may well have been right in their assertions that he would have made a poor king, caring too much for one thing and too little for the other, but he didn’t need to be what they thought he should be.

He had been spared the gold sickness because he had no use for wealth. He had given the Arkenstone away because Thorin and Fìli and the Company were simply more important in his eyes. He had turned his back on his birthright to gamble instead on the slim chance his kinsmen were alive. He had sought aid from those considered to be the enemy without a second’s thought. He had made so many choices that had caused others to shake their heads in scorn or despair or both. And yet… he could not regret the future those choices had brought him. A future that might never have been had he listened to the words of others. Had he chosen to believe as they did, and abandon a course of action they had deemed madness.

And it had been. He recognised that now. Not gold sickness or the dragon’s curse or grief or rage, but his own kind of insanity. To trust in good fortune in lands that had long been abandoned by the same. To believe when all others beliefs had died. To dare to stand against the tide and rage at the abyss… what else was that but madness? A year ago, he had sat atop this same wall and wished that he could share in the sickness that had taken his friends from him, his family. He had known it was wrong, but he had wished it all the same, never once realising that the curse of Erebor's treasure had found no foothold in his mind because another madness had already preceded it. So he could ask himself the same question again now; Was it wrong to wish for madness? And the answer, too, would be unchanged.

Yes.

Yes, it was.

For madness had already taken him.

The madness of hope.

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ladynightmare12 · 6 years

Text

A cookie crumbs covered tray

Summary:

“P-Patton? Patton, what's wrong!?” he asked, quickly looking for any sign of injuries. He didn’t seem hurt, though… maybe it was something internal? Maybe the cookies made his stomach sick?

“I ate all the cookies and they were delicious!” said Patton, turning to look at him, his tone and expression so sorrowful as if he were telling Logan ‘Our child, Logan! They, so young and full of life, taken from my arms by Death’s unfair and unforgiven hands!’

Logan had to pause to prevent himself from breaking into sobs alongside his boyfriend, his brain reminding him that they had no children and that wasn’t even what Patton had said.

*This one shot is for @sides-of-quotes-contest. Hope you like it!*

*Also, English is not my first language, so I’m sorry if I made a mistake. Feel free to tell me if that’s the case!

“Logan Nikola Berry, today is the day. The weather is optimal, your schedule is clear, you had the perfect amount of nourishment and rest and you have absolute no excuse for backing up like, figuratively, a chicken. So…” he said, looking in the mirror and pointing a finger at the face that frowned back at him “act like the perfectly functional adult that you are, and go downstairs to do what you are totally sure you want to do. Is that understood?” his reflection didn’t answer. Neither did he. Because, in fact, they were both chickens.

Logan sighed, sitting on his bed with a defeated expression, the confidence he felt before now totally gone. The box in his pocket seemed to weight more, acting like a reminder of the year that had passed between the present, and the day that it was bought.

“A year already… and I haven’t even asked him yet…” he mumbled, his hands covering his face as if shielding him from disapproving glares “Why can’t I just… say it? It’s not like anything could go wrong…”

Except that it did, and he DID know. Because, in fact, the amount of things that couldn’t go wrong were infinitesimal. He could trip while walking, stutter while talking, faint from the emotions overwhelming him, or…

Or Patton could say no. And nothing would be like before, with lazy mornings, and loving words sounding in every corner of their cozy apartment, and little adventures traveling the same city yet always discovering something new and interesting. How could he ever live without that? Without the routine that filled his heart with security and love?

He bit his lip, analyzing his best course of action. In the back of his mind, he wondered if maybe he should hang out with Virgil less, because it was probably that his habit of overthinking things had… who was he kidding, he had the same habit way before he met the guy. Standing up, he decided to do it. He took a shaky breath, ignoring the way his hands trembled and his throat seemed to be filled with all the words he wanted to say.

He could do it, he could do it, he cou- wait, was that a sob?

His body went rigid trying to hear that sound again, and his face paled a little when the sobs of his boyfriend made their way through the walls of the apartment. Barely managing to process that in order to get out of the room he needed to open the door, he stifled a cry when the pain caused by his foolish action made itself know.

Groaning, he wasted no time throwing open the door and rushing in search of Patton. It didn’t take long to find him, sitting in the dining room (that was, in fact, just a table and two chairs located near the kitchen) and sobbing over a cookie crumbs covered tray as if it were his firstborn’s dead body.

“P-Patton? Patton, what's wrong!?” he asked, quickly looking for any sign of injuries. He didn’t seem hurt, though… maybe it was something internal? Maybe the cookies made his stomach sick?

Logan had to pause to prevent himself from breaking into sobs alongside his boyfriend, his brain reminding him that they had no children and that wasn’t even what Patton had said.

“...Why are you crying, then?” he finally said after, figuratively, getting his shit together.

“BECAUSE I ATE THEM ALL ALREADY-!” answered a wailing Patton. He frowned, not understanding the reason of his sadness. Yes, there were no more cookies, but was it really that bad?

It was then that he noticed.

Dark circles under his eyes, messed up hair, I-don’t-even-care clothes. Patton was obviously not having a great day. Maybe not even a great week, if the way he came home from work was anything to go by. And what was Patton’s favorite comfort food? Cookies, obviously, but apparently they weren’t enough this time.

“Shhh, dearest, it’s alright” gathering the sobbing man into his arms, he made sure to lower his volume, soften his voice and use as many pet names as he could think of in order to calm him down “everything’s fine, boogabear, just let it all out” lowering them both to the floor, he gently put Patton in his lap and began to hum the Imperial March. Maybe it was not the most comforting song, but it was one of the few he actually liked and remembered, and he knew that Patton didn’t really care as long as he kept doing it.

After a while of soothing back rubs, really geeky humming and softly petted hair, Patton stopped crying. Logan turned to look at him, concern present in his eyes. Patton gave him a shaky smile.

Well, that would not do.

“uhh… Lo?” he asked, looking between his boyfriend’s face and the finger that was softly pressed against his nose “what…?”

“This is your nose”

“… yeah”

“This shall be booped” he deadpanned. The giggles that quickly escaped Patton made him crack a smile, though. “Boop boop, Baby Boo” he said, watching as Patton went from cute giggles to hysterical laughter. Good.

“pfft… s-stop!” Patton squeaked as Logan kept booping him and even bleping at him like a cat “s-stop it!”

“hey Pat?” holding hands with Patton, he used his free hand to cup Patton’s cheek and put him closer until their noses were touching.

“Yeah, bumblebee? What's up?” he said between giggles, trying to regain his breath.

“My thoughts are like eggs” upon seeing his confusion he winked and continued with what he hoped was a smooth voice “When I look into your eyes, they get all scrambled”

“OH MY GOD- “laughing like a very crazy seal, Patton jumped into his arms (or tried to, anyways, since he was already in there) and began to enthusiastically kiss his face.

Smiling with his arms full of boyfriend, Logan closed his eyes. So, what if he hadn’t asked Patton yet? That didn’t mean that he didn’t love him. It just gave their relationship status a different label, it didn’t change the love they felt. He didn’t have to rush anything; he could keep making Patton laugh in his bad days, go on adventures around the city, cuddle with him while watching TV, see him first thing in the morning and last in the night, kiss him and hold him and… and they didn’t need to be married to do that.

Married, married, married.

Hum.

Someday, he thought.

Someday he would be ready to marry the man that was currently squealing about his “cute” boyfriend, and maybe even have a family with him. Only time would tell.

#logan sanders #patton sanders #logicality #logicality fic #sanders sides #sanders sides fic #food mention #fluff #kinda death mention #sides of quotes contest #i don't know how to tag this

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kingdomheartsloversstuff · 7 years

Text

Light of Lothal Chapter 10- Mr. Muttonchops

Lyste is left to take care of Dev while Kallus is on Lasan and works to find a way to cheer him up.

Read it on AO3

<<Previous Next>>

Lyste had hoped Dev would relax and finally get some much needed rest as the day progressed. Sadly, it seemed Dev only got more nervous, and sure something terrible had happened to Kallus. Lyste had attempted to explain that it was not uncommon for Kallus to be unable to talk for days during a mission and that he shouldn’t worry. His assurances however fell on deaf ears. He continued to insist that Kallus was ‘in trouble’ because of him. Lyste couldn’t even begin to imagine why Dev believed that, all he knew was he could not get into contact with Kallus and it seemed he would be the only one who could convince Dev that wasn’t the case.

Out of the corner of his eye, Lyste watched Dev as he unenthusiastically shoved his food around on his plate with his fork, heavy bags under his eyes that seemed to physically drag him down. It seemed every time the poor boy started to find some shred of happiness something else happened to drag him back down again. It was painful watching a child go through this, even worse seeing how apathetic to his suffering everyone seemed to be.

No one could be bothered with the plight of one child, no one understood why Lyste and Kallus cared so much about one child. If Lyste was honest, at first he did this because Kallus wanted to help the boy and he would do anything for Kallus. But then he got to know Dev, started to see how much suffering he went through at the hands of the Empire. Saw how much everyone needlessly suffered while the Empire, while he, turned a blind eye.

“I’m not hungry,” Dev mumbled, gently pushing the plate away from himself.

“Alright,” Lyste sighed, noting he’d barely touched his food. Lyste’s datapad beeped, signaling he’d received a message. Confused, Lyste picked up his datapad and opened it, quickly reading over the report. There had been another attack from a group of Rebels at one of their supply caches and he was needed to report in immediately. “It looks like I have to go out to town for important business…will you be alright by yourself in your room?”

“I….guess…” Dev mumbled, clearly looking uncomfortable with it. Though Lyste wouldn’t have minded bringing Dev along, he wasn’t sure how safe it would be for him with Rebels running amuck. Though Lyste had to wonder how safe Dev would really be in an Imperial building.

The pair silently made their way through the halls, ignoring the annoyed glares thrown their way. They just didn’t understand, why though was beyond Lyste. How could they look at a child and see him as an annoyance? He was a child, what did they expect from him? Lyste opened the door for Dev and said,

“If you need anything don’t hesitate to comm me.”

“Okay,” Dev mumbled as he wondered over to his room, the door sliding shut behind him. Lyste shut and locked the main doors to Dev and Kallus’s quarters before making his way to the hanger. Lyste hoped this incident wouldn’t take too long.

-----

The marketplace was surprisingly crowded given a rebel attack had recently happened, but he supposed the people still needed to make a living, regardless of the danger to them. Lyste soon found himself extremely grateful most of the stalls where still open. As he fought his way through the crowds, he found himself stumbling into one of the many stalls, which happened to sell an array of plush animals, drawing his attention. Dev had lost everything when his parents were arrested, he might appreciate something soft to cuddle when he was lonely at night…

“Good evening sir I- o-oh!” The stall owner, an elderly Rodian stammered, fear crossing her face at the sight of Lyste.

“Good evening ma’am,” Lyste said, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible as he examined the array of plush animals, his eyes drawn to a plush Loth Cat. “How much for the Loth Cat?” The poor Rodian, stunned by the question, stammered out a price, wincing in fear. The price was a little higher than expected, but given the state of the Rodians attire, Lyste could only assume to poor owner was desperate for some funds.

“Here you are,” Lyste said, pulling out the needed credits and handing them to the stunned shop owner. Wordlessly she handed Lyste the plush who tucked it under his arm before nodding his head at her. “Goodnight ma’am.” Hurrying through the market before Aresko and Grint started to wonder where he was. In the grand scheme of things, he realized that buying one plush from a starving citizen wouldn’t help all that much, but every little bit counted he supposed. He just hoped one of the troopers didn’t shut her shop down because she didn’t have the proper permits, he severely doubted most if any of the shop owners held the proper permits to sell, not that those permits where very obtainable….

“Lieutenant Lyste!” Grint bellowed. “What took you so long?”

“I had to drop Dev off before coming here,” Lyste calmly explained, ignoring their snickering when they noticed the stuffed Loth Cat tucked beneath his arm, a part of him regretting not waiting to buy the plush until after he’d finished his business. Nothing he could do about that now. Instead he straightened his shoulders and tried to school his expression to something like Kallus would do when he was cross.

“You mean Kallus’s brat?” Aresko asked.

“He’s not a brat, he’s a child,” Lyste snapped. “I would hold your tongue if I was you.”

“Why’s that?” Aresko demanded.

“Kallus will have your head if he hears you talking about him like that,” Lyste icily said. “And I tell Kallus everything I hear.”

“He’s hardly my concern,” Aresko scoffed.

“I’m not afraid of him,” Grint added.

“You should be,” Lyste mumbled, stepping around them to inspect the Rebels handiwork. Twelve trooper’s dead, three walkers destroyed and all of the weapons destroyed or stolen. They could easily recover from this incident, but Governor Pryce would not be pleased none the less. “We need to increase patrols around other supply caches around the city to ensure more aren’t destroyed by these Rebels.” Lyste declared.

“Don’t tell me how to do my job,” Aresko snapped.

“I was summoned here for a reason was I not?” Lyste demanded.

“We need this cache resupplied as quickly as possible,” Aresko snapped. “That’s all.”

“You could have sent me a message instead of dragging me out here leaving Dev all alone,” Lyste grumbled.

“Why are you watching that brat?” Grint asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Aresko asked, smirking at Lyste. “It’s the lieutenant’s desperate attempts to gain Kallus’s affections is it not?”

“How dare you!” Lyste snapped, clenching his fists, entire body tense. “Kallus is my friend! I’m just trying to help!”

“Right,” Aresko drawled. “And the looks you give him, purely friendly thoughts about our agent hmm?” Lyste clenched his jaw, desperately trying to bite back a sarcastic remark and he curled into himself. He would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about what it would be like for Kallus to see him as more than a friend; what it would be like to be held in his arms, their bodies pressed together, their lips touching-

“That is none of your business,” Lyste snapped, glaring at Aresko.

“No, but your less then innocent intentions towards Kallus are his business are they not?” Aresko asked. “I wonder how he would react to such news?”

“If you’re trying to threaten me, it won’t work,” Lyste declared, squaring his shoulders to make himself look more intimidating then he was, an extremely difficult task given he was quite a bit shorter than the pair and not nearly as well built as Grint. Lyste refused to let that get to him however and met their sneering looks with a glare of his own.

Aresko’s smirk widened as he said, “If you feel threatened maybe you should reconsider your own actions.”

“Are we going to continue wasting time discussing my personal life or are we going to discuss the Rebel attack,” Lyste said through clenched teeth.

“As I said before there is nothing to discuss,” Aresko dismissively said. “We just need supplies from you Supply Master.”

“Fine,” Lyste said, “Send me a list of the supplies lost and I will see to it that you have what you need.” Turning on his heel and marching off. “Try not to get them destroyed again.” He threw over his shoulder with a smirk before continuing back to base.

-----

Lyste kept his head held high as he marched through the halls, ignoring the snickering from his coworkers as he walked passed them, instead focusing on what Kallus would do in a situation like this; Lyste took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, held his chin up and scowled like he’d seen Kallus do a thousand times. He imagined himself making his coworkers cower in fear at the mere sight of his scowl, lifting his spirits slightly. He might have once laughed at himself, but that was before he met Dev. Now, he shamelessly marched through the halls with a stuffed Loth Cat in his arms, not even caring what others thought of him. Go on he bitterly thought laugh at the man getting a gift for a traumatized child.

Lyste shoved the angry thoughts out of his mind and focused on the Loth Cat in his arms. Hopefully this would help Dev sleep better at night. Even if it didn’t, he hoped Dev would at least like the toy and maybe help him stave off boredom. It wasn’t much, but perhaps it would be better than nothing.

With that thought firmly in mind, Lyste knocked on the door to Kallus and Dev’s quarters, waiting for a moment before unlocking the door and stepping inside calling out, “Dev? Are you awake?” Quickly hiding the stuffed animal behind his back as the door to Dev’s room opened.

“That was fast,” Dev lifelessly said.

“I wasn’t actually needed apparently,” Lyste said with an over dramatic eye roll. “They just wanted to tell me in person they needed more supplies to replace those they got blown up.”

“Oh,” Dev said, rolling on the balls of his feet. “Did you need something from me?”

“No,” Lyste said, “I just found something I thought you might like.”

“Something for me?” Dev asked, curiosity leaking into his voice.

“Yes,” Lyste admitted, pulling the plush out from behind his back. “See I saw this little guy sitting in a booth looking so sad I thought maybe you might like a new friend and that this little guy would like a new home….what do you think?”

“For….me?” Dev asked, tentatively reaching out before quickly pulling his hands away.

“All for you,” Lyste assured, holding the plush out closer for Dev to take. “I figured, he might make a good bedtime companion.”

“Thank you,” Dev said, taking the plush and hugging it against his chest.

“Do you like him?” Lyste tentatively asked.

“I love him!” Dev exclaimed, awkwardly wrapping his arms around Lyste’s leg while still clutching the stuffed Loth Cat.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Lyste said as Dev let go of his leg. “Now all he needs is a name….maybe something to remind you of Kallus when he is away so you don’t feel so lonely?”

“Like what?” Dev asked, glancing at Lyste curiously.

“Well,” Lyste began, kneeling down so he was at eye level with Dev. “I know on one mission the locals of the planet they were visiting hadn’t seen very many humans and had trouble distinguishing them and had an even harder time with their names so they started giving them all nicknames.”

“Even dad?” Dev asked.

“Oh yea,” Lyste said. “They called him Mr. Muttonchops.”

“Mr. Muttonchops?” Dev giggled.

“Yep,” Lyste said. “Kallus was so embarrassed, he wasn’t even the one who told me, one of the boys though made sure everyone knew.”

Dev eagerly held up the Loth Cat and declared, “I shall call you, Mr. Muttonchops! Do you like your new name?” Dev giggled and shook the Loth cat’s head.

“I think he likes it.” Lyste informed him with a soft chuckle as Dev hugged Mr. Muttonchops to his chest.

“Can Mr. Muttonchops come with us to dinner?” Dev asked.

“I don’t see why not,” Lyste said, earning a bright smile from Dev. A chime announcing a visitor rang, momentarily surprising Lyste. Why would a visitor be here? Everyone knew Kallus was on a mission and Dev didn’t exactly have any friends on base. What if they found out who Dev really was…? Swallowing his fear, Lyste pressed the button to open the door, revealing a trooper Lyste didn’t recognize.

“Agent Kallus is not in at the moment,” Lyste greeted. “But I can take a message-“

“That won’t be necessary,” The trooper said. “I have a message for Dev Morgan.”

“What message?” Lyste asked, blocking Dev from his view.

“We regret to inform him of Agent Kallus’s death,” the trooper coldly informed him.

#Kallus #Agent Kallus #Ezra Bridger #Star Wars Rebels #SWR #yogar lyste #Light of Lothal

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captain-zajjy · 7 years

Text

Solstice, Chapter 3 - A Final Fantasy XV Story

Pairing: Ignis x Female Original Character

AO3 | Chapter 1 2

Valeria awoke to white light in a white room, white noise buzzing in her ears. Her head felt as if it had been stuffed full of wool, her mouth dry, limbs heavy and uncoordinated.

“Come on.”

Something was prodding her in the ribs. Valeria turned ponderously onto her side, blinking at the fuzzy image in front of her until it materialized into a severe-looking woman wearing an impatient frown.

“What...?” Valeria licked her lips in an effort to get some moisture back into them. “Who...who are you?”

The woman ignored her question. “Get up. We’ve got people in way worse shape who need this bed.”

Way worse shape... The realization that she’d been shot slowly dawned on her, and Valeria looked down to see her left arm housed in a sling, the thick outline of bandages visible beneath the thin fabric of whatever she was wearing.

She turned back to the woman, finally noticing the red insignia of the Empire embroidered onto her white robes. Niffs.

“You patched me up?” she asked, incredulous. “But...you people shot me in the first place.”

The woman shrugged. “Just following orders.” She then forcibly hauled Valeria into a sitting position, holding her steady as a wave of dizziness and nausea overcame her, pain shooting through her left side.

“Let’s go,” the woman said again, pulling the thin sheet away. Valeria’s party dress and torn pantyhose were gone, replaced by a plain grey shift; her skin had been scrubbed clean, save a few places on her knees and in between her fingers where they hadn’t quite managed to remove all the soot and dust. She didn’t remember any of it. The night before (if it really was merely the night before) was a horrible blur of terror and confusion and gunsmoke.

“Mom...” Valeria whispered. The rest of it may have been hazy, but the image her of mother’s dead face, eyes unfocused and staring, jaw slack, was crystal clear.

“Report it to the missing persons table,” the woman said brusquely, grabbing Valeria by her good arm and pulling her to her feet. The woman, presumably some kind of medic, held her steady while she swayed, but there was no caring or compassion in her bearing, just the overwhelming impression of ‘I’m not getting paid enough to deal with this.’

Once she was satisfied that Valeria wasn’t going to keel over, she turned her to the right, pointing to a man sitting at a table at the end of several rows of makeshift infirmary beds.

“Pick up your things down there. Come back every other day to have your wounds cleaned. Stitches should come out in a week.” With that, the woman sent her off with a nudge, and Valeria stumbled down the row, wishing she could convince herself this was all some bizarre nightmare.

All the beds were occupied, as the miserable woman had said, with people who did indeed seem worse off than she was. Bandages soaked through with blood, moans and pleading, missing limbs and horrible burns. It seemed incomprehensible to her that the Niffs could just roll in and set up this giant medical tent to treat all these people like some kind of benevolent rescue, right after blowing them full of holes in the first place.

“ID number?” the man at the table barked when she approached. He didn’t even look up. Number? Valeria didn’t know what he was talking about. “Uh...?”

The man made an exasperated noise and grabbed her right wrist, examining the plastic bracelet she hadn’t even noticed she was wearing until now. He mumbled the numbers to himself, then turned around and sifted through several large metal bins before handing her a small plastic bag.

Valeria opened it clumsily, using her right hand and her teeth, somewhat surprised to find her phone, real Lucian ID, and jewelry inside. Apparently her little wristlet had made it through the horror of the previous evening still attached to her arm.

“Where are my clothes?” she asked. She wasn’t even wearing shoes.

“Biohazard. All clothing items were burned,” the man said, going back to whatever he was working on before.

Biohazard? Did I shit myself? Maybe she didn’t really want to know.

“Go through there,” the man pointed toward an open tent flap, “then around the right. The vestitus will provide you with clothing.”

Valeria had so many questions, so many angry words for these people, but her mouth seemed incapable of forming them. She ended up doing as she was told, if only so she didn’t have to listen to the agonized cries from her injured countrymen.

Outside the tent, the wind whipped right through her thin garment and tangled hair, filling her nose with the smell of smoke and war. There were at least a dozen other large white tents like the one she had just exited, each bearing some sort of Imperial standard at their peak. Magitek troopers marched past her with a clatter, causing her heart to seize up in terror, but they paid her no mind and rounded the corner.

Valeria looked up, trying to catch her breath, and saw a handful of oblong, bronzed ships hovering above, spewing red-tinged exhaust into the Insomnian skyline. They must have been somewhere west of the Citadel, judging by the buildings that were still standing - perhaps in a park or athletic field.

After several minutes of trying to get a handle on things and failing, she eventually succumbed to the cold and saw the person for clothes, then bounced around from station to station for ration vouchers, bunk assignment, and directions to the showers and latrines. From scattered conversations, she realized it had only been a little less than twenty-four hours since the attack, and already all this was set up. It seemed the Niflheim Empire had invasions down to a science.

Part of her wondered why the Empire bothered with any of this at all, why they didn’t just take all the survivors out to some mass grave and shoot them. But Insomnia had its quirks, even moreso than other large cities after all those years of isolation, and the Niffs were nothing if not efficient. They’d get the subway back up and running a lot faster with the help of the people who built it.

Finally, she found herself at the last station, where an armored man (a real man, not a robot) lead her to one of several small tents and sat her down on a stool, opposite a desk and rather grandfatherly looking soldier, some kind of officer judging by the medals hanging off his chest. He was flanked by two magitek troopers who immediately set her ill at ease, their glowing, unblinking eyes piercing the gloom of the poorly lit space.

The man asked for her bracelet number just like all the rest, but then asked for her real name. Her immediate instinct was to lie, but they’d already gone through her things and seen her ID. It may very well have been some kind of test - this was clearly an interrogation.

“Valeria Soleil,” she said, eyes darting between the man as his pen scratched at a piece of paper and the unnaturally still automatons at his side.

“Age?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Occupation?”

“Vice-president of the Royal Energy Company.” That seemed to give the man pause for a moment, and she highly doubted it was because she seemed so young for such an important position. Maybe she should have lied.

“Were you acquainted with the Crown Prince, Noctis Lucis Caelum?”

So that’s what this is about. She didn’t even bother asking if King Regis was dead; they wouldn’t have asked about the Prince first if the King were still alive. But that meant that Noctis - and therefore Ignis - must have escaped the Empire’s long-fingered grasp.

“Not really,” she lied. Well, mostly lied. She’d met the Prince on several occasions, and they’d been at the Academy at the same time (albeit in different grades), but her real connection to the royal family was Ignis, and the Empire would have to do a lot worse than a couple of magitek troopers before she gave him up.

The man tapped the paper with his pen. “Your position sounds rather prestigious. You’ve never met the Crown Prince before?”

For the first time since she’d woken up, Valeria’s mind worked quickly, spinning out a response that held just enough truth to sound plausible, without giving up anything that would actually put Ignis and the rest in danger.

“Oh, we met once, at a party. He didn’t seem all that impressed.”

The man leaned forward. “And how did he seem?”

“Bored.”

“I see.” The man stroked his neatly trimmed beard. “What else do you know about him? Rumors, gossip, that sort of thing.”

“Only that he was supposed to marry the Oracle.” That was all anyone had been talking about for the last month. “...which I guess won’t happen now.”

“Any idea where he might go outside of the city? Again, rumors are fine.”

Valeria shrugged with one arm, mustering up the blankest expression she could conjure on her face. “No clue.”

The man stared at her for several agonizing seconds through narrowed eyes while she resisted the urge to squirm, to frown, to move at all.

“Any more questions for me?” she asked politely, like a person who wasn’t lying through her teeth.

“Ah... No, Miss Soleil,” he finally said. “You’re free to go.”

She probably should have exited right away, but couldn’t help herself. “What is going on here?”

“Imperial relief,” the man said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“But you did all this in the first place.”

He fixed her with a patronizing expression that made her feel about six years old and six inches tall. “An unfortunate deception,” he said. “But this is war, Miss Soleil. And in war, sometimes casualties are necessary.”

Now, her blank stare was real, no longer feigned. Valeria didn’t think the mechanical men at his side could have sounded any more dispassionate or cold.

“We are here to help you rebuild,” he went on. “I believe you will come to find that life under Imperial rule is much better than it was under your tyrant kings.”

Valeria glanced once more at the magitek, then rose from her seat. “I doubt it,” she said, and left.

She swallowed down the anger that bubbled within her, trying to keep her breathing even until she was out and well away from the vicinity of the tents. King Regis, a tyrant? That was rich, coming from a man who served an Emperor whose ambition spread the breadth of the globe.

Another breeze tore right through her, and she hugged her body with her right arm, shuddering as she recalled the way the empty eyes of the magitek troopers bored into her soul. Ignis and the others are alive, she reminded herself. The King is still alive.

They didn’t end up like her mother. Mom... She was too bewildered and dehydrated to cry. What had that woman medic said? Report to the missing persons table? Valeria’s mother wasn’t missing, but her body was. And while it was highly doubtful that the Niffs would allow her to give her mother any sort of proper burial, she wanted to rail at someone, to let them know what they’d done.

Following the signs posted around the camp, she migrated over that way, and found a large crowd of weary, dejected people dressed in the same drab, shapeless grey fatigues as she was. They were gathered around a large board of names, and every once in awhile someone would cry out, collapse to their knees, and shuffle away, all the hope sucked right out of them.

A list of the dead. A quick estimate told her there were nearly two hundred names listed, and she noticed an Imperial soldier push through the crowd to add several more. That was all they were to the Niffs - names on a board, ID numbers on bracelets, bodies in infirmary beds. They were things, objects to be shuffled around and dealt with when they became too troublesome.

Valeria couldn’t help herself from scanning the list, horror mounting at the sheer number of names she recognized. People she went to school with. People she worked with. Her mother’s friends. They had all been at the Citadel, and the Citadel had apparently been one of the Empire's primary targets. She really didn’t have anyone left.

Across the way, there was another board where Lucians were pinning up names and photos of the missing. It was so strange to look at the images, smiling and carefree, knowing most of them were probably buried under rubble or lying back in that infirmary, bandaged and injured to the point of being unrecognizable. How is this real? How was it that, at this time yesterday, her biggest concern was how to do her eye makeup in the poor light of her office bathroom?

Valeria bit her lip, clenched her fist, and approached the Niff who had been adding names to the list of dead.

“I need to report someone,” she said.

He jerked a thumb back toward the board of photographs. “Missing is over there.”

“She’s not missing,” Valeria hissed. “She’s dead. I watched you people kill her.”

If that bothered him, the man concealed it well. “Come with me.” The man led her to a table covered with stacks of large envelopes, each one neatly labeled.

“Gender was female?” the man asked.

“...Yes?” Valeria could only respond with bewildered confusion as the man briskly pushed away a little more than half of the envelopes, and continued to question her on her mother’s age, appearance, what she had been wearing, like some awful, morbid game of twenty questions. Eventually he laid a series of five or so photographs before her, of women who resembled her mother, all lying bloody and dead.

Mama... Valeria fingered the photo of her mother’s body wordlessly, reliving her death all over again. The smell of gunpowder and blood in her nostrils, impassive red eyes turning toward her in the fog, the sense of what it meant to be utterly powerless, useless and frightened and small.

“Miss?” The man was holding a form attached to a clipboard.

Whether out of compassion or just that damned Imperial efficiency, he took back the pen he had apparently placed in her trembling hand and completed the form for her, asking for her name to note who had identified the body. The photos were swiftly put away, her mother’s attached to the form, and that was that. Now, she was just another name on that ever-growing list.

“Here.” The man was holding a plastic bag similar to the one she’d collected at the infirmary.

“What?” Valeria frowned as she accepted it.

“The deceased’s effects.”

“Oh.” Valeria took it from the man, clutched it to her chest, and shuffled off, wanting to be rid of the wailing women and sobbing men all around her; she wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep it together, but she refused to cry in front of the Imperials. They may have broken her, but she didn’t want them to know it.

Eventually she made her way to her bunk, one of dozens of identical cots arranged in neat rows just like in the infirmary. Except here, the people weren’t injured or dying, merely hunched and defeated. She remembered reading about the Imperial invasion of Tenebrae when she was a girl, seeing the images in the newspaper and feeling a detached sort of pity, never once thinking it could happen to her and the invincible Crown City. This is what it’s like, she thought. What it’s like to feel like less than nothing.

Several beds down from hers, she noticed a teenage boy unplugging the same brand of phone as hers from a charger.

“Can I use that?” she asked him. There were power stations scattered throughout the dormitory; momentarily, she was baffled, but then she understood. Who was anyone going to call that could make a difference? Lucis was the last major nation with any sort of sovereignty from the Empire. No one was coming to save them.

“Go for it,” the kid replied, eyes on the floor. “There’s no service though.”

Nonetheless, she plugged in her phone to charge, wondering if her father had even tried to get a hold of her, if he’d even heard the news. At least there was Ignis. He would care, would be relieved to know she was still alive, even if he could do nothing about it. At the moment, surrounded by unfamiliar, downcast faces, the thought gave her little comfort.

Valeria sat down cross-legged on her cot and poured out the contents of her mother’s little bag, her last will and testament. She recognized the diamond earrings and bracelet her mother had been wearing the night before, vaguely surprised the Niffs hadn’t pocketed such expensive jewelry. There was also several hundred gil that had been secreted somewhere on her person, an old habit held over from her mother’s formative years in a rough neighborhood.

There was only one thing that seemed out of place - so out of place Valeria thought there must have been a mix-up somewhere in the Empire’s well-oiled invasion machine. It was a simple wedding band made out of dark metal, unadorned by any stones or carvings, save for the initials inscribed on the inside. Her parents’ initials. Valeria hadn’t seen this ring since she was ten years old, and thought her mother had trashed it after her father had ditched them.

Why? Valeria put the ring on the tip of her index finger and stared at it, as if she could divine its secrets. Her mother had rarely spoken of her father after he left, and never fondly, and yet...yet, she had not only kept the simple ring he’d saved up for months to buy her, but kept it on her person. Did you still love him? There’s no way... Valeria had always been under the impression that her mother had never finalized their divorce simply for financial reasons, not willing to cede half the company to a man who barely had two gil to rub together.

She laid back on her bunk, ring still on her finger, with the uncomfortable realization that maybe she’d never understood her mother at all. And now that she was gone, Valeria never would.

It was nearly two days after hearing the terrible news about Insomnia that Ignis’s phone finally rang. Groggy with sleep, it took him a moment to realize it wasn’t his alarm, that it was still pitch dark in the group’s shared tent. He retrieved the phone from under his pillow and immediately silenced the ringer, squinting to make out the name on the display without his glasses. The letter V...

He was out of his sleeping bag and unzipping the tent flap in the space of a heartbeat.

“Val?” He’d meant to whisper, but his voice came out louder than intended. He quickly exited the tent and closed the flap behind him. “Valeria?”

There was a shaky breath on the other end of the line before she spoke. “Ignis.” Her voice was small, quiet and subdued, not like herself at all. But it was her. She was alive. That was all that mattered.

“Val, thank the Six,” he allowed himself, before shifting into royal chamberlain mode. “Where are you? Are you safe? Are you hurt?”

“Iggy...?”

Ignis took a deep breath and forced himself to stop pacing around what was left of the campfire. She’d survived the razing of their home; assaulting her with questions would accomplish nothing.

“Forgive me,” he said. First things first. “Are you somewhere safe?”

“I...I don’t know. I...the Niffs brought me back to the city.”

“You’re in Insomnia?” Any relief Ignis felt at hearing her voice was rapidly evaporating.

“They...uh, the Empire, they rounded us all up and brought us to some kind of shelter. They say they want to help.” Valeria sounded as skeptical of that as Ignis felt. “And they were asking a lot of questions about you. Well, the Prince.”

Ignis frowned. That much was expected. But it was still unsettling to hear that the Empire was already questioning every Insomnian citizen on Noctis’s whereabouts.

“We’re taking extra precautions,” he said. The last thing she needed to worry about was him. “I know I needn’t tell you to be careful-”

“But you’re going to anyway.”

“But I’m going to anyway. No matter what they say, the Empire can’t be trusted.”

“No shit, Iggy.” Valeria sighed. “I’m sorry. I just...I’m scared.”

Those words were like a dagger to his heart. Ignis balled his fist and began pacing once more in an attempt to channel his frustration.

“I am sorry. I wish...”

“Don’t, Iggy. Please.”

After a few seconds of trying to get his emotions under control, he asked, “Are you by yourself?” He hoped she had found her mother at the very least, that she wasn’t entirely alone.

There was a pause and then a choked sob, the sound settling in his gut like ice. “They shot her,” Valeria wailed. “They killed her. She, she...she wasn’t even doing anything, she...she...”

Ignis knew Valeria was talking about her mother. He sank down in one of the camping chairs, still circled around the dying fire.

“Val, I...I am so sorry,” he said impotently, listening to her crying on the other end of the line.

This sense of utter powerlessness was sickening, debilitating. He wanted to tell her that it was going to be fine, but it wasn’t going to be fine. Even if they managed to gather all the Royal Arms, if Noctis somehow managed to retake his throne, it wouldn’t make her mother any less dead.

And never had he felt more keenly aware of the burden of his duty; his heart was being pulled in two opposite directions, being ripped apart at the center. There was nothing he could do. There was nothing he could do.

Helping Noctis take down the Empire might save her in the long run, but for tonight, he could do nothing but sit and listen to her cry.

#final fantasy xv #ffxv #final fantasy 15 #ff15 #ffxv fanfiction #ff15 fanfiction #ignis scientia #ignis #ignis x oc

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