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duskandstarlight · 3 years

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Embers & Light (Chapter 24)

Notes: Chapter 24 - can you guys believe it?! I have brought you a lot of angst in the last few chapters, but there is a lil fluffy moment in this chapter which I hope you enjoy. Plus protective Cassian (one of my personal favourites).

As ACOSF draws nearer, I wanted to ask you guys a question. I initially was hoping to finish this fic before it came out, but I just don't think it's going to happen. So if you would still read E&L after ACOSF comes out, could you let me know? It will help me to make a decision on whether I need to start wrapping this all up sharpish, or whether I can continue to move along at my current pace.

Enjoy :) And I hope you all are having a lovely festive period.

p.s I’ve been having issues with tagging blogs lately. Let me know if you get a notification?

Chapter 24 Nesta

Nesta was drowning.

Drowning in the dark; in the unfathomable cold that bit at her ankles and dragged her down by invisible, insistent hands and sharp, pointed claws. Down, down, down Nesta went, into the inky blackness that sung of ancient horror, fighting for a breath that she could not take.

Inside her head, Nesta was screaming; the sound an echo, as if she were detached from her body and she were listening to someone else. It was a scream of rage and unmeasurable pain as her body was torn apart and rearranged: her bones cracking and reforming into solid steel; her ears stretching into points; her limbs elongating. And with that fire a burning cold that was deeper than the gap between stars. Nesta screamed from the agony of it, but cold water rushed into her lungs and stifled the sound. Pain licked at her skin like the flames of a fire, until her blood was bubbling with rage and a thirst for revenge that ran so deep it became woven into the very fabric of who she was — of who she was being moulded into.

Nesta should have passed out from the pain but instead she fought to remain conscious; wholly awake and wholly a witness as she tore at the edges of the blasted Cauldron. The sides were made of nothing but canvas, Nesta’s nails ripping through it as the Cauldron bucked and shrieked, like an animal caught beneath her paw.

Bright light poured through the gaping holes, blinding her new born eyes that had not yet seen.

She felt the power of it, the piece she carved out for herself in fury and with revenge singing in her blood. She made it hers, let that power sink into her bones, her skin, as they snapped and cracked and reshaped themselves…

The Cauldron continued to thrash and struggle. The water took on a thicker quality like tar, but Nesta did not relent. She ravaged that power until it was a part of her; stolen and consumed. Impossible to take back.

And then Nesta was no longer drowning but falling.

The pocket of air hit her with such force that Nesta found herself with the irony that she could not breathe, even though it was what she needed more than anything in the world. But then her lungs were spluttering, her stomach lurching, and inky blackness — ancient death — was regurgitated onto crystalline rock. Nesta heaved until her stomach had no more and she was gasping for breath — cold, bracing fresh air that tasted like freedom — before she rolled onto her back, her hair plastered to her face.

She shivered from the cold and the unquenchable fury that would not see her yield.

Above her was midnight black, the stillness of what Nesta wanted to believe was sky but she knew was only an illusion. It brought her comfort even though she wanted to hate it; wanted to sob and scream until she was so exhausted that she couldn’t muster any more strength.

And she should have been terrified but she also felt deathly calm, even as a voice spoke out of the darkness. It was a voice that was ancient; old and superlunary with a strength that whispered of unimaginable power for better or worse. “I have been waiting for you, Nesta Archeron.”

Words like ice fire. Of steel and reserve. Of power beyond Nesta’s wildest reckoning.

It hurt to move but Nesta scrambled to her feet, slipping on loose rock and craggy stone. The sound that beat in her ears was an insistent, terrified rhythm, and it took Nesta a moment to piece together that it was her heart, throwing itself with a repetitive boom against strips of bone — a flimsy cage for something so fierce.

Whirling around, Nesta tried to source the voice but found only that endless stretch of deep velvet, and in the near distance, a towering shadow that rose up, up, up into the darkness until it blended into the canvas, like something disappearing into the clouds.

Nesta made herself take stock. Made herself stand still. To dampen the terror and focus on that spiky, deep-set anger that still consumed her. Her back stiffened, her chin rose, and when she spoke for the first time with her new lungs, Nesta did not let her voice shake.

She clenched her fists until her new nails bit into the meat of her palms. “Where am I?”

A sensual laugh as smooth as marble echoed around her — perfectly rendered. “Do you hear the wind? It moans your name, Nesta Archeron. Your twin can hear it. They’ve always been able to hear it. Your history written into the night sky where you only need join the dots. So easy to ignore until now.” A pause and Nesta felt that being move. Her head snapped around as the voice mused from behind her, “And your destiny: a sacrifice and a gift in the same moment.”

Nesta tightened her fists in an effort to ground herself and willed herself to lean back into that odd sense of being rather than the fear that was making her heart race. She felt her nails break through her skin with a pop. She scented blood; metallic and salt. She was so cold she wanted to shake until her teeth chattered, but Nesta would not show weakness. She would not break down.

So Nesta rose up tall and made her voice ice cold; strong rather than brittle. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Another long, sensual laugh. A caress akin to a brush stroking the softest of bristles over her skin. “No, you don’t,” the voice agreed. “Not yet. But you will.”

A moment in time stretched out, the pause pregnant and awesome. Then a soft light in the darkness above, growing in size: a fleck, a star, a luminescent ball of light…

“What do you want, Nesta Archeron?”

“I want revenge,” Nesta replied, her voice full of a sudden vigour as vengeance lashed out on a forked tongue.

Again, more soft laughter that licked over Nesta’s body in a shiver. “You have already got that, have you not? Do you not feel that deathly power in your veins? That hum of primitive power that you have stolen, that has been woven into who you now are.”

“I will end him. I will end everyone who has caused my sister harm.”

“Of that, I have no doubt. But what will that take from you?”

Hysterical laughter wanted to burst forth from Nesta’s lungs, as if she could only feel the sharpest of emotion and everything else were muted.

“Everything has already been taken from me,” Nesta spat, balling her hands into harder fists, her nails digging into her crescent shaped wounds.

Pain flared, fresh and sharp but Nesta paid it no heed. She was no stranger to pain and she would rally. Every. Damn. Time.

The light above Nesta continued to grow until it became distinct; a fiery palm emerging out of the dark. Nesta did not flinch. Did not scream or back away. Did not bow or yield or grovel. She only let pearlescent fingers close around Nesta’s own, the touch like a near-scalding bath that settled only when your blood thrummed beneath raw, pink skin.

“So much sacrifice,” the voice pondered, turning Nesta’s hand. Nesta’s fingers unfurled from her palm without her willing it, until her palm lay open, the half-crescent moons bloody tears in her otherwise new skin. “But what about a gift?” the voice asked. “A gift for the girl who lives with such anger and guilt. The girl who sees the world in all its terrible glory and feels too much. What do you say to that?”

“I only want revenge,” Nesta repeated, her mind assaulting her with images of Elain as she was pushed under the inky water, as she emerged drowning and wholly new — wrong.

No laughter this time. Only that hand rising, fingers coming together until they were pointed and pinching something out of the dark.

A pearl of pure light hovered millimetres from those shining fingers, as if it were attached by an invisible string. It sung with such radiant brilliance that Nesta wanted to look away: it was the pure, unfathomable brightness of a midnight star. A melody that sung of promise and hope.

“What is revenge worth if it does not emerge from the desire to protect?” the voice asked, letting go of that drop of light. It did not fall like water; it floated down slowly, until it nestled in the crook of Nesta’s palm like a pearl that shimmered as it caught the light.

Nesta remained deathly still, staring at the drop of possibility in her palm.

“Revenge is choice, Nesta Archeron. It can be a wish for death and pain or to protect and defend.”

“Both,” Nesta said fiercely. “It can be both.”

“Multi-faceted and complex, as all decisions are,” the voice agreed. “And there are so many strands in you, aren’t there? Already you have felt one of them, although I do not think you have truly placed the puzzle pieces together. But here is another choice; something to cherish and use wisely on those who are worthy. Everything is cyclical. Day and night, birth and death, love and sacrifice…”

The luminescent hand closed Nesta’s palm, but rather than the drop of light bring dampened by shadow, it sank into Nesta’s skin, until it too became a part of her.

“I don’t want a gift.”

But even as Nesta spoke she knew she did not truly mean it.

She also knew it was too late. She felt her blood spike and thrum as that light channeled into her, twining around that deathly power that she had already stolen and forced into her remaking.

A low hum vibrated the ground beneath Nesta’s feet. “Don’t want it or do not deserve it?”

And then Nesta was drowning again with such startling speed that she hadn’t the time to take a deep breath. Terror gripped her, and with it power sung in her blood, the sensation like boiling water, as if her very skin were bubbling with it even though that dark water bit with a cold akin to the fiercest frostbite.

As if fear had summoned it, silver fire began to glow at Nesta’s palms. Water rushed into Nesta’s lungs and with it, that power surged.

Up, up, up Nesta went, like an arrow unsheathed from a bow until the inky black was no longer concrete and colour swam on the surface.

Everything tilted as the Cauldron tipped, jerking the water and Nesta out onto the cold flagstones of reality.

Nesta took a desperate, ragged breath through the gag that was suddenly back around her mouth, and cast a look around the room: to Cassian who was sprawled unconscious on the ground, his arm outstretched and his wings in tatters; to Feyre who was kneeling in her own vomit tucked into Rhysand’s side...

And on her sister’s face, Nesta could see what she was: ravaging, deadly, awesome. A face and figure to stop males and females in their tracks. A face and figure that would make humans and fae alike think twice.

But that was nothing of the forged steel in Nesta’s bones, in her blood, as she scrabbled across the floor to Elain on her long, unnatural limbs and tore the gag from her mouth.

It was a steel that no-one could see but that they could all sense as Nesta locked eyes with the King of Hybern, that promise of death still swimming in those mercury eyes that moved.

She would have her revenge. Of that, she was sure.

***

Nesta gasped.

Her hands flailed, her body screamed with agony, her lungs were hoarse and raw, her abdomen set with a pain that went so deep she knew something was gravely wrong.

And through her veins… no whisper of her magic. Not a drop.

It was that which made her thrash, her lungs suddenly unable to breathe from the agony that wrangled through her body.

She heard her name. Again and again; the high-pitched desperation of a female. Feyre. But then something much lower. A caress. A rumble that quelled her fear and kicked the breath back into her with a force that had her gasping.

Nesta’s hand found a rough, calloused palm across the mattress. Fingers curled unbelievably gently around hers. She heard the rustle of wings. Smelt pine and musk and the bracing fresh air of the Illyrian skies.

“Nesta. You need to take your medicine. The morphine has worn off.”

Cassian.

Even with her eyes submerged in the dark, Nesta knew that Cassian had turned his head to murmur something in low tones to her sister — her senses heightened in the wake of the fear that was still bitter on her tongue.

Then light retreating footsteps. The click of a closed door. A large hand on her temple. A wet rag against her lips. Nesta opened her mouth despite the foul tasting tincture which burned her throat and flooded her tastebuds; swallowing it down, begging it to soothe over the pain which she could not describe for its wrongness, even though she had been told that she would heal.

Frawley had come to visit her the last time Nesta had resurfaced. Had explained why she was there and what had happened. That Nesta had the gift of healing. That she had over-healed Mas's traumatic injuries and moved on to older ones. That she had sacrificed her wellness for someone else’s. That she would have died had Cassian not got her to stop.

Another power Nesta needed to train. As if she didn’t have enough to wrangle under control.

Nesta did not remember much after dropping to her knees at the widows camp. She remembered the click of a lock inside of her; the way her power had flipped from silver to startling, brilliant white. That she had known what to do as she lifted her hands over Mas and started to use her magic for something wholly good.

“What did you feel for your power came to the surface?” Frawley had asked before she took leave.

Nesta had bitten back a whimper of agony as she shifted uncomfortably on the mattress. She had been swamped in heavy blankets and consumed in Cassian’s scent. His bed not hers. But the scent of him… it comforted her. She was too tired to rally against it. Had woken knowing that she was immeasurably safe even though memory tried to persuade her that she was not.

Eventually, when she realised that Frawley’s second eye had come to rest on her along with ice blue, Nesta had supplied, “I felt grief.”

“And what else?” Frawley had urged, her ice blue eye glowing with intensity.

Nesta had been too tired to answer. Her eyelids heavy from the sedative she had been given, despite the energising tea Frawley had administered to attempt to speed up the act of replenishing her magic. To fight the fatigue one felt when they had been drained of power.

And now she was waking again and Frawley was gone.

Braving the light, Nesta cracked open an eye. Her head throbbed, as if her brain were growing in her skull and it was pressing against bone.

Cassian was hovering over her, a crumpled frown twisting his brow as he dripped the medicine past her lips. He caught her eyes opening a fraction too late and she catalogued worry slide into relief before it was pushed back and a light was forced into those dark irises. When he smiled at her, it was too tight and anguished to ring true. She must have been in a bad way — very bad — for him to lose sight of his tendency to arrange his expression into that casual playfulness. For her sister to still be here, hovering by her bedside unsure how to act or how to behave. For her mate to be in the room next door, his star-blessed magic permeating Cassian’s bedroom even through stone and plaster and wood. She could even sense Azriel’s shadows moving like an agitated fog.

No Amren. No Mor.

Something to be thankful for.

“Mas?” she asked. Her throat was dry despite the tincture and the word came out scratchy and raw.

Cassian pressed a glass of water to her lips.

She drank.

“Mas has left to help relocate the widows and orphans,” Cassian told her. “I had her checked over by Madja and Frawley. She is perfectly fine. Roksana too,” he added when Nesta frowned. “Mas hasn’t flown yet,” he continued. “She wanted you to witness it.”

Something tightened around Nesta’s throat. It was not panic but… deep twisting affection for the housekeeper. It must be agony for Mas not to launch straight into the skies. Yet… Nesta was touched beyond imagining that she would wait for Nesta to witness something so precious. A moment in history that was not tainted in blood and death but joy.

Cassian had paused as if he were checking himself. He had moved away from her, to the dark dresser to the left of the bed. There was a clink of glass which Nesta supposed was him stoppering the medicine. “I know you do not like it here and I understand that. You were given no choice and Illyria is…” he trailed off, as if he were searching for the right word. “It’s brutal, in both harsh reality and its beauty. But the widows and orphans… they will not forget what you have done for them — how you fought for them. Mas has been shackled in so many ways throughout her life, but her wings… You have given her freedom, Nesta. She will never forget that ,and neither will those females who witnessed you healing her.”

When Cassian turned back to look at Nesta, his eyes were glowing with such intensity she did not know what to say. He seemed to understand that, breaking their gaze to stare out of the window.

It was snowing again. The scent of it was in the air and on Cassian’s clothes, from where Nesta imagined he’d been in the throng of it all, establishing order where there was chaos. She imagined that was why his family was here.

“Azriel has some information about the kerits,” Cassian said. He remained staring out of the window, his gaze fixed on the snow falling from the thin sheets of grey cloud strung in the sky. “About where we think they came from. We would like you to be a part of the discussion.” A pause. “If you would like to be, that is.”

Nesta held back a snort partly because she knew it would hurt too much. “I don’t think your High Lord wants me to be a part of any discussion.”

“Rhys specifically asked me to fetch you before we began,” Cassian replied, not flinching at her ice-sharp words. Nesta supposed he had become immune. “You are integral to the conversation.”

Noise caught in the back of Nesta’s throat. “I thought I was just a stain you all wished you could rid yourself of.”

No, not immune. Cassian flinched as if he had been burned, his wings spreading instinctively before he could catch them. He retracted them back in with a slow huff of anger. It was not a disparaging or exasperated sigh, more… defeated, as if it were a remark that brought him pain.

Still he did not turn to her. If anything, his focus became more intent on the scenery outside. At the bustle of Illyrians as they fought against the flurry of snow that promised to kiss everything white at the worst possible time.

Cassian’s jaw feathered. “If I remember correctly, it was always you trying to rid yourself of me.”

Nesta blinked at the coarse words that held no lightness, no mockery, no teasing. That were honest and unhappy. Twisted with a rejection which hit her to the bone.

You rejected me first, Nesta wanted to say, as she watched the taut muscles in Cassian’s back. They were vibrating with an energy that usually told Nesta that he needed to fight with his fists until his body was sated.

“We believe the attacks might be orchestrated,” Cassian continued. “Azriel went to scout the perimeter to see if there was any evidence. He has only just arrived back.” Finally, those amber eyes rested back on her. They were burning with a rage that had been purposefully dialled back, but Nesta knew how much Cassian cared about his people. “Will you come?” he asked.

Shock wound through Nesta at the confession. At the brutality of what Cassian was suggesting. Anger spiked through the exhaustion with such ferocity her magic should have been roaring, but it only remained quiet. Yet… a determination solidified in her mind. She did want to be a part of the conversation. Not just to be useful, but because Nesta cared about the widows and orphans. She longed to hold Roksana close and see Mas fly. To lay the dead to rest, to check in on the injured. To see if she could use her healing magic to mend their wounds. To show that she was not an observer but a fighter - a protector. That she would lay her life on the line to protect the females who had nothing and were helpless against every threat, just as she had once been.

She did not say all that. Instead, she just said, “Fine.”

A short nod as if Cassian understood. “We can do it in here or out there.” Cassian jerked his chin to the living room. “Frawley said you are not to move if it can be helped, but something tells me you’d sooner have died than be crowded on your sick bed.”

There. A small lace of lightness that had not been there before. Forced, maybe, but there all the same.

Nesta scowled. “You thought rightly.”

“It will hurt,” Cassian warned her. “For me to lift you.”

“Then do it gently.”

A soft snicker as he moved off the many, many blankets, and then strong, corded arms slid beneath her body.

Cassian’s voice was rough in her ear. “You’re the most stubborn female I’ve ever met.”

Gritting her teeth, Nesta tried to overcome the sharp, deep-set pain that made her want to cry out.

The way Cassian gathered her to him was pain-achingly careful but it was still too much, her wounds too fresh and Nesta gasped a high-pitched cry, digging her fingers so hard into his tunic that she knew they must have bitten into the skin of his shoulders. Cassian did not indicate that she had hurt him, he only cradled her closer to the hard planes of his body, his huge wing curving around her as if he could partition off the pain and keep her safe.

The glow of the membrane was not unlike that of rusty, glowing embers. Beautiful.

Cassian remained stock still, waiting for the pain to ebb and then, slowly, as if he were hesitant to do it, his forehead came to rest on the top of her head; a bowing gesture that was almost like a confession, folding her into a protective cocoon that smelt of pine resin and warmth.

If Nesta could move without crying out, she would have traced a finger down his wing, following the spider webs of his capillaries. She had never had the opportunity to study them this close up. They were as mesmerising as fire flames as they danced their way up into the sky; as captivating as woodsmoke as it were tossed about on a breeze.

“I thought you were going to die.”

Cassian’s voice was a low, deep rumble that she felt in the pit of her stomach. In her bones. In her heart.

“Not yet,” she replied drily, but the hoarse words were muffled by the embrace.

She knew what he was trying to say. Had felt it before. The way in which history had tied the two of them together. Had made them terrified not just of dying, but without the other. An immeasurable panic that clawed at her throat and tore at her lungs.

To end up on death’s door without her lying over him was unimaginable. They had vowed to go together and even now, when they were separate rather than entwined, she would still lay her body over his broken one and refuse to live.

“Don’t say that,” Cassian clipped, his voice suddenly sharp. Broken.

Even though it hurt to move, Nesta rolled her head to press against his chest, shifting his forehead so it was lower, his lips almost brushing her skin. Nesta could not bring it in herself to care. Cassian smelt just as his sheets had — pine, musk and untamed air. Comforting.

Hesitantly, as if she had surprised him, Cassian’s large hand came to cup her head.

For a moment, they stayed like that, until the burning question that had hung in the back of her mind became too much. “Why am I in your room?” she asked.

“I had to put Mas in your bed,” Cassian confessed. She felt him smile small against her — a promise of mischief. “It’s not the way I imagined I’d first have you beneath my sheets, but I guess I should just be thankful you’re alive.”

A quiet snarl from Nesta had Cassian lifting his head to laugh. The sound was a low rasp which did not hold its usual vigour.

He was still worried. She could feel it. The sensation was relentless as a crashing tide.

“Reign in your worry,” Nesta snapped weakly. “I can feel it and it’s making me nauseous.”

Another laugh, stronger this time, and then Cassian’s emotion vanished, as if it had been carried away on a sea-kissed breeze.

“I’m going to move now,” he informed her. “Best brace yourself for the pain, sweetheart.”

It was agony. The pain so awfully deep that Nesta could hardly breathe, even as Cassian moved as smoothly as possible. She wanted to cry out, to whimper, but she would not show weakness in front of her sister’s mate.

By the time she was settled on the couch, Nesta had broken that vow; distressed sounds escaping through gritted teeth as she panted desperately for breath. With a click of Rhys's fingers, the nest of blankets that Nesta had been swaddled in appeared on the couch, just in time for Cassian to lower her onto the cushions.

Nesta did not have it in herself to be angered that Rhys had helped.

At the sound of her sister's stifled shouts, Feyre rushed out of the kitchen. She was holding a steaming mug in her hands, which Cassian plucked from his High Lady and planted straight into Nesta’s palms.

Feyre allowed him to do it without a word of protest, anxiously wringing her hands as she studied what Nesta imagined to be her too pale face, the sweat that had broken out on her forehead…

They had not spoken properly since the attack, but Feyre had been there, hovering on the periphery; anxious and sick with worry that she did not know assaulted Nesta until she too became nauseous with it. Nesta’s icy guard had been down since she had dropped to her knees beside Mas, and she hadn’t the power to stack it back up. Not when she was as exhausted as she was, her power utterly diminished and her body focussing on healing.

Finally casting a glance around the room, Nesta saw that the flames in the log burner were raging mute. She wondered who had magicked them to become silent. She hoped it was Frawley rather than Rhysand.

Rhys was positioned to the right of the fireplace, and when Nesta’s gaze purposefully passed over him as if he were little more than part of the furniture, she felt his violet eyes flick to her, his expression no doubt hard and unyielding. But Nesta was too tired to battle today.

Cassian was watching her too, glaring with such intensity at her hands that Nesta was surprised they hadn’t moved involuntarily to raise the mug to her lips. Wanting him to stop, Nesta took a slow sip of tea even though it hurt to swallow. It didn’t work; those hazel eyes remaining unwaveringly fixated. He was standing right by her head, scrutinising everything she did, his wings spread as if he were contemplating launching into flight.

Nesta wanted to hiss at him, but then Feyre sat close beside her, and that made her want to hiss more.

At his place to the left of the hearth, Azriel’s lips twitched. He had been standing as still as a statue, like marble carved out of the finest stone, his shadows stolid, but now he shifted to face her.

Nesta guessed the shadowsinger could sense her emotions with her guard down completely.

She supposed there had to be a first.

When Nesta took the last sip of her drink, Cassian’s hands were immediately there, taking it from her, his siphons winking in the firelight. Nesta barely noticed. She only felt an overwhelming sense of relief at the first whisper of silver and brilliant white that twisted through her veins like two coiled serpents; intertwined yet separate.

Easing backwards with the intention of settling into the cushions, Nesta tried to ignore the pain that suddenly stabbed through her as her stomach muscles tensed. A sharp gasp escaped her, her breath knocked out of her lungs, but then cool, shadowed hands gripped Nesta’s shoulders. They took the weight off of her abdomen, slowly lowering her backwards until she was resting comfortably.

Behind her, Nesta heard Cassian’s wings snap in and out, clearly agitated at her pain.

When Nesta turned her head to Azriel, he dipped his head to her in acknowledgement. Black tendrils of shadow whispered back to him, curling around his arms and face, waiting patiently to be bent again to their master's will.

Then the shadowsinger turned to Rhys, as if seeking the order to begin.

“Thank you for joining us, Nesta,” Rhys said tightly. “Especially given the circumstances.”

Nesta did not reply, could not find it in herself to do it, but she finally stared at their High Lord with unflinching determination.

As always, Rhys was irritatingly immaculate, leaning against the hearth as if he owned it. Already Nesta felt like he was tainting her space — her sanctuary — and although she wanted to spit at him to leave and not come back, she only gave a stiff nod.

It would appear both of them were going to be forced today. Circumstances that were greater than their feud were at work, and neither of them was going to be petty enough to undermine that.

“Feyre allowed me to view her memory of the kerits attack,” Rhys said. “Three males flew over the mountain minutes before it happened. They can’t have been a part of the usual patrol as they weren’t doing the scheduled circuit. Instead, they flew straight over the mountain pass. Do you remember that?”

Nesta frowned, reaching back into the far depths of her memory… The three dots that coursed across the sky, the winking flash of silver from steel.

Sharply, Nesta craned her head to look at Cassian, not thinking of her injuries. She gasped. The movement had twisted her abdomen in a way she was not ready for.

Cassian’s large hands fell briefly to her shoulders before he moved to perch on the left of the U-shaped couch, close to the corner where he had lain her down.

“Ragar—” she started.

But Cassian only shook his head, leaning forward so his elbows were resting on his broad thighs. His wings were held in high and tight to his spine. “Accounted for,” he told her. “And his friends. They were in the sparring rings with Devlon and countless other witnesses.”

His smile was grim. “It’s one of the first thing I checked,” he confessed. “But it made us start to wonder if perhaps the attacks have been orchestrated. One attack can be passed off as a freak accident, but three attacks across three different camps is suspicious, especially given that kerits do not venture into populated areas.”

Nesta’s expression sharpened. “You think somebody purposefully led those beasts to the widows camp?”

Rhys’s nodded. “We think it’s a possibility.” He pinned his brother with those violet eyes. “What did you find scouring the perimeter, Az?”

The shadowsinger’s expression did not physically change, but Nesta felt his shadows chill. “Carrion,” he said coldly. “A trail of it leading to the mountain pass. Morsels of it. Not enough to feed a starving pack, but deliberate enough to tempt them out of the depths of the mountains.”

“This winter has been especially punishing,” Cassian interjected. “I bet food supply has been scarce. They struggle to survive as it is. The sounds they made as they hunted probably alerted other packs who joined the hunt.”

Feyre sat forward so she was hovering on the edge of the couch. “That would be why they were so vicious. They knew they were competing with other packs for food.”

Nesta’s stomach turned as she thought of how the widows and orphans had been seen as as a meal. How they had huddled to the Eastern point of the camp with nowhere to go and no means of defending themselves.

“The carrion was well hidden,” Azriel continued with a nod, his voice as smooth as cold marble. “Frawley examined the remains. They weren’t killed with siphon magic and there were no visible wounds to the bodies. We also found boot prints in the mud; different prints ranging in size in two separate locations within a miles range of the camp. They were fresh.”

Everyone’s expression tightened.

Nesta didn’t ask if the carrion was human or animal. She didn’t want to know.

“Frawley has taken samples to analyse them,” Azriel added. “She said she will show her sisters, as well. To see if they can sense an insignia.”

“So that means the attack was orchestrated,” Feyre said. “Someone deliberately led those beasts to the camp?”

Rhys nodded. “The attack was certainly pre-meditated,” he replied, pinning Cassian with a look. “The real question is who would arrange an attack on three separate camps.”

Cassian snorted. “You know what the lords are going to say. What all of the Illyrian’s at Windhaven are going to say.”

“That it’s an attack from another war camp,” Azriel supplied, his voice chilled midnight.

“War lords usually have no issue in taking responsibility if they played a part in an attack,” Rhys countered.

“I know that,” Cassian interjected, impatience lining his voice. “So will the lords when they stop to see sense, but the moment we tell them that we suspect wrong doing, all hell will break loose. We can’t afford to lose any more lives to petty feuds. We’re still reeling from the loss of males since the war and the Rite is already looming over the camp.”

Rhys nodded to show he had heard. Nesta wondered if he mourned the loss of lives like Cassian did. The High Lord looked tired, as if he had been torn away from his mate for too long. Yet nobody looked as ravaged as Cassian did. Nesta did not know if his brothers knew of his recurring nightmares, but she hoped they learnt of them. Sometimes Cassian looked so exhausted that Nesta vibrated with a concern she could not shake. In the past, she had bitten her lip one too many times to prevent herself from ordering him to go to bed.

Nesta knew how awful it was to force someone to do something they desperately wanted but were too fearful to surrender themselves to.

“We will manage the lords,” Rhys assured Cassian. “We can decide how we are going to play that consul, but for now, we need to get to the bottom of how the kerits managed to get past Windhaven’s patrols. You and I both know how meticulous Devlon is when it comes to security around the camp. Those males shouldn't have been able to pass over the camp without being stopped by the warriors on patrol.”

“Whoever they were, they must have known that Cassian wasn't going to be in the camp today,” Azriel offered, the spymaster in him coming to the forefront. “The only good news is that they clearly had no idea that both Feyre and Nesta would be at the top of the mountain and able to fight. And," he added after a beat of consideration, "they certainly underestimated Nesta’s ability to slay the pack if she had been alone today.”

If Nesta hadn’t been white from pain, she would have had to freeze the blush that dared to grace her cheeks at the shadowsinger’s compliment.

An abrupt snort came from Cassian. When he spoke, his voice was brimming with anger, “Of course they underestimated Nesta. Even though they have witnessed her fire daily and sensed the enormity of her magic, they still can't fathom that a female could be more powerful than them. It has to be Illyrian’s at the root of it. Only they would be chauvinistic enough to fail to see what is right in front of them.”

“Which,” Rhys interjected, “has worked unwittingly in our favour. Rather than fuel hatred towards the Night Court and cement the growing opinion that we do not protect the Illyrian community, we had two High Fae slaughtering the pack well before any warriors arrived on the scene. And then Nesta brought Masak back to life — someone who the Illyrian males in this camp do not see as worthy to live amongst them.”

Through the exhaustion, anger heated Nesta’s blood. She felt her magic whisper. If Nesta looked inward, she could see the two strands. Could now sense the promise of healing magic in her veins amongst her silver fire. As if she had been granted the key in the face of Mas’s death and she had turned it over in the lock, setting that power free.

Yet, even as Nesta grazed that healing power, it was her silver fire that promised to roar.

“I didn’t do it to stop a Civil War. I did it to protect the females who cannot protect themselves,” Nesta snapped weakly. She was too tired to muster enough vigour into her words, but she was annoyed at the false implication behind her actions. That she had not done it out of love for the housekeeper, but because of politics.

“That may be,” Rhys said, his voice forcibly light, “and what you did was honourable, but we cannot ignore how the Illyrian’s might interpret the action.”

“What Rhys is trying to say,” Azriel interjected smoothly as Nesta’s nostrils flared, “is that the females already respect you. The way you defended them today will not strengthen the dissent, only highlight that there are fae outside of the Illyrian communities who have their best interests at heart. You, for example.”

“You know they like you,” Cassian said quietly. He did not look at Nesta. Instead, he remained fixated at the hands that were clasped tightly in front of him, his elbows resting on his broad knees. “You know they have accepted you since you defended them against the males.”

“I protect them because nobody else seems to bother,” Nesta said coldly. “How many innocent females died because of the cruel intentions of males today? How many were injured?”

“Thirteen dead, thirty plus injured,” Cassian told Nesta quietly. “It would have been many more if you and Feyre not been there. You moved so quickly you managed to slay the majority of the packs before they reached the females.”

Nesta’s expression hardened as she thought of the trailing guts that had glistened in the grey light of day; the way Roksana’s hands had slipped in Mas’s wet, sticky blood, and how she had croaked for help. Her first word aloud since Nesta had met her.

“That is still too many,” Nesta insisted, her voice betraying her — shaking with the anger and horror of it all. “Why would they target the widows first? Why not lead the kerits down the other side of the mountain pass where they would could reach the main camp and weaken Windhaven’s forces?”

“Perhaps the kerits were never intended to weaken Windhaven’s ranks at all,” Rhys mused. “Perhaps they were intended to prove a point.”

A shocked, prolonged pause.

“Are you saying,” Nesta said, her voice shaking, “that you think the rebellion could have orchestrated the attacks. That they might have specifically targeted the defenceless females because widows are seen as disposable, but their deaths would be enough to fuel dissent amongst the camps?”

Rhys stared at Nesta for a moment. His head tilted slightly to the side, in the same way that Cassian’s did when he was trying to puzzle her out. But Nesta barely saw it. All she saw was the twisted body of the kind cook who had fed Nesta every morning… Of lovely Durkhanai, with her beautiful curly hair and bright green eyes. A female who had been dealt the harshest of fates. She had not deserved her end. None of the females had.

Feyre’s hand crept over the blankets to Nesta’s. Her sister’s slim fingers wrapped around her own. “Surely they wouldn’t kill their own race?” Feyre said, her voice shaking. Nesta wondered if she, too, was thinking of the discarded limbs and pools of blood. “There were children in that camp. The females didn’t even have weapons…”

But her sister did not understand just how harsh the camps were. Unlike Nesta, Feyre had not lived amongst the widows for months. She did not know just how willing the Illyrian’s might be to offer the widows camp as a sacrifice for the sake of politics.

“I would not put it past Illyrian’s to see widows as a necessary sacrifice,” Rhys admitted eventually after a long, pregnant pause. His violet eyes had softened with grief. “If this is orchestrated by the rebellion, I suspect that by targeting the widows camps Kallon was hoping to fuel the anger amongst the Illyrian’s that they are not protected. That the Night Court does not care for Illyrian’s and offers them no protection. The widows would have been seen as a necessary sacrifice. They are outcasts in Illyrian society with no families to mourn their deaths.”

A ringing sounded in Nesta’s ears. The noise tuned out the room around her. It took her a while to realise that it was fury. It burned. It was not hot, but cold - enough to give her frostbite - as if her magic was not replenished enough to fly but was trying its best to rally itself. Inside of her chest, something cracked. It sounded like bone. With it, came creeping fingers of light, reaching towards her...

With all her strength, Nesta clamped down... until shadows ate away the approaching light and the room righted itself.

When she came to, Cassian was growling low in warning, his wings stretching as far as they could without hitting her square in the face. At who, Nesta did not know. Did not care for his territorial display when there were bigger matters to discuss.

“And why isn’t there protection?” she asked.

Nesta’s words were as cold as the chill in her veins. Rhys stilled, and with it, his magic trembled. The growl was still rumbling from low in Cassian’s chest — deeper even — and he sat forward, bracing his weight onto his thighs as if he were getting ready to launch himself at… someone. Nesta wasn’t sure who.

Feyre was still gripping Nesta’s hand tight, her grip firm enough to hurt. If Nesta had cast a look to her sister’s face, she would have seen that tell-tale glaze over Feyre’s eyes. It was the kind of far off look which told Nesta that her sister was speaking to her mate mind-to-mind. Or trying to, at least.

“Why was there no protection around each of the Illyrian camps given that there had already been two kerit attacks?” Nesta continued, ignoring the rumbling sound that had her heart wanting to beat that little bit faster. “I have seen the protective shields the fae used in war — around your City of Starlight. Why is that courtesy not extended to the Illyrian communities?”

A long, drawn out silence of star-kissed eternal and a whisper of ancient silver.

“I have offered protection numerous times to each of the war lords,” Rhys replied eventually, his voice too measured to be casual. “Each of them have turned it down. They see it as a criticism on their duty as warriors to protect and defend.”

Nesta’s snort was harsh but the hard quality to her eyes did not change. “They are stubborn Illyrian bats. Get them to change their minds. Or are you not their High Lord?”

A flicker of amusement passed across Azriel’s face, his shadows lightening the sharp, beautiful angles of his face. “Nesta is right,” he said, causing everyone to turn. “The war lords don’t have the luxury of turning down our help when it looks as if there will be more kerit attacks. There shouldn’t have been a gap in today’s patrol. Windhaven has always prided itself on its security — all the camps do. Have we found the soldiers who should have been patrolling the perimeter? I think it wise to consider that they may have been compromised by whoever tempted the kerits to the camps. Recruited, even. They could well be the males that flew over the mountain pass.”

“Nobody can find them,” Cassian growled. “We have males out looking for them as we speak. As soon as they are found we will interrogate them.”

“Cassian and I will interrogate,” Rhys told Azriel as a rare flicker of surprise fell across the shadowsinger's expression. “I need you to visit your most trusted contacts in the camps and tell them that we believe the attacks might not be random. We need all eyes and ears to the ground to find out as much as we can, not least to anticipate where the next attack might be.”

A tense nod, but Azriel folded into shadow and disappeared.

Cassian’s fists curled into fists on the tops of his thighs. “We need evidence. We cannot assume this is the rebellion without it.”

“Of course not,” Rhys admitted smoothly. “Which is why we need you to try and snuff out as much information as you can when you and Nesta go to the Solstice luncheon next week. Accept the offer to stay overnight.”

Nesta hadn’t thought Cassian’s expression could turn any stonier, but it did. “No.”

“The more time you spend at Ironcrest, the longer Nesta has to pick up any untoward emotion, especially surrounding conversation about the camps. It gives Frawley time to look and identify the origin of the sword, and it gives you and Lorrian time to pry out any information. Insist on you and Lorrian overseeing the aerial and ground units that next morning, it will ease away any suspicion. A trip there is long overdue but it is time to act on this rather than gathering information, which we have been doing up until now.”

Cassian blew out a long, steadying breath. Then he conceded, “With the Rite meeting been moved forward to that afternoon, it shouldn’t be hard to extend our stay."

Rhys nodded. “Good.” Then his violet eyes rested on Nesta. “You are willing to go with Cassian?”

A raised chin. Defiant. Strong. Despite the pain and exhaustion that wanted to pull her down, down, down. “Yes.”

“Then we have a plan,” Rhys said with another nod. “Azriel will continue to train you. If he is not available, I will travel to the camps and train you myself .”

At the edge of her periphery, Nesta saw Feyre’s eyes widen. In her stomach, Nesta felt Cassian’s surprise, a sensation which grew as Rhys said, “Welcome to the Court of Dreams, Nesta Archeron.”

***

By the time the meeting was over, Nesta was drained; her eyelids unbelievably heavy, her limbs aching. She desperately wanted to sleep, so she took the tincture Feyre brought her without comment and didn’t protest when Cassian carried her back to his bed rather than hers; agony fogged the rational part of her brain.

She was practically asleep as Cassian lay her onto his mattress. She felt his fingers coax hers away from where they were clutching his leathers. Blankets were pulled over her, the weight a comfort. A sedative was dripped into her mouth.

And then she slipped under.

When Nesta next woke, the taste was still bitter in her mouth but the room was dark; the light having receded even from the gap between the curtains.

In the armchair beside her bed was Feyre, her feet curled up beneath her and her freckled nose buried in Love in Velaris. A bobbing faelight hung overhead, willed by her sister’s magic. It illuminated the pages.

From the dent Feyre had made in the book, Nesta guessed she had been asleep for hours. Beyond the room, the bungalow sat still — the way it did when Cassian was not home — as if it too were sleeping, waiting for its owner to come back and breathe life into the rooms with his presence.

A few seconds passed until Feyre noticed that Nesta was awake. It gave Nesta enough time to catalogue the concern etched on her sister’s pale face; the tight expression which made Feyre’s sharp cheekbones even more prominent.

Nesta did not usually see the similarities between them, but now, as Feyre’s serious steel-blue eyes snapped up at the rustle of blankets, Nesta knew why others had said they looked alike.

“You’re awake.” Feyre spoke slowly — unsure — as she unfurled her long, lithe legs. When Nesta winced as she tried to get into a more comfortable position, Feyre jumped up and moved to the dresser. “Here,” she said, pouring some tincture onto a silver spoon.

Nesta hated the way she needed assistance to lift her head, but she allowed Feyre to do it in a rush of pear and lilac. Nesta was not proud enough to deny that she needed the tincture to smooth away the pain. And whilst the pain wasn’t as agonising as hours prior, it was deep-set enough for Nesta to consider whether she could persuade Feyre to allow her to swallow down the whole damn bottle.

After some water to chase down the foul taste, Feyre stepped back. “How are you feeling? Frawley seemed to think she could speed up the healing Madja did, but you were so sick…” Her sister trailed off, setting back to examine Nesta’s face. “You look a little less pale...”

“I’m fine,” Nesta said hoarsely.

Feyre opened her mouth and then closed it again, as if she were contemplating what best to say. The action annoyed Nesta. She wanted to be alone and quiet. To fall back asleep and wake when the pain was gone and she no longer felt helpless.

“Don’t you have duties to attend to?” Nesta asked tiredly, turning her face to bury it into one of the pillows. It was a few seconds reprieve to calm the irritation that had started to hum through her.

Slowly, Nesta breathed in the scent of pine, musk and air that was so fierce Nesta felt as if she were almost a part of it. She had no doubt this was the pillow Cassian rested his head on. The scent soothed her, smoothing over that spiky, dangerous anger of hers to leave bone-lead weariness in its place.

“I wanted to be here,” Feyre told her. There was a subtle stubborn lift to her chin that Nesta knew Feyre had copied from her at a young age so many times that it had now become a part of who she was. “I wanted to look after you. To make sure that you were healing.”

“Well, I don’t need you to take care of me. You heard it yourself, I should be out of bed tomorrow. I just need to sleep.”

Nesta had intended to say it icily, but she was not well enough to muster the strength.

Feyre’s expression tightened, and for a moment, Nesta thought she might snap. But then she just straightened with determination; her tall, lean body rising to a height that called for attention. “Then let me say what I want to say and I will leave you alone.”

A long, stony silence and a blank, impenetrable mask that Nesta hoped with desperation conveyed the message she wanted to snap: Go away.

Instead, Feyre seated herself on the armchair and reached for Nesta’s ice-cold hand. “Nesta,” she started, the word practically a plea. “I know you and I - I know that our relationship has always been rocky. And you are right, there are many things that I hadn’t considered, not least when I sent you here. But… you almost died today and it’s made me realise what is important: I love you. I don’t think I’ve told you that before, but I always have. Even when we were younger and we were both so angry and bitter at our lot in life and we spent our days fighting. And I know you love me, too. Hiring someone to take you to the wall to find me told me that…”

Feyre let out a long, shaky breath and when she next spoke, her voice turned softer, dropping into a confession, “I forgave you and Elain a long time ago for when we were starving, Nesta. I want you to know that. I don’t — we were children. It was father that failed us, not you. I never saw it as your job to care for me and… I’m sorry that you were there when mother asked me to take care of you…. That must have been a horrible thing to overhear and… well, I would have felt resentment towards me, too, if I were you.”

More silence. Nesta would not allow herself to speak for the barbed words she knew would spill forth. About her sister’s mate and how whilst Nesta had tried to make amends, Rhysand’s obvious dislike of her had not disappeared with Feyre’s supposed forgiveness.

“I also want you to know that what you did in the war — you saved hundreds of lives. I know you witnessed unimaginable death and horror, but fae and humans are walking on Prythian because you struck down the male that promised to wreak havoc on our world. You did all of that and I never thought to thank you. And then I was so swept away by my duties as High Lady and recovering from Rhys’s near death that I did not give you the time I should have-”

Such careful tiptoeing around their father’s death. How Nesta had watched the life bleed out of his eyes, until they were nothing but glassy and wholly unconscious.

It was that which made Nesta cut her sister off. Even now, she had no desire to discuss his death. “I am not a burden you need to add to your list of priorities. I didn’t want your help. I explicitly told you to go away and instead you continued to force me to socialise when all I wanted was to be alone.”

Feyre let go of Nesta’s hand. Something akin to loss flashed through Nesta, piercing through the exhaustion and the pain in her abdomen.

“I think communication has always been an issue for us,” Feyre admitted, not backing down from the conversation. “I have spent time thinking over what you have said and you are right, I have not truly listened to you. But I was so scared for your safety I adopted drastic measures—”

“It is not your place to decide what is best for me,” Nesta said coldly. “I am not yours to command. And,” she continued with as much iciness as she could muster, “I do not think that an Illyrian camp is a place of safety.”

A deliberate pause to highlight how she were in bed suffering from major injuries.

“I thought if you were with Cassian that you would be protected,” Feyre said, her expression anguished. “I thought if anyone were to hold their own in an Illyrian camp it would be you. You are so strong, Nesta—”

“You thought a fae male could protect me when the protection I was promised by males has failed over and over again?” Nesta countered. “He is not even here all of the time. Sometimes he is away for days on end and I am left alone. You banished me to this awful place in front of an audience with no care for my feelings.”

But as Nesta spoke, something scrabbled in the back of her mind. Because it wasn’t fair to criticise Cassian for both leaving her and crowding her. Because Cassian had given her space and yet he had also been there, on the periphery if not right in front of her. Taunting her and encouraging her, but with so much space to grow. He had not made her train with him, dragging her spitting and screaming into the sparring ring. He had not thrown her out into the camp each morning and forced her to work or make friends. He had given her choices that she had more often than not denied over and over. And when she had done that, he had bought her more books or figured out the foods she liked to make the days a little less boring.

Cassian had not just protected her but allowed her to grow stronger. Had given her the space to decide for once in her life what she wanted to do and what she wanted to be. True, she might have been stuck in Windhaven, but she had never felt truly trapped. The skies made her feel unencumbered. The mud beneath her feet rendered her a part of nature rather than apart from it. The craggy mountains were a physical depiction of how Nesta was starting to see herself; sharp and angry but resilient and strong.

Outside the bungalow, Nesta heard the unmistakable crunch of boots in the snow. The low murmur of male voices floated through the bedroom window, which had been cracked open to circulate the stale air.

Feyre’s face crumpled in sudden irritation, and Nesta guessed that her mate had tried to speak mind-to-mind with her mid-conversation. From the way Feyre’s expression quickly cleared, Nesta got the impression she had banished Rhys completely or told him to go away.

The click of the magical lock from the front door rang through the bungalow, but Feyre’s attention was only on her. “Adjusting to the role of High Lady has been… a struggle,” her sister admitted. “Cassian, Rhys, Amren and Mor are my friends as well as my trusted advisors. But you are right, I spoke to you as a High Lady not as a sister when I told you to come here. I thought that using my new status would make you listen because my role as a sister had failed. It was a last resort and I knew… I knew that Cassian would look after you.”

Feyre stared up at the ceiling, as if the memory caused her pain. “As soon as you left I knew the way I had summoned you was wrong.” Feyre looked back to Nesta and sincerity swam in her eyes. “I did not consider that I had imprisoned you. I was selfishly only thinking of forcing you to be well.”

More silence.

Feyre got to her feet, her expression pained.

She waved a hand to the window, gesturing to the scenery outside. To the craggy mountains that stretched for miles and the sea beyond it. To the world that existed beyond Illyria. Beyond Prythian. “When you are healed, if you wish to leave Illyria you can. I don’t want you to feel imprisoned any longer.”

There was a finality to the words that rang true. Her sister meant them, even if it was obvious they caused her pain. Yet… Nesta did not want to leave. Not now, not when she had promised to attend the Solstice luncheon to see what they could discover about the sword and the kerit attacks. Not when the females here were so vulnerable. Now when they needed help rebuilding their community — to mourn for the losses that Nesta had vowed would not go unnoticed.

“I said I’d help, didn’t I?”

Feyre halted at the door.

“And your help is invaluable,” Feyre said slowly, “but you are not obligated to do it. So if you wish to leave, you can. Just… please tell someone before you do and let us know where you are going.”

Feyre looked weary and Nesta wondered if she had even bathed since everything that had happened. Her body was clean like Nesta’s… but her leathers were crumpled and her hair dishevelled. Nesta’s own body felt like it was covered in a film of oil and invisible dirt. Her skin itched at the thought and she longed for a bath, even though she knew she would not be able to manage it without more rest.

When Nesta closed her eyes, Feyre’s blood-streaked face swam into view. She remembered how Feyre had gripped her hand in the midst of battle and told Nesta to lead the way to the Eastern side of the camp, even though they were in the thick of danger. Her sister had not hesitated or balked. She had only been fierce and unwaveringly brave, ready to put her life on the line for those who needed protection.

For all of their problems, when the two of them had been fighting side by side, it was the first time that Nesta felt as if she truly belonged with her sister. For a brief moment in time, their issues and past mistakes had bled away, as if they were inconsequential.

“I’d love for us to start afresh,” Feyre continued quietly from her place at the door. “We have both made errors, but I do not care about yours. I hope that with time you might be able to forgive me, and if you do, I’d like to start over, you and I, with a blank slate.”

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outbythehighwind · 3 years

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Aerith & Tifa: Visual Design

An Analysis of the Final Fantasy VII Heroines [Part 1]

This is the first part of my in-depth analysis on FF7′s heroines, where they are depicted as perfect foils to one another. For those who don’t know, a foil is a character who contrasts with another and simultaneously highlights the qualities of that other character. Foils can range from protagonists & antagonists to, in the case of the FF7 girls, very close friends. In exploring this particular writing technique, I will examine their differences and similarities, friendship, relationships to Cloud and Sephiroth, and their differing but equally important roles as heroines in the overall story. Before starting though, I want to mention one thing: I adore both characters, and Tifa and Aerith are to me the exemplary role models of fictional heroines.

Now let us begin with the first thing we are introduced to: their visual designs. (Note that visual design, like narrative, is a tool that can be purposefully accurate and/or purposefully misleading. This should be kept in mind throughout the entire analysis, for FF7 - to no exaggeration - gets more than the average game's pleasure out of tricking, subverting and astonishing it's audience.) Now, onto our beloved flower girl...

AERITH

Aerith’s visual design, at first glance, is one of a meek and kindly girl. Her long, sleeveless dress, pearl pink in color, elicits an air of grace, of softness and serenity. She appears gentle and pure. These qualities are enhanced by the matching pink ribbon in her hair, which adds an additional purity to the character – one of youthful girliness, evoking a naive separation from the gigantic world around her.

Accompanying the dress and ribbon is a short sleeve crop jacket. And instead of enhancing this grace and naivety, its crimson shade shows quite the opposite. Red is a bold and brazen color. Coupled with the 90’s crop-style of the jacket, it enforces strength and vigilance. The loud (and somewhat rebellious) qualities of her jacket countervail the quiet elements of her dress and ribbon. They are a contrasting balance, as we will soon find out, of Aerith’s personality. She is gentle and pure, but she is no softie. She has complete confidence in herself.

These contrasting qualities are connected in the fact that red and pink are proximate colors. While the dress and jacket themselves are from two different worlds, the colors go together. Moreover, red and pink are the colors that represent love. Mixed together, they create ‘hot pink’ – a color used to communicate playfulness. A beautiful metaphor for both Aerith’s love for all life and her playful, sassy personality.

Moving on to her footwear, we find an even sharper contrast. One would expect that a person who so fashionably marries grace and strength would have stylish footwear to match. Yet here is Aerith with a pair of grimy, commonplace boots. While the dress, jacket and ribbon communicate her nature and personality, these grimy, commonplace boots inform the player of the life she is leading – the life of a girl who has grown up in the slums. These grimy, commonplace boots are the wise and fitting footwear to get by.

Aerith’s boots and hair are the same shade of brown, framing the vibrant personality her outfit presents. In addition to the bright, lively clothing, her hair is a standout feature of her character. And there is another character that shares this feature. Aerith’s trademark bangs share an almost-identical design to Sephiroth’s, an allusion to her in-every-sense enemy foil. Not only do the pair share similarities in their hair, but also in clothing: Sephiroth’s collar parallels Aerith’s jacket; his wrist-cuffs parallel Aerith’s bracelets; his cloak parallels the length of her dress; and his eyes – although mako-induced – are an even deeper green than Cloud’s, in direct match to Aerith’s.

Their bright green eyes further represent their foil-roles in relation to the external plot of FF7 – the plot concerned with the Planet. Aerith’s eyes are green with life, representing her connection with the Planet. Sephiroth, of course, holds a connection too, though his Mako-induced green is not his authentic color, portraying him as the false ‘savior’ he acclaims himself to be, in contrast to the true savior that is Aerith.

To see Aerith and Sephiroth’s designs as directly antithetical to one another, consider their concepts below, with Aerith’s weapon and hair trailing right while Sephiroth’s weapon and hair trails left – like a mirror image. Also, notice Aerith’s bright, vibrant design against Sephiroth’s dark, monochromatic design - a visual display of life and light against darkness. But more on Sephiroth later.

There is no FF7 character with a brighter visual design than Aerith – fittingly, for she is the party’s light. In the remake, her outfit is much the same, if not expanded upon. The jacket reaches her hips rather than waist, and the boots are black, yet about as commonplace as the original brown boots. The notable difference is her dress. The remake fits Aerith in a looser, frilly dress, which actually enhances her grace and creates a more deceptive air of naive youthfulness, much like the longer crop jacket further enhances her boldness.

TIFA

There are two roles incorporated into Tifa’s visual design: Tifa the barkeep; and Tifa the monk (that is, a martial artist of FF-verse). We will begin with the former, the first role introduced when the player meets her in Seventh Heaven.

Tifa’s barkeep design consists of black forearm sleeves matching a black skirt that is held up by suspenders. With her hair tucked behind her left ear, a teardrop earring is visible. Immediately, one gets the sense of warmness and invitation they would associate with a hostess. The skirt and suspenders appeal to the sensuous aspect of the design while the sleeve and earring give off an aura of classiness. Overall, an attraction is formed between Tifa and player – that sense of warmness and invitation drawing the player toward her. This attraction is enhanced by her long, dark hair and warm, wine-hued eyes. Not only is the color of Tifa’s eyes a clever nod to her literal bar-hosting, but it alludes to what her bar-hosting metaphorically symbolizes – a nurturing motherliness accentuated by their warmth. Not only is the player drawn in by the clothing she dons, but Tifa’s natural features are what inaugurates the invitation.

Next is the role of monk. Padded gloves and boots match the dark red shade of Tifa’s eyes, coupling her warmth and hospitality with strength. Strength and its associated qualities – firmness, power, intensity – are usually found in opposition to tenderness. But manifested in these items of clothing that are the same color as the defining embodiment of the latter (Tifa’s eyes), strength and tenderness are bridged together. Tifa is a fighter fueled by compassion. Tifa is a fighter who fights to protect. A matching dark red band ties the ends of her locks together to keep them collected, and on her left elbow and boot are armored guards, enhancing her aura of strength. Finally, she wears an ordinary white tank top for practicality in movement.

Put together with the elements of her bartender design, Tifa’s fighting gear gives her an unconventionally unique appearance: a smash-’em-if-required barkeep; a drink-serving monk. This overall appearance has an appropriate balance between allure and profession. It is attractive without being voluptuous. It is welcoming without hiding the fact that she could easily kick one’s ass if need be. And across her entire visual design, the two roles are in equilibrium. The player is drawn in to her design in the one sense, and then they are let in on what she is physically capable of. In other words, Tifa’s visual design uses its every component to give the player insight on her character. At the same time, however, it purposefully masks a great deal.

Accompanying this ‘smash-’em barkeep, drink-serving monk’ design so centered on conveying its dual-role aspects, are two items that educate the more observant player on Tifa’s circumstances. One of these has already been mentioned and is the classiest element of her design, while the other – which will likely go unnoticed – is the most ordinary. The former, Tifa’s aforementioned earring, is in the shape of a tear, subtly reflecting her past of sorrows and heartache. Yet it is her outfit’s grandest, most expensive item; this past of sorrows and heartache is what enabled her to become strong while remaining compassionate for others. Being a single teardrop on only one ear signifies how Tifa deals with emotions – the emotions she, as her name suggests, locks away in her heart. One drop for herself, the basic remembrance, the fuel, is all she outwardly allows.

Then we have the most ordinary item – a pair of woolly black socks. These socks are so subtle that even the exceptionally observant player might miss them, yet they are the single item that appeals to neither monk nor barkeep. They are distinctly… Tifa – Tifa the ordinary. Every other element is inch-perfect on what it communicates, yet here is a pair of ordinary socks that look as though they were thrown on in a morning’s rush. They give her this every-girl, neighborly quality which the player will be distracted from until the truth comes to light, with Tifa’s centrality and intimacy in the internal plot being revealed – the plot concerned with saving Cloud.

Speaking of literal neighborly vibes and intimacy, it is worth mentioning in brief that certain elements of Tifa’s outfit share similarity with Cloud’s. Both wear two metal guards only on their left side (Tifa on her elbow and boot and Cloud on his shoulder and wrist), a subtle allusion to their being ‘half’-selves on the surface (Cloud with his Zack-delusion and Tifa with her hidden feelings). Cloud too wears an earring in his left ear – a studded one, signifying, like Tifa’s teardrop, a certain brokenness of self. In Advent Children, both wear a black sleeveless vest with a high zip collar, a black cape, black boots (notice that Tifa has now replaced her trademark red) and a wolf symbol (on Cloud’s badge and Tifa’s ring) – a symbol associated specifically with Cloud. I mention these details because of Cloud’s centrality to Tifa’s story and vice versa, which will later be discussed in her role as heroine.

Tifa’s design for the remake is a nice though slight variation that fits in with the more realistic aesthetic. Her skirt has pleated segments, making for more realistic movements during combat, and her abs are toned, further enforcing her strength and perseverance in protecting her loved ones. Her black thigh-highs are an additional element, complimenting her forearm sleeves.

Despite the subtle, throw-‘em-on-in-a-hurry socks being foregone, Tifa’s remake outfit perfectly balances her barkeep and monk roles. The omission of such a neutralizing feature works even better with regard to Tifa’s character, in my opinion, for her true thoughts and feelings will be hidden for much of the game. Thus we are led astray, and the narrative will constantly push us further and further away from her inner emotions hidden beneath these two outward roles.

By visual design alone, and in the narrative that will follow, the player is led to believe Tifa has complete confidence in herself. But appearance of course, like narrative, can be deceiving.

SUMMARY

Straight away, by visual design, we have two heroines who are each a blend of multiple characteristics, yet not fitting a particular trope. They are completely unique in their own right, exemplifying both relatable and admirable traits.

Aerith, who we expect to be the meek and youthfully naive girl at first glance, embodies an undeniable self-confidence that compliments her kindness. Tifa, who looks extremely confident on appearance, has an emotional shyness masked by two bold outward roles. Aerith is the vibrant light who guides outer world adventure; Tifa is the inviting warmth who makes one feel at home. Aerith bridges the attributes of grace and toughness; Tifa balances the qualities of compassion and strength. While both exemplify these heroic traits by their very design, they are - however subtly shown - struggling slum girls.

#my analyses #ff7 1997 #ff7 remake #tifa lockhart #aerith gainsborough #parallels

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manuelcolombophoto · 5 years

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One of my bestseller: girl with a pearl ear ring, fetish edition. Ask for size and prize. © www.manuelcolombo.it DO NOT USE WITHOUT MY PERMISSION #fineart #art #paint #photography #remake #girl #pearl #ring #ear #sell #bestseller https://www.instagram.com/manuel_colombo/p/Bu3TJ1pn4D6/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1duyd0qyhwzyn

#fineart #art #paint #photography #remake #girl #pearl #ring #ear #sell #bestseller

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blankdblank · 3 years

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Hobbit Soulmate Pt 33

“Ooh, this is nice.” You said inspecting the couch in the furniture store you had stopped at making Richard smirk knowing it’d fit with the armchair he had picked from the second hand shop to go with the old cabinet you had found he was curious as to why the doors and drawers wouldn’t open. That would be a project to distract him on nights you were gone back to train in New York, breaking that cabinet you adored into submission. One by one the boxes were ticked off the list of furniture to be gotten along with dishes he smirked in the teal and grey theme you chose to go with the wine glasses he wanted with silverware and knives to match. Nice and cozy you broke the apartment in arranging everything nicely for him with a very loving evening to part with for the taxi ride to fly back in time for your table read.

“Do you know how to juggle?” You asked once inside the salon to the woman behind the counter who shrieked in response noticing just who had arrived for their appointment alerting Cher and Lucy.

“There you are Lady Pear!” Cher said smiling on her way over as you stepped from the counter.

Lucy said, “Now our girl I do believe we are in for some more fun. And just what was Madge shrieking about?”

“Oh, do you remember who can juggle I need some lessons.”

Cher, “You need to talk to Emma then. I’ll give her a call. She’s in Jersey though visiting family when do you need the lessons by?”

“Well I’d like to get started soon, but I have some months before I’m set to film for that role. Up to Canada next week again then I have some premiers here then I’m off to England, won’t be filming till late spring for the juggling role. I’d pay-,”

Lucy shook her head after your trade of hugs saying, “Not a matter of money. Though by your skill I’m sure a couple tries and you could master it on your own after that by practice alone.”

Cher asked, “What role is this one now? Another sideshow based film?”

“It’s the King Kong remake, they have some Vaudeville scenes I wear a suit and fake mustache and juggle. Do the whole kick your hat and catch it on your head trick, might have to catch balls in it I’m juggling too, depending on what choreography we go for.”

Lucy, “Well you do amazing 20’s era, really have that whole doe eyes look they loved to flaunt and fake back then.”

“Thank you,” you said settling into the seat to be draped in a cape with Cher easing your hair out over your back after snapping the cape shut to your fingers clenching on the sleeves pooled into your palms.

Cher eased off her rings to ease through your curls saying, “I hear your film is doing well, off on Saturday and I am going to see it then, girls are under orders not to spoil it for me after prepping all week for the show tomorrow night.”

“That the costume one? Oh that’s always fun.”

Lucy smirked saying, “We could always use a guest judge.”

“That sounds like such fun, if you need me I’ll be there, could use some distraction with friends. Starting table reads in a few days.”

Cher smirked asking, “You don’t ever stop do you?” Making you giggle as she eyed the solution ingredients two aids brought over to the station while she and Lucy got to separating your hair into four sections.

“Real life energizer bunny at times feels like.”

Lucy said, “Now, ends first, and roots last since those lighten quicker.” Strip by strip they coated your curls making certain to get each ringlet in doing so to not miss any spots, foil covers for the tops of your ears were made to keep the bleach off them. The top half of your hair was next with roots done next from the bottom up using the long narrowed ends of the brushes to help divide the strips in a sort of grid. Closing your eyes however the itching was tolerated as it spread over your brows now coated in a thin layer of the bleach to match those closer to your new hair color. Up however you were helped to be taken to the rinse station, at which they carefully covered your eyes with a cloth to rinse your brows.

Cher, “This color is so pretty already.” Working the water through your hair as Lucy smoothed two drops of shampoo through your eyebrows Cher then rinsed out once she finished rinsing the solution from your hair allowing them to shampoo that as well. “Oh sugar this color is going to floor everybody. Still nice and chocolaty.”

Drying came next post conditioner rinse and up on the first chair again you settled watching your reflection to their towel drying task mingled with combing out knots before the blow dryers came out for the straightening ordeal aiding in the trimming of your ends to get it to the right length again. From boob level to chin surely your hair would spring up later and once paid you heard from one of the ladies that Emma would be at the show the following night. All morning to noon the appointment had stretched and when you finally got home you snapped a pair of polaroids of yourself and sent it off in a letter to the director for North and South to let them know on the shade your hair was now, one straightened and the other curly haired again. Giving them ample time to choose if you should lighten it more before filming or if that was a good shade to maintain.

Lee just about screamed lifting you into a hug excited on being a step closer to the filming while showing off the tips to his sideburns he had been asked to grow under his shaggy hair. And right beside you he sat at the club watching with a smile as you did the line of Drag Queens competing in an all out costume war thrilled to have you as a guest judge for the evening. Emma that morning had dropped by your place and with a trio of hackey sacks got to showing you the basics, having been a circus juggler before years prior used to juggling knives and flaming pins and such for talent portions on shows she took part in. True to the assumption roughly you had gotten the basics of juggling and with some practice you could easily master it. Daily with the balls she left with you you’d practice and weekly she’d come by to add in some more difficulty to the task to aid in whatever style of juggling they would ask you to do, promising to go over any others you would be asked to do after deciding on your routine.

Staring at the cabinet he’d hoisted down to the approved spots in the parking lot to the apartments assigned to you and Richard through your stay beside his rental he opened his tool chest and got to work on the cabinet. Around the back clearly marks of former tries to paint over the charred wood that clearly didn’t take the paint then sanded awkwardly he got to removing whatever coating they gave it with mask and clear glasses in place while he got to sanding the legs. Rough and chipped in a few places until he could wipe off the coatings to the body he smoothed those down and smiled after having added some wood putty to the deeper chips and gashes he would re-stain later.

Across the body the charred wood was a clue as to how the warping had come about and with the paint gone he caught sight of some hidden hinges he used to help wriggle some give in the front door until one of the doors slid out on the other end just enough for him to work a screw driver into it. Biting his lip carefully he wriggled the metal in the edge until an exhale worthy grunt like sound the wood gave in the door opening splitting a smile across his face. With that the second was opened, though view of the interior was not taken in full at the greeting from a neighbor on their way out for the day, returning the wave and good morning Richard chuckled in sharing a passing jest at picking up a second hand rebuild job, “See you picked up a diamond in the rough.”

“Oh ya, emphasis on rough. But my partner loved it, here’s to hopes I can get the drawers open too.” Chuckles were his answer with a wish of luck on their drop into their open car and Richard turned back to the open cabinet eyeing the somehow intact emerald velvet lined cubby beside three internal shelves with some odd papers and old pens inside.

With furrowed brows he pulled the top stack out of brittle old papers with ink well worn off, the remainder hinting at receipts with crests and names of the company long past readable. Each of the two mother of pearl and gold pens void of ink were tested on a bare notepad found on the second shelf he set under a spare wrench on the ground safe from the repair job. The third shelf with a silver folding frame with a black and white picture of a woman in a swing opposite a man in a suit with cane and hat in hand with a terrier tucked at his hip. Unable to help it he smirked and closed that adding it to the pile starting to use a small brush to try dusting off the velvet he would vacuum later before inspecting the drawer just below the lip under the belly of the cabinet.

Carefully again prying the seams with the screwdriver subtle wiggles enabled one inch to be managed. Enough for him to work his fingers in and jostle the sides enough to break whatever crud was stuck in the grooves locking the drawer in place to where he could not just ease it out but wiggle it off the groove allowing access to the second drawer as well. Excited and smiling again he sat on his stool with drawer on his lap eyeing the thin books he set aside with the papers from before his eyes fell to a brown paper wrapped parcel, lifting that he smiled in peeking inside to find a music rod for a music box he hoped to be in the second drawer. Old leather gloves too small for his hands could clearly be framed for display alone at their crafting he admired the style of. Both added to the pile to let him turn the drawer on end to use another brush to wipe out the grooves and see if the ends of the wood was warped and needed sanding to slide in and out smoother.

All the while that second drawer taunting him. Finally he got to wriggling this obstinate one free finding a metal money clip partly to blame wedged in the edge between the body of the cabinet and the side of the drawer that once freed eased out freely to be settled on his lap. The clip clearly bent beyond use was set down and his eyes fell to the glass topped music box stirring a pleased chuckle from him. “There you are,” he muttered lifting it and seeing inside a rod already. Setting that aside his focus turned to the handwritten note on the slip of paper above a worn advert for a play, softly he read the cursive French he could make out to himself taking in the meaning right away, a lover’s plot. “Call at five, something, something show, dinner at, The Grey Eagle?” Wetting his lips feeling his brows furrow unable to know if that was the right name or not. Then his eyes fell to the next line, “Ask the question, do not forget the ring.” The underlined and bolded letters for the second half made him chuckle to himself realizing this was a planned proposal. “Wonder how you managed old chap without your gloves.”

Again he wet his lips inspecting the play advert he set aside to eye the only thing left in the drawer, an odd indigo colored rock he lifted. “Hmm,” turning it over in hand his fingers clenched shut around it at his wide eyed notice of the split in the rock making him right it again and bring it closer to his face. Looking closely his palm eased open with his free fingers to settle around the top to lift it finding a hinge revealing the inner violet layer inside what his brain now classified as a geode box. Though those stones didn’t keep his focus long as the pair of rings drew his focus right off.

White gold bands, the female with a large emerald in the center rectangular with corners shaved off to allow the strips of diamonds around it accented by three sideways rectangular smaller emeralds shrinking in size down the band on either side. Heavy to lift on its own even without the geode he wondered how someone had forgotten about the pair in getting rid of this cabinet. However curiosity got the better of him and the male ring was inspected next. Another rectangular emerald, lined in white gold as were the other stones, each of which down the broader band like pyramids of two onyx stones surrounding diamonds, all in rectangular blocks for four layers on either side separated by similar thin white gold strips accenting each stone and their own beauty. Like the other he turned it over in hand feeling the heft of the clearly expensive beauty and chuckled seeing the word ‘spoon’ etched inside the band making him lift the other to find it there as well.

Placing both back into the rock he instinctually slid into his pocket he smiled getting back to work on the piece. Hinges were checked with doors sanded and ensured to open easily now with drawers tested to slide effortlessly as well before he got to giving the back of the cabinet another good sanding before staining the wood a deep mahogany how you had wanted around the decorative border to be left in its natural ashy tone. Once aired out and dry fully and he had carried the contents back upstairs he readied to take the cabinet back up on the dolly. With supplies cleared along with the tarp he used to keep the spot clean of any debris or stains as per the rules given by the landlord in the office who was pleased to see he’d been one to follow them.

All the same once it was settled back into place he photographed it and added that to the picture of the before pile from each angle then got to digging through the receipts again. with furrowed brows he used a torch to help write out what he could read off each until he got a name of a family he recognized from the remainder of a stationary pad. Horses, related to horse breeders up here in Canada he found the name Hercle Gibraltyr. To the phone book he went finding a number related to the eldest most notable relative certain to know of such a set of heirlooms missing and after about an hour of agitating reroutes to his call he finally got the bristly man himself on the line.

“What’s this about a ring purchased by myself?”

In French Richard replied, “No, Sir, my name is Richard Armitage. My Partner and I bought this cabinet at a shop and inside was some belongings. I found an old stack of papers with the name Hercle Gibraltyr on it. I was wondering if you might know about it?”

“Belongings? What sort of cabinet was it?”

“Just an old cabinet with some shelves and drawers in it, possibly from an office or sitting room.”

“Was it burned?”

“A bit charred on the back, yes.”

“Ah, must have been from his house then. After the fire his siblings pillaged the place and sold the rest. All you found was some receipts?”

“Receipts, some gold and pearl pens, a music box with a second song rod. Also some gloves and what looked to be plans of a proposal,” that had the man shifting in his seat making Richard’s chest clench a moment, “Along with this geode box with what look to be two expensive rings inside. Oh, and there’s a pair of photographs of a man and a woman in a silver folding frame, forgot that.”

“Emerald rings?”

“Yes sir, which was why I was calling. I’ve been researching rings for a time for my own partner and by their size they must be expensive and surely someone has missed them.”

A deep breath was taken and the man asked, “Would you be able to meet me somewhere today?”

“Yes, I’m free today.”

“You can keep the cabinet if you don’t mind bringing the things that were inside it.”

“Of course,” he said using his pencil from earlier to write the address to meet the stranger. Anxious beyond a doubt in a cloth messenger bag you had left there he settled it all carefully and shouldered it to get driving. It was a bit of a drive so he figured he could be early. And once at the upper scale bar he wet his lips and stepped out of his car he locked to approach the door where a bouncer seemed ready to kick him back off the curb until he gave his name that confirmed he was allowed to this exclusive establishment. Once inside a second man took his name and guided him to a glass encased side lounge decorated with black leather couches and tables to match with just the grey walls to offset the dim atmosphere even while the sun blazed its best outside between bouts of snow from days prior.

“Can I get you a drink?” A woman asked turning Richard around luring her grin out recognizing him in the drop of his coat onto the couch behind him.

“Soda, please?”

She nodded and without a word blushing her way back to the bar she went while he settled down onto one of the couches sighing in the internal screaming match with himself at how he was letting these perfect rings go knowing he could have easily kept them to propose the minute you got back to his arms again. Though earlier than he had expected the man who bid him here came strolling through the door. Silver hair brushed back with a suit putting Richard’s flannel and jean wearing self, with a pair of forced grins the men stood in the room closed off behind them by a second woman who had taken Jean’s order. In a shake of hands Jean said, “Thank you for meeting me so short notice.”

Richard shook his head, “No problem. Schedule is packed the rest of the week, this was our chance and I’d hate to have had to wait myself.” They sat and Richard opened the bag showing him the before pictures of the cabinet then got to bringing out the papers and pens along with the gloves. The former two Jean got to inspecting carefully. The music box and second rod was next, all unimpressive to Jean until the picture frame was out and Jean smiled in accepting the silver frame, “Ooh, poor great great uncle Hercule.” The playbill and to do list was next he chuckled at then looked to the geode box Richard offered in his palm.

“They are really beautiful, they’d be glad to have them back.”

Jean smirked saying, “Unfortunately he and his beloved Celeste passed ten years back. He had terrible luck all his life, absolutely adored Celeste, and she managed to help hold off the chaos of his life. He was successful with her at his side, used to tell me how a fire in his home office spoiled the perfect proposal he had planned while he was away in England. His family couldn’t find the right cabinet, as he built so many to try and perfect his household for Celeste’s taste and thought the rings he designed were lost to the flames. Though luckily for him,” he said lifting one of the two rings making him smirk at the engravings matching on both rings, “She preferred rubies and despised emeralds,” making Richard chuckle.

The doors opened and the blushing woman came back leaving their drinks on the table and backed out closing the doors again still smiling at Richard who said, “A bit lucky on that part then. Why spoon though?”

Jean chuckled saying, “When they met she was working in her family’s silver shop, polishing spoons. He always stopped in claiming he’d lost his stirring spoon for his tea, only wanted to speak to her. Had hundreds to pass down to their kids by the time they inherited his lot. How long have you and your Partner been together?”

“Few years now, bit rough at first, from different countries, we’re Mates actually, started talking online then managed to meet in person when she came to England for winter break. Took about a year to get settled into the long distance issue, but we’ve gotten used to working our schedules for time together between work.”

“I know the struggle, first two wives couldn’t handle my work, hated coming in second to my horses. I do hope that won’t be an issue for you both. Luckily my Mate and I are best friends and work so at least he helps to ground me between wives and moods.”

“Oh no, it won’t be. I’m making sure of it. Couple years back, there was this car that came barreling at her in the park, her friend saved her life,” parting Jean’s lips, “But our mark bruised and it terrified me to no end. Thought I lost her, and we were on bad terms at the time I’d been in such a foolish mood about the distance and just nothing. But I flew out and since I’ve changed my ways making certain to not let my doubts in the lowest moments of my moping when apart to cause a fight or anything to damage our relationship. Her dad approves, had been hinting he wants us to get married in the near future, given his approval, loves us together. So I’ve been looking at possible designs, though with the jumble of ideas from her cousins I’m likely to propose with a pebble and then drive her to a jewelers so she can pick for the both of us.”

Jean chuckled again and while they sipped on their drinks he got to sharing the dilemmas his exes had given him on the rings they ended up trading for others anyways. Leading to his third wife where he just sent the jeweler to the house while he was away on a work trip to design both of their rings to simplify matters. Which didn’t in the end as she resented him for not traditionally proposing to her. More stories were shared of the couple that brought the duo together until a call had Jean sighing and saying, “Work calls. It was a pleasure to meet you Richard, honestly I must say I am more interested in the papers, pictures, pens and gloves. You wouldn’t be interested in the music box would you?”

“Absolutely. Thank you, my Partner would love it.”

Jean chuckled and nodded gathering up the rest he added to his own briefcase still holding the rings while he brought out a pad and pen and began to write something down using of his own pens. One tear later and he passed the page to Richard encouraging his eyes to drop to it until Jean spoke offering the geode box parting Richard’s lips, “I want you to have these. You will make better use of them than I could. Perhaps unlike Hercule it might bring you and your partner some luck. With a receipt of your own. All their living triple great grandchildren wouldn’t appreciate them half as much as you would. Far beyond the roots their ancestors would have preferred and found themselves cut off, more likely to pawn them in any case. Have a good day.” Hands were shaken again. Richard’s hand molded around the geode box Jean got up and headed for the door easing those gloves from the cabinet onto his hands for a perfect fit, leaving the stunned actor in place, ears ringing in shock at the stunning gift.

Carefully he bagged up the receipt, music box and song rod pocketing the geode box again on his own way out leaving a bill to go with Jean’s on the table easing his coat back on readying for the chill outside. Once in the car he smirked turning the engine over feeling a chuckle freeing itself from his chest at the odd sense of relief washing over him. In moving the geode box from his pocket to the cup holder for a more comfortable drive curiously he lifted the male ring and found himself easing it onto his left ring finger for what would be a fated perfect fit.

Back towards the apartment he went stopping at a jewelers he had strolled past a few times days prior to renting the place here trying to build up courage to enter for some ideas. The place was quite upscale, surely out of his price range leading to his evident refusal to enter until he had a larger pool of funds tucked away to draw from. All the same he parked bringing the bag with him inside where that out of place feeling crept back up again.

Forcing a grin he caught the eye of two of the blondes in the shop along with the buzz cut bearing man in a suit who came over to handle the tall man and bring him a bit away from the redheaded upper class housewife here to have her ring resized. While designing a new necklace to go with her lavish collection at home to go with the new Bently outside. “How might I help you sir?” The man asked with a feigned grin of his own adjusting the top button on his suit jacket that was sitting a bit crooked on him from a sideways lean a few moments ago.

“Well two things really,” Richard said easing the geode box from his pocket, “I just found these heirloom rings,” easing the ring off his finger again to bring it with its partner into his vision lifting his brows at the pieces, “I was hoping to have them possibly cleaned up a bit and appraised.”

“You are wanting to sell them?”

“Oh no, I was planning on proposing to my Partner but I know her family will be wanting details on it for stone sizes and such.”

“Ah,” he said with a creeping grin now readying himself to aid in what could be a future client apparently on a rough day out in the country explaining the casual clothes and lack of suit. “All of that will be quite simple, and should not take long if you wished to wait here for the cleaning to be through.” He turned his head and another man from the back, his senior in the cleaning aspect of the job came to collect the rings and pause in simply testing the weight.

“Lovely rings, don’t find quality work like this anymore, where did you buy them?”

“Found them in an old cabinet I’m refurbishing actually. Great Great Uncle Hercule thought he lost them in a fire at his house but the drawers were just wedged shut.” The story just slipped out and in their eyes the glint of old money flashed evidently calming the duo even more that this customer had been doing repairs earlier and came right over to see to these heirlooms.

The salesman said, “The good sir here was wishing for a full disclosure of quality and clarity as well of the rings for when he proposes to his fiancé to be.”

“Of course, sir,” the cleaner said stepping away, “Your rings are in the best of hands, sir.”

In his absence the salesman asked, “Have you considered wedding bands yet?”

“For myself, no, I do know her cousins said maybe hearts,” to another counter he was led and a series of choices from simple barely visible thin bands both with and without stones absolutely baffling him.

“As always when you bring in your fiancé to get the ring resized, if needed, we could get her input as well. Most of our clients do take that route since she would be wearing them, then she could choose if she wants a full band all its own or something to ghost up against the engagement ring. And color talks could go on for days if she is quite picky like most women are in this important piece.”

The cleaner came back and Richard flashed him a hint of a grin as he said, “Quite stunning pieces originally you have here, even more so once they are cleaned and polished up a bit. Starting with the male ring. Seven carats for the center with the others at half a carat each on a 24 karat white gold band. The center stone was appeared to be scuffed but after cleaning it is like new again. Same as the female ring. The center stone on hers is just shy of eight carats actually surrounded by one carat diamonds and emeralds on the 24 karat white gold band. Any woman will feel quite the Princess wearing this ring. Both by my estimation could fetch up to 750k a piece, and that is being stingy since being polished could fetch even more with this clarity.”

“I don’t think I could tell her that. She might be a bit scared to wear it then.” Making the men chuckle as Richard did to himself, “And with that she might try to go skimpy on a wedding band in that case. Thank you for cleaning them they do look fantastic now.”

With a passing of bills over he paid and accepted a card to book an appointment for when you might want to shop for wedding bands or to drop off the ring should it need resizing. And just buzzing Richard with ring in hand finally parked back at the apartment spotting Lee in his return from another day out with a few friends. Trading nods he joined their group to the lift and into the hall where they split to head to the separate apartments. Freeing the Brit to have a moment in silence to walk from his now locked door to the living room where he gave an excited wiggle in settling the bag down on the couch at having such a huge score landed for the next step forward with you. Back into the cabinet the box and spare rod were settled and to your room he went to find a place to hide the rings in their velvet protective pouches and the geode box where you wouldn’t find them.

“What do you think of emeralds?” was the first question out of his mouth in dialing a number he hadn’t expected to upon fixing himself up some supper to eat.

“Emeralds?” Your father answered and gave a soft sigh having gotten back inside himself from a long day on the ranch. “For,” the reason clicked in his head and he asked, “You picked a ring?!”

“We bought this cabinet that Jaqi loved and I managed to get the doors and drawers un-jammed and there were these rings inside. I found a relative of the old owner and he said I could keep them. Got them cleaned and they’re appraised at over 750k a piece.”

“I want you to describe them but take a picture and mail it to me. You could give her a block of cheese with a bow and she’d say yes, but think I would like to get a peek before the grandparents get to see it in the press.”

“I will, I still have to see if it fits her first.”

“Details Rich, details.”

Pt 34

Hobbit – Soulmate - @evyiione, @deepestfirefun, @rhaenaatargaryen, @anastasialovers

X all Rich. A - @abiwim, @deepestfirefun, @thestorybookmistress

X Lee P - @tigereyesf

All –

@himoverflowers, @theincaprincess, @aspiringtranslator, @thegreyberet, @patanghill17, @jesgisborne, @curvestrology, @alishlieb, @jogregor, @armitageadoration, @fizzyxcustard, @lilith15000, @marvels-ghost, @catthefearless, @imjusthereforthereads, @c-s-stars, @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore, @mariannetora, @shes-a-killer-kween, @ggbbhehe4455

#Richard Armitage x Reader OC #Canada #New York #Salon #Juggling #New Apartment #Busy Work #Cabinet Discovery

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