[Spoiler warnings for the level 85 MSQ, and content warnings for depression/suicidal ideation.]
Deep in the lowlands of Coerthas, there is a cabin. More precisely, there are many cabins - some belonging to hunters or woodsmen, some lost to the snows, some belonging to those who prefer to live far from others. But this particular cabin doesn't belong to the two women who live within it. The one who it belonged to died in the final days of the Dragonsong War.
Azette Sejois, formerly of the Supreme and Sacred Tribunal of Halonic Inquisitory Doctrine, worried about that when she first arrived here. When her sister-in-law all but dragged her out of the cold and the dark and into this warm, safe cabin. She doesn't worry about it, now.
It's been long enough since they fled the city that her fear of pursuit has settled into naught but a background anxiety. There are bigger things happening in the world than the escape of a single forgotten Inquisitor, if her brother's occasional reports are anything to go by.
_
There is a time and a place for telling the tale of Azette's escape from the Supreme and Sacred Tribunal. There is a time and a place for telling of Morgane's bravery, and Aurelien's. But it is not this time, and it is not this place.
This is the place for a tale of desolation.
Fire crackles in the hearth. Outside, the weather seems almost mild for Coerthas-that-is. Clear and crisp and cold, but without any sort of winds or gales.
Morgane Sejois sits nearby, warmed by the fire as she works on stitching a tear in one of their shirts. Their shirts - for their worldly possessions are split and shared between them, here. By the grey-blue colour, it was probably Azette's once. She isn't really sure. She does know that Morgane has been wearing it more, of late. She does know Morgane looks good in it.
Azette stares. At everything, and at nothing. Her vision shifts and fades into an almost-greyscale as she watches, the fire dancing and burning itself on to her retinas.
She takes a breath, and forces herself to blink. Afterimages of the fire stick beneath her eyelids as she climbs to her feet.
"I'm going to get more firewood," she says, at length.
The motions are automatic. Pulling her coat on; buttoning it up; lacing her boots; lifting the axe from its place by the door; letting her hand slide across its worn wooden haft; opening the door.
Azette has just enough time to see Morgane glance at the near-full logpile, then to her, before she shuts the door behind herself.
She breathes, and watches the air mist and curl in front of her. The weather seems almost mild for Coerthas-that-is. Clear and crisp and cold, but without any sort of winds or gales.
She takes one step, then two. The snow crunches beneath her boots as she walks her path toward the wood that has become her second home in these past moons. It should be peaceful. The idyllic dream of a winter paradise. A warm cabin, and crisp snows. But with every step, all she can think about is Morgane's fingers, stitching a torn shirt back together. A shirt with no owner.
Of Aurelien and her mother, alone in House Sejois for the closing days of the year.
She thinks of the sacrifices her family has made for her mistakes. For her anger, and her failure. For her weakness. She doesn't want them to waste their lives on her. She doesn't deserve such a kindness.
Apostate; traitor; assassin. Murderer.There's so much blood on her hands, inky-black, and it stains everything she touches. Everyone she touches.
She's broken.
She stops walking.
She doesn't tell herself to. Her legs just...stop.
That's odd.
Azette tries to take a step forwards. Nothing. She tries again. Nothing, again. Like she's caught on something.
She looks down, at her feet. And she sees them. She sees hands, blackened by frostbite, grasping at her boots. Trying to drag her down into the snow.
Azette screams, and tries to kick them off; tries to break free of their grasp. The hands shimmer and fade into ash.
Without them holding her back, Azette's leg scuffs forward through the snow, tipping her balance forwards and dropping her on to the ground. Her head hits...a stone, or a log. Something, beneath the snow.
It hurts. Everything hurts.
Azette clutches her head, trying to catch on to any solid thought as her ears start to ring.
Murderer. Murderer. Their blood is on her hands. They'd be alive if not for her. They'd be alive. Morgane would be at home, with her husband. They'd be happy.
She shouldn't be here.
Ashes flutter past her face, and she freezes in place.
She pulls one hand away from her head, and just stares. Ashes pour from her own flesh like she's burning alive. Her fingers twitch, against her will.
She tries to scream, again, and coughs up ash instead. Curls in on herself, staring at her hand.
Deep in the Coerthas Lowlands, Azette despairs.
There's not a single thing she can do to stop whatever it is that is happening to her. Perhaps it's divine punishment. Perhaps Halone has come to take her, for her sins. Her vision grows black, and Azette does nothing to fight it. How could she? How could she fight such a bone-deep pain? Such a desire for oblivion?
She hears a voice reverberate through her mind. Rejoice. I shall free you.
Her eyes slip closed, as the pain of it all grows too---
"AZETTE!"
Her eyes snap open.
Morgane rushes to her side, dropping to her knees and sliding the last half-fulm through the snow to reach her. She grasps her hand and holds it tight even as the ashes scatter and fade.
"Azette. Oh, gods, what's happening to you?"
Oh, Morgane.
Always so worried.
Doesn't she see that this is for the best?
"Azette, darling, hold on. Don't give up. Just hold on."
Azette almost laughs at that, her grip on Morgane's hand loosening. The darkness is coming back, creeping into the edges of her vision.
"I-I'll find a way to help you. Remember what I told you in the prison? Remember how I told you to have faith, for just a little longer?" Her voice sounds frantic. There's fear in her eyes, desperation. Azette doesn't understand it.
"Go. There's no saving me." Azette's voice sounds wrong, somehow. Distorted, and weak. Speaking feels strange, as smoke bursts from her lips.
"We're a damned stubborn family! Gods take you, Azette, I won't let you give up and die." Tears fall from Morgane's eyes. She clutches Azette's hands like a lifeline.
"The Gods won't take me." Azette smiles, sad and empty. "They forsook me long ago."
Morgane's fingers tighten their grip, and the next words she speaks are harsh as sharpened iron. "Blessed are we who abide in Her grace, for we shall never be forsaken."
The words wash over Azette like a balm. The old, familiar prayer.
"Pray with me, Azzy. Blessed are we who abide in Her grace, for we shall never be forsaken." The words mean something, even now. Even to an apostate. "Come on, damn you!"
"...Blessed are we who abide..." She chokes on ash.
"Try! You have to try!"
"Blessed are we who a-abide in Her grace, for. For we shall never be forsaken." The darkness recedes, a little.
"Again!"
"Blessed are we who abide in Her grace, for we shall n-never be forsaken." Azette's fingers twitch and curl around Morgane's hand.
"That's it. Just pray with me." Morgane has tears in her eyes, and snow in her hair. She's beautiful. "O wrathful Fury in heavens on high - pray grant us the strength to overcome the evils of this world."
"O wrathful Fury in heavens on high - pray grant us the strength to overcome the evils of this world." Azette squeezes her eyes shut, and tries to just breathe through the pain.
"You're doing so well."
"Blessed are we who abide in Her grace, for we shall never be forsaken. O wrathful Fury in heavens on high - pray grant us the strength to overcome the evils of this world. Blessed are we who abide in Her grace, for we shall never be forsaken. Blessed are we who abide in Her grace, for we shall never be forsaken!"
Azette opens her eyes, and the ashes are gone.
She lets out a slow breath, savouring the feeling of her lungs being clear of smoke and acrid poison, and meets Morgane's eyes.
"Are-- are you alright?"
"I am." And... she is. The sorrow that had felt inescapable a moment ago has faded and settled. Drowned out by the feeling of holding Morgane's hand. Drowned out by fervent prayer.
Morgane laughs, tears in her eyes, and leans down to press a kiss to Azette's forehead. "Good. Don't you ever worry me like that again, do you understand? Or I'll be very cross."
Her lips linger. And as she pulls back, their eyes meet.
They breathe, and the air curls and mists between them.
Morgane clears her throat, blush on her cheeks from the cold, and climbs to her feet. "We should...get back. And try to find out what just almost happened." She dusts off the snow from her trousers; clears her throat, and extends a hand to help Azette up.
Azette stares at her for another second from her place on the ground. Two. Three.
Then reaches out, and takes her hand.
_
O Halone, see me to victory. Grant me the strength to overcome this evil. Pray forgive me my sins.
Help me to cleanse my soul. Render unto it Your judgement.
All of Ishgard is cold, really. Anyone and their mother could tell you that. But the cells offer few comforts to nullify that ever-present chill, especially not to traitors.
Azette has settled into the silence when her visitor asks that question. Her eyes, such a deep rich purple, drift open. "Hmm?"
"Prayer," Morgane Sejois repeats, and offers a faint smile. "I know that your faith was...pushed beyond its breaking point. I don't know why, and I still don't intend to push you to know the details. But even a faithless woman might sometimes tip her head back and utter the name of her gods."
If she's aware of how that might sound, she makes no indication of it.
If Azette's aware of it, she offers naught more than the slightest bite of her lip - a sharp canine barely brushing over chapped lips. She offers a wry grin towards Morgane Sejois, then gestures to her surroundings.
"I have little and less to pray about these days, I'm afraid."
Morgane hums in consideration. After a moment, her hand reaches out to grip one of the bars that separate the two of them. The guards tell her not to touch them, but she's bad about listening to that particular instruction. "Perhaps that's true. But I find that it's those in the direst of straits who pray more fervently than those with all they need. After all, it is not those who are most comfortable who summon Primals."
Azette chuckles, letting her head fall back and thud dully against the stone wall. "Touché, sister."
They lapse into silence after that, leaving Morgane's questions unsatisfied until she lets out a disgruntled scoff. She reaches through the bars and flicks Azette's cheek with a single elegant finger.
The callous at the tip of each of her fingers feels coarse, leaving the sensation of touch dulled, and oddly tender - the way only an old scar can be.
"Well, tell me, then. You say you have little to pray about, then you concede that those in dire circumstances pray more." She gives Azette a disgruntled look. "So, do you?"
Azette laughs, rubbing her cheek with a bare hand. The scar across her hand is pale in the halflight, and Morgane finds her eyes lingering on it. "Why are you so interested in my night-time habits suddenly? Is the manor house truly so boring?"
"Without you in it? Definitely."
They share a fond smile, just for a moment, and after a moment of hesitation, Azette takes Morgane's hands. They interlink fingers, ever mindful of the guard patrolling. Ever mindful of the limits this cage places upon them. Limits they've always had, in truth...so perhaps the enforcement of them is no bad thing.
"But stop evading the question. You inquisitorial tricks shan't work on me."
Azette gives a dry chuckle, rolling her eyes and squeezing her sister's hand. "Oh, very well. If you will not be discouraged - no. I don't pray. I haven't in years now. Not even when things are at their direst."
The response isn't a surprise, not really. Why would an apostate pray to gods she no longer believes in? A woman without faith might turn to them in a moment of need, but an apostate willingly turned her back on them. Willingly let Halone go.
Still, Morgane can't help but find her heart aching at the admission. Azette didn't pray for freedom. She didn't pray for health. She didn't pray for her own life.
What could have shattered her belief so utterly?
"Well. Perhaps you should pray for your homecoming. You never know if your faith might be rewarded."
Azette catches her eye at those words, her eyebrow quirking upwards. The moment, that fragile understanding, breaks as she speaks. "My faith has ever been rewarded. But not in ways I like. Only with sorrow."
They hear footsteps in the hallway, and Morgane hastily withdraws her hand. Azette flexes her fingers, breathing out a slow sigh that curls into steam in the air.
Morgane's scarred fingertips and painted nails rest on the bars for yet another moment. "Have faith, dearest."
She wishes she could smile - offer some sort of reassurance. Instead, it's all she can do to tap the bars, and meet Azette's eyes.
Morgane Sejois wanders the streets of the Firmament.
It's busy - adventurers from across the realm are fast working on the next stage of the Reconstruction. Carpenters and blacksmiths and leatherworkers and even cooks. She'd passed by the most delicious-smelling food on the way over. People clamour all around, eager to proceed with the work and prepare enough materials for the sudden influxes of intense activity she knows to occur as ground is cleared.
Her fingers run over the stone of the fountain at Saint Roelle's Dias, and a smile graces her lips.
... only for the smile to slip away as she rounds the corner and catches sight of the being before her there.
[Spoiler warnings for the ending of Ehll Tou’s custom delivery questline below the cut!]
It's... a dragon. But not any normal form of a dragon. Not an aevis, or a giant dragon like those who have flown by in the peacetime, or one of the freakish ones who walk like men. Not even one like Nidhogg and his vile brood.
It does stand on two legs, but nothing like a man would. Instead, it clutches a hammer between its oddly-shaped claws, tapping away at a sheet of metal. There's a young boy standing next to it, and she stamps down on her reflex to try and protect the boy. It's peacetime, Morgane. And a crafting dragon is hardly a danger to the boy. What is it going to do, thwack his fingers with a hammer?
Still, she can't help the reaction.
Nor can she help the rest of what she feels.
Her fingers curl in on themselves, and she crosses her arms over her chest. Tugs at the cheap fabric of her coat, trying to breathe steady. Every ragged exhalation has her breath curl and mist in the air, a reminder of her failure to calm down for every moment that passes.
Control yourself, Morgane.
Do not embarrass us in public, child.
Control yourself. I'd ask what's wrong with you, but perhaps I should ask your mother that.
Halone, at this point I would simply give you away to the first man of status to ask.
She hisses a breath through her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut.
"Oh! Hello there!"
She blinks.
... The boy. The boy is speaking to her.
Without thinking about it, focused as she was on her breathing, she's.. approached the boy and the dragon.
"I don't think I know you, my lady. Are you another crafter here to help Ehll Tou?!"
She blinks, looking back and forth between the pair, then shakes her head.
"Oh. Well, then. My name is Hautdilong, and I hope to write about man and dragonkind's ongoing peace. And this is Ehll Tou; she's my very good friend, and a Crafter of the Firmament besides!"
She.
The dragon before her is a woman. Perhaps even a girl.
Morgane opens her mouth, making a few choked noises. Her claws talons nails scratch across her forearms beneath her coat.
Hautdilong frowns. "Are you alright, my lady?"
She closes her mouth; forces herself to nod. "Y-yes."
There. She found her voice. She's still capable of speech.
Through all of this, the dragon - Ehll Tou - has simply kept focusing on her crafting. Hammering carefully away at the bronze plate. Her tongue sticks out as she concentrates on her work, barely blinking. Do dragons even blink?
... This one definitely isn't blinking. So Morgane is going to go with no. Either that, or she truly is dedicated to her craft.
"I've... never seen a dragon like your friend before." The word friend comes out harsher than she intends, and she winces at herself, for how she must sound. "Nor one with any interest in creation."
That seems to enliven Hautdilong. He beams. "Oh, yes! She's quite unique for the moment. A peacetime growth. Dragons can grow up all sorts of different ways depending on what they need, it's honestly amazing. Who knows how she'd have turned out in the war; but because she was so interested in crafting, she ended up like this!"
They... grow based on their desires and passions? Morgane feels a chill sweep through her, and not simply from the air of the Firmament. She knows her fears are illogical, but she cannot help but feel them. "That is... certainly unique. You said 'for the moment'?"
As if on cue, a dragonet sweeps past, scampering over the statue of Halone behind them, then flies away.
Hautdilong beams. "As more and more young dragons grow their passion for creation, I hope we'll see more dragons like Ehll Tou! Peaceful dragons; something new and exciting to celebrate this new peace between Ishgard and Dragonkind."
Ehll Tou seems satisfied with her work, and makes a tiny growl of satisfaction before lowering her hammer. As she looks up from her work, she seems to notice Morgane for the first time. She looks back and forth between Morgane and Hautdilong.
Oh. Hello! The voice resonates through my mind, loud and clear. Morgane takes a shocked step backwards.
Hautdilong groans and thwacks Ehll Tou's arm with the back his hand, lightly. "Ehll Tou! How many times do I have to tell you not to do that when people aren't expecting it?"
And how, exactly, do I make them expect it?
"I don't know! Oh, maybe you could write a note to give to people?"
So I am to silently approach a man, hand them a note, and then, only after they have read it, begin to speak?
"... Hmm." Hautdilong taps his chin with the feather of his quill. "I'll have to think more about it."
The exchange is light. Jovial. But Morgane is petrified.
She takes one step back, then two. And before she knows what she's doing, she's walking away from the pair as fast as is deemed polite and appropriate.
"I'm sure I'll come up with-- hey, wait!"
She hears the boy running after her, and closes her eyes as she stops walking to allow him to catch up.
Breathe. In and out.
"I-I'm sorry about that. I should've warned you - dragonspeech can be a little surprising to people. Are you alright, my lady?"
She opens her eyes, and forces a wan smile. "Yes, of course. My apologies, it simply... caught me off guard."
Hautdilong nods. "I imagine it must've felt a little strange and unfamiliar. But I do promise you that Ehll Tou and every other dragon here is friendly, if you ever wish to talk with them."
Her nails clamp down on her arms. Her teeth dig into her cheek. "Of course," she says. "I'll do that. She seems a remarkable girl."
Hautdilong's smile grows, and he doesn't stand in her way as she begins to walk again.
As she walks away, she thinks about every step she takes. About her breathing. About trying not to cry.
She doesn't think about his words. She doesn't think about the fact that strangeness had been far from her mind as Ehll Tou spoke.
And she definitely doesn't think about how familiar it had felt.
Sebastien hums as he ties knots in their fishing lines, attaching hooks to them with unusual dexterity for a man his age.
He sits on the bank of a river in the Coerthas Lowlands. The sun shines brightly, and his eyes drift shut, feeling the breeze.
"Father, the fish will have escaped by the time you finish with the knots if you keep getting distracted like that." Azette can't help but speak up, laughing at him good-naturedly.
His eyes blink open and he looks at her, surprised and delighted. "Oh! Of course. I'm sorry, Azette. You know how my mind tends to drift with my age."
He passes her the fishing rod, and she goes about the careful process of baiting the hook with hands unmarred by conflict. Satisfied with her work, she pulls the rod back, then swings it forwards, watching the arc of the line before it lands true within the slow, meandering path of the river.
"So, how is life treating you, my girl?" Sebastien asks, blunt as a club, before swinging his own fishing rod forwards.
She laughs. "Mother asked you to check in on me, didn't she?"
He scoffs as if insulted. "Is it so unbelievable that I might simply want to take my favourite daughter on a fishing trip?" He doesn't deny her claim, though, and she grins.
"I am, as ever, your only daughter."
"Untrue," he counters, and pouts at her. "I'm rather fond of Morgane."
That has her laughing, bright-eyed and happy, and she leans over to bump shoulders with him.
Her long hair drifts in the wind. She should cut it short, one of these days. Her wife has developed a tendency for running her fingers through the first few ilms, and Azette has an inkling that she is imagining how she'd look with it in one of those modern, stylish cuts. Perhaps she'll indulge her, one of these days.
"I will be sure to pass on the message to her. Perhaps it's her you should have come out fishing with, hm?"
Sebastien chuckles, adjusting his fishing line and pulling it back a little to test something he'd mistaken for a snag. "Oh, heavens no. She can't bear fishing. You meanwhile, are my blood daughter, and I've been building your tolerance for this since you were five summers old." His eyes drift closed again, the sun striking his old face. "A dastardly plan, I know, but how else am I going to get anyone to come fishing with me?"
Azette rolls her eyes - and her response is interrupted by a snag on her line. All thoughts of conversation die down as she tries to pull her catch inwards, fighting with it every ilm of the way before finally managing to pull the rod skyward, her prize soaring through the air to land in her outstretched hand.
It's...an old temple knight's helmet.
It's scarred and rusted, half fallen apart from its time in the water. She groans, unhooking the mass of metal from her line. "Truly? A helmet? This is like a bad joke."
She struggles to get her words out between Sebastien's uproarious laughter, and she tries her best to scowl at him before thwacking his knee with her new possession.
He feigns pain, gasping in mock offence. "You assault a member of the clergy?!" His voice is shocked, and she almost does it again just out of the principle of the matter.
Azette sighs, placing the helmet on the ground next to them and starting to work on replacing her line's hook. She ties the clinch knot easily enough. and reaches for the bait. But her hand slips, and the hook rakes an ugly cut across her right palm.
White-hot pain sears through her mind, and she yelps. The world sharpens at the edges for just a moment, the truth of it all scratching at the corner of her consciousness, but she can't really appreciate that right now with how much this hurts.
Sebastien's fishing rod is forgotten in an instant and he's by her side. His hands take hers softly, and a handkerchief, wipes at the blood spilling across her palm. "Oh, darling. It's alright. You're fine. Breathe for me, Azzy, it's alright."
She sniffles, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.
"I promise you. It looks bad, and it feels painful, but it is naught serious. This will heal as good as new, I give you my word." He clutches her hand, wrapping the handkerchief around it as an improvised bandage, and his hands glow with healing magic for just a moment. The pain begins to fade, and she starts to breathe a little easier. "Just breathe, slow and steady."
He slowly lets go of her hand, and she clenches her hand a few times, experimentally. It twinges in pain every time, but...far less than it had, at first. "In life, there are things that frighten us. Things we don't understand, things that can make us panic." He wraps his daughter in a hug, stroking her hair with love and affection. "But it's important to remember, my darling, to take a breath. To slow down, and think about your place in this world. Rather than rushing into action, or rushing in reaction to something. Sometimes you must needs take just a moment, to appreciate your place in this world."
Her eyes close, and she breathes, slow and deep. She smells spearsincense and communion wine and her father. And for just a moment, the pain recedes. When she opens her eyes again, she can see clearly. "This isn't real, is it?" She asks the question, but she knows the answer already.
"I'm afraid not." His voice sounds tired, now. Less alive than before. More like she remembers it being at the end.
She pulls back from the hug, to regard him. To try and memorise the details of his face, in this dream.
"Oh, my darling. I so wish I could have known the woman you've become." He smiles at her, peaceful despite their situation.
"I do not think you would have liked her," Azette replies, hands clinging to his coat. The handkerchief on her palm is gone, now, exposing an older, deeper scar. "I do not think you would have liked who I became, without you."
He sighs, giving her a kind look. "You found your way, did you not? Even if it took you time, and missteps; even if you faltered and stumbled? You found your path."
She did. She found her path, for all the good it did her. Locked in a cell, punished for the nobility she chose to display in place of cowardice. She became an honourable woman, in the end. It just cost her everything to do so.
She has just one question left to ask, now that the lie of this dream has been revealed.
"Did you know?" She has to ask. "About the church. About Thordan, and about Ratatoskr?"
Sebastien seems to consider the question for a few long moments. In the end, he shrugs. "I am simply a part of your dream. Would it give you more peace to know that I was another innocent victim of the church? Or that I was complicit in the deception of Ishgard?"
Her grip tightens on his clothing, hands shaking despite herself. "It would give me peace to know, father."
He smiles at her again, sadness in his eyes now. "Then you will never know peace." The answer is simple, and cuts her to her core. It chills her more than the snow which has begun to fall, surrounding them and blanketing the ground. "The dead keep their secrets, Azette. A selfishness, perhaps, but...we have already died for you. I'd say we've earned one selfish desire."
Azette just breathes, and clings to her father. Around them, the snows begin to bury the Lowlands. And bodies drift along the river.
Her bedroom at the Sejois family manor in the Highlands, before it was lost to the cold snows and to the family’s newfound (relative) poverty, was filled with all manner of childhood interests. Walking boots, and swimming costumes, and gardening clothes, and, yes, ice skates. Pretty dresses which she never cared for, and sensible clothes for noble boys which she practically lived in.
The walls were painted with flowers, deep azure like Ishgard’s colours. The window was always cracked open, even in the depths of winter. When they were flowering, she could smell gerberas, and in winter she could smell the crisp air in the wind off the lake. She would awake to birds singing, every morning. Until they had to leave.
Now, the room is left barren. The window is broken, and snow and frost has damaged what little remained. The bedframe, too large and heavy to arrange transit for (and too large to fit in the house in the city, anyroad) has rotted, old wood damaged by ice and exposure - one of the legs will likely give way in the next few years. The cupboard in the wall has a birds’ nest in it, a robin clinging to life and shelter and warmth in the depths of coldest Coerthas. The walls are faded and water-damaged, rot and mold replacing the flowers.
_
Her bedroom in the House Dzemael Barracks when she served as a squire, and her bedroom amongst the Supreme Sacred Tribunal when she was in training to be an inquisitor, juxtaposed the childhood frivolity.
Both were utilitarian. Military, and barebones. A copy of the Enchiridion by her bed, along with whatever martial book she was reading that week. She kept the rooms clean and tidy, and personal details were stashed away from prying eyes. Bandages for wrapping her hands kept inside her polished boots. Letters from Ophelie (deeply inappropriate) and letters from her family (much more appropriate) stashed away beneath her mattress.
_
And finally, her bedroom in the far smaller Sejois home in Ishgard. Her current bedroom, were she not locked away. An old, tumbledown building. A neglected townhouse for the family in more affluent days, and now their only home to speak of.
She had moved there as a young teenage girl, but her childhood interests had not come with her. The ice skates were packed away in a closet and ignored. Even if she had the amenities to skate in Ishgard, she had lost the taste for it by then. There are no dresses, new or old. Her taste for more masculine clothes was well known by then, and frankly, that allowed the family to save the money that would be spent buying her any new dresses. Simple clothing. Work wear, with a single suit. It’s been refitted and adjusted for her frame twice since she got it. Her youngest brother has the old suit she wore before her growth spurt, but he likely won’t be able to have it for many more years. He’ll probably get her current suit, once he grows taller. She has little use for it any more, after all.
The beams are exposed. The walls are painted yellow - warm and bright. Her mother, Valerie, had chosen the colour after they first moved in. A way to brighten the dark, miserly room. She’d attributed Azette’s quiet sullenness to the sudden change of locale; to their family’s fallen fortune. She hadn’t known the true reason. She still doesn’t. So, she had tried to help in what little ways she could. Painting the walls with her only daughter was one thing they could do together. A bright yellow, warm and welcoming, as contrast to the greys and blues and whites of Ishgard. To the darkness of the beams and the house, to the south-facing window in her room which never really gets any light from the sun.
There’s a dart board mounted on one wall, where a teenaged Azette would be a nuisance and practice throwing knives when she was home rather than in the Dzemael barracks. The fact that the wall she picked was the wall adjacent to Aurelien’s room was a complete coincidence, of course. She would never intentionally irritate him by throwing knives at the wall between them. That would be ridiculous, and childish.
The room has stayed the same since she became an Inquisitor, and since she stopped. Her writing desk in front of the window was covered in missives and Inquisitorial paperwork during her service. Now, it’s covered in letters of appeal, in notes and copies of lawbooks and details of people to contact. A workspace for the family as they try to free her.
Sometimes, during her service with the Inquisition, Morgane would place flowers in a vase by the window. To “liven the room up”, so she said.
“Is it not lively enough with me in it, my lady?”
“A room needs more than a single bright spot, sister dear. No matter how vividly she shines.”
((content warning: hypothermia, gore, drug use, torture, nudity, suggestive content))
Snow drifts, as always, across the highest points of the Pillars. Lords and Ladies scurry through the streets after the afternoon's service, eager to peruse the shops and stalls for the fanciest of foreign goods. And through the crowd, a woman weaves her way home. Her armour is soaked through, the warm blue-dyed wool drenched far more thoroughly than it should have been even from days in the snowdrifts.
She reaches the doorway to a modest manor, shivering and huddling beneath the balcony as she fumbles and knocks at the door.
It swings open a few moments later, and Morgane Sejois blinks at the guest.
"Azette? Gods, what happened?" She steps aside, ushering her in. "Come in, you'll catch your death out there!"
Azette tries to smile, but her teeth chatter too much as she steps into the house. The door is shut behind her, cutting away the infernal wind.
"By Halone, you're soaked to the bone." Morgane moves to try and take Azette's coat, only to realise that would be largely futile. "How did you even get this drenched? Did you fall into a lake?"
"Yes." Azette's reply is quick and quiet.
"...Oh, Azette." Morgane wraps an arm around her, hurrying her into the great hall - to the warm hearths and the fire and away from the cold.
Azette doesn't have the strength or the will to resist being guided. It's nice, really. Not to have to worry about where she's going. She trusts Morgane to guide her there safely.
Sure enough, she's lead to the great hall. Well. Great in name, if not truly in size. To the richer nobles in the city (to Morgane's father), the hall would be little more than a study. Perhaps a nook, or a snug. A reading room, at the very most.
But it's more than enough for the needs of the Sejois family, and as Azette is gently lowered into the armchair closest to the fire, she finds herself grateful the room isn't any larger.
"I'm going to ruin the chair, my Lady," Azette manages to say, but makes no attempts to move.
"Oh, it's been through worse." Morgane shrugs. "And besides. What are chairs for, if not to support us when we cannot support ourselves?"
Azette smiles, a little. "I suppose that is literally what chairs are for, yes."
"Pre-cise-ly." She enunciates her words clearly, grinning with each one. "Now. Let's get you out of those wet clothes, yes? You must be freezing."
Azette nods, eyes drifting closed as she settles in her chair. She feels like there's something she should be asking, something missing from the house, someone missing from the house, but she's too exhausted to remember.
Morgane starts with her gauntlets, raising each one and unfastening the buckles in turn before slipping them from Azette's fingers. Her hands are wet, fingers flexing in the warm air. Morgane's thumb brushes over the long scar on Azette's palm for a few long moments, lingering there.
But before Azette can open her eyes or question it, she's moved on. Unfastening her coat, a buckle at a time. Her fingers are quick, dextrous, experienced, even with this sodden coat.
"So, you fell into a lake, hm?" Morgane asks, shifting her hands before Azette's shoulders to tug her forwards. Then she's pulling the coat free of Azette's frame, tossing it the few fulms away she can manage with it being about twice its normal weight from the amount of water it's carrying. "That seems careless of you, oh daring inquisitor."
She's trying to keep her talking, to make sure she doesn't pass out. That would be bad, given her likely hypothermia. To keep her awake. It's a transparent attempt. That doesn't mean it's not effective, though. "It's less that I fell, and more that I was tackled into it, my Lady," Azette corrects.
Morgane pauses. She rarely gets to hear about what happens to Azette when she goes out into the Highlands, hunting. She makes no move to interrupt, not even to correct Azette's insistence on calling her that.
"I was caught off guard. It was careless of me, I'll admit. After I climbed out of the water, I knew I needed to come home. There was no way I could stay out there like this." In truth, her hunt had been done. She'd have found a way to deal with it, if she'd had to. She always does.
"Foolish of them, to try and drown you." Morgane resumes her work, tugging Azette's boots off. She places the first down on its side, and a deluge of water pours out on to the rug. Oh. Whoops. She leaves the other one upright, resting it carefully near the fire. She'll empty that out later.
"Mm. Fools, the lot of them."
Morgane nods. Unbuckles Azette's belt and starts to hitch her trousers downward. Azette's hips move with her, shifting and rising to help make it easier. If she feels any embarrassment about being stripped, she doesn't show it.
Azette is still shuddering, skin soaked and arms moving across her chest protectively.
Morgane's fingers move to rest on the arms of her shirt. "You really are soaked through. This is ludicrous."
"Reminds me of going swimming as a child."
Morgane smiles sadly at that, as she pulls Azette's arms away from her chest slowly. She raises them up, and lowers her own hands to the bottom of Azette's undershirt. Azette hisses a little, and Morgane tugs the shirt up and off as quickly and smoothly as she can manage.
There's an ugly bruise against her stomach, next to her hip. Morgane winces, resting her fingertips against the edges of the bruise to trace over it.
"I should have liked to have seen the old Sejois home," she says, in lieu of commenting on the bruise.
"It's not really much to look at, any more. I get to pass by it sometimes, it's...half buried in snow, at this point." Azette's teeth still chatter as she speaks.
"Well, perhaps when the winter ends," Morgane smiles, shrugs. She knows most people believe this winter will never end. That their haven is permanently shifted towards ice and snow. But she chooses to believe. The snows only grew two ilms last year in the western highlands. In the Central, they've been steady. She's hoping they might recede next year.
"Perhaps. Just don't ask me to take you swimming." Azette smirks as if she's joking, but her fingers tighten as she says it. Her thumb brushes over the scar on her palm. One of so many scars.
Now that Azette is in naught but her underclothes, Morgane can't help but look at the marks covering her body. The scars, the old bruises. Abruptly, she finds herself with the need to memorise them all. Everything from the callouses on her fingertips, to the cuts on her arm, to the tiny scar between two ribs, to the birth mark on her hip. She wants to know every single one.
She swallows the urge down, breathing a little unsteady as she moves to cover Azette in a warm, dry towel. When did she get that? Azette is so woozy from the hypothermia that she didn't even notice. She snuggles into the towel as Morgane works to dry her out a little, making the job extra-difficult. In her defence, it's warm and it smells like home.
"You are impossible, Azette." Morgane rolls her eyes good-naturedly.
"I aim to surprise, my Lady." And even like this, Azette is infuriating. The words are muttered absently, and Morgane resists the urge to flick her cheek.
"We'll work on that." Morgane rubs the towel over her arms, moving closer. She doesn't know when she started shifting closer, but she did. She's practically in Azette's lap as she works to warm her up.
"Which part?" There's a hint of a smile on Azette's lips.
"Both parts." The words are breathed against Azette's skin.
She shudders as the warm air caresses her neck. Her eyes flutter open, dilated and disoriented. Trying to focus. "Morgane..." she says, and doesn't know what else there is to say.
"That's much better," she replies, and kisses her. Their lips press against each other, and gods, Azette is still so cold. Lips like ice cubes, she has. Or perhaps Morgane's are just too much like fire. She always did run warm. Azette's arms slip free of the towel, pulling Morgane the last ilms to settle her in her lap.
Morgane knots a hand in her hair, shuddering and biting at Azette's bottom lip. Desperate, eager. Eager for what they've both been dancing around for all of these years. And why? Why have they been dancing around, when they could have this?
They curve together like two pieces of a puzzle. Like they were built to be together. Like this was their fate, written in the stars the astrologians read. Having Morgane this close is a heady rush, all mild perfume and ruffled dresses and curling raven-black hair cascading everywhere, getting in the way.
Azette laughs, and pulls back from the kiss.
And the face in front of her isn't Morgane.
It's a face split in two by an ice skate, the flesh of her grin curving inhumanly. Muscle and sinew and bone exposed to the open air with every movement.
Azette's joy vanishes as the woman's hands settle around her throat. She struggles, scrabbles at the woman's arms, tries to get away. But she is unarmed and unarmoured, naked and tired and pinned down by her own meek submission.
She yells for help, screaming Morgane's name--and water fills her lungs.
_ _ _
She awakens as a bucket of freezing water is tossed over her. She cries out, struggling against her restraints, and her eyes open to search frantically around her cell. Looking for the dead woman who dragged her down.
But she's nowhere to be found. There is simply a guard, and an inquisitor. Despite her situation, despite the guard holding the empty bucket and her sworn for smirking at her, she relaxes. This, at least, she can manage. She cannot fight the dead.
Lord Greavaut Luiviere stands at the other side of the cell, a cruel smirk on his lips. "Did you have a pleasant rest, Lady Azette?"
She shivers, biting her lip hard to stop herself from speaking. To stop herself from speaking unholy profanity and curses, from telling him she should have cut him down when she had the chance. That her mercy was the worst decision of her life.
Greavaut pulls a vial of liquid from his pocket, shaking it in his grasp. "This is truly an interesting alchemical compound, is it not? You just tasted its effects for yourself. One of the few advantages of opening our gates to outside trade, I feel."
She stares as he places it down next to a syringe on the table between them.
"You are a resilient woman. Resistant to fire, and blades, and all manner of things we would ordinarily use to learn the truth and gain confession." He lifts the syringe, pushing the needle into the cap of the vial and slowly drawing the drug. "But this is from the Alchemist's guild of Ul'dah, and is something rather new. It forces those who take it to live amongst their darkest guilt. Eventually, even the strongest of men will scream confession of the sins which he is forced to relive again and again."
Regret? She and Morgane have never...
Oh. Of course. The guilt of desire.
"I'm sorry to say, Lord Greavaut, that your compound does not work quite as you had hoped." She sneers at him, tugging at her restraints. "My dreams had naught to do with any real sin I have committed. It was an imagined scene. Any confession from that would be a confession of a fantasy, nothing more."
Lord Greavaut seems to consider Azette's words for a few moments. He tilts his head this way and that. Then, he raises the syringe and takes a step towards her. "Perhaps," he says. "But whether or not the sins you are reliving are real or not is really of no consequence to me. It will break you all the same."
The needle pierces her skin, and the world distorts. "When I get out of here, my Lord, I am going to cut your skin from your--"
The door swings open, and Morgane Sejois blinks at her guest.
The night is late, and Inquisitor Azette Sejois is sizing up her opponent. In conflict, one must always think ahead, must always take a view of the wider scale of things. Must always see your enemy for who they are, not who you expect them to be.
Morgane rests her fingers on a pawn...then slides it forwards two spaces.
Azette's moves her own pawn out one space.
"Is this even a challenge for you, sister dear?" Morgane laughs at Azette's haste, resting her chin on her palm as she studies the board.
Azette shrugs the question off. "Challenge comes in different forms, my Lady. An untrained fistfighter is no real challenge, but an untrained man with a spear still has a long, sharp piece of metal on a stick that is being waved in your direction."
Morgane seems to come to a decision, lifting her bishop and having it take another of Azette's pawns. "And you're so certain that I am untrained? Perhaps this is all a ruse, to lull you into a false sense of security." She looks up at Azette; winks. Azette's heart stops for a moment.
"Perhaps it is." Rook to A5. "But if that is the case, then I feel I must admire and acknowledge your commitment to this deception." She smirks. "Losing to my brother three times in a row afore he departed to bed was true dedication. A man fumbling blindly, and a woman feigning fumbling after him."
Morgane chuckles at that, covering her mouth and her bright smile with her hand for a few moments. Azette wishes she wouldn't. But, after her laughter dies down, she lowers her hand, lips still curved into a grin. "Azette, I feel you have just described my entire relationship with Aurelien."
Azette laughs. "Touché!"
Bishop takes pawn.
Azette clumsily overextends her knight, barely even looking at the board. She's more interested in her sister-in-law. (Now, as ever.)
Morgane's eyes alight, and she leans forwards, and outstretched for her own bishop...then she hesitates. Her eyes flick over the board. Lips purse. Eyes narrow. "You're a cruel woman, you know that?"
Azette smiles, innocent as can be. "I don't think I know what you mean, my Lady."
Morgane ignores the bait, and instead moves her rook to take another pawn. A safer pawn.
Azette shifts the knight forwards again. "Check." She tries her best not to sound smug when she says it.
"You're a mean woman." Morgane groans, leaning back in her chair.
"If you are waiting to spring your trap and reveal your deception, might I suggest that now would be a good time for it?"
"Oh, eat rocks."
Azette splutters a laugh at that, caught off-guard. "Excuse me?!"
"You heard what I said!" Morgane pouts, arms crossed over her chest dramatically.
"What exactly does that statement even imply?"
The pout intensifies. "Well, I had thought it to be rather self-evident."
Azette's heart aches, to look at her. Her eyes alight, joy clear in them despite her overdramatic, feigned unhappiness. She's stunning.
Morgane moves her hand towards one of her pieces, but Azette reaches out to gently grasp her hand before she can reach it.
Perhaps it's the wine she's had tonight, or perhaps it's the lateness of the bell. Perhaps the Fury herself overcomes her, for that moment. Perhaps it's just...Morgane.
Morgane blinks in surprise. "I know that you are afraid of my chess prowess, dear Inquisitor, but I am fairly certain this is not a legal move."
Azette's throat burns. She daren't blink. "I..." she begins, as whatever courage had possessed her fades away to nothingness. As the words she yearns to say dissolve and melt away, lost in the floodwaters.
She smiles, broken and tremulous, and leans in. Presses a kiss to the back of Morgane's hand. Her lips linger for just a moment too long. A moment more than would be considered polite.
"I am glad to call you my sister," is what she says, instead.
Morgane takes a slow drink from her hot chocolate, curling her fingers around it to warm her from the night’s chill.
The air is crisp, as it usually is in Ishgard, and the lanterns are dim enough that she can see the stars from her bedroom’s balcony. The moon is waning, barely a sliver of it visible. It’s peaceful, out here. Aurelien is inside already - collapsed asleep from a long day of work, and she shall join him afore long. There are no sounds of dragons anywhere in the distance, and it seems for a night there shall be peace from Nidhogg’s rage. In Ishgard, at least. Doubtless there are knights somewhere, fighting as they always are.
She hears walking down below, and for a moment she thinks it’s a patrolling knight. Except…those footfalls sound like no knight. She recognises them. She tilts her head down the avenue, and sure enough, Azette is wandering her way back to Sejois Manor. She has a pack slung over her back, and even from this distance, Morgane can see her Inquisitor’s armour is loosened and unbuckled. Safe, here in the city.
Morgane grins at the sight of her sister-in-law returning; it’s been some moons since they’ve seen each other. She leans forwards, placing her cup down on the balcony railing and watching Azette approach.
Azette stops walking as she gets closer. She doesn’t, as Morgane expected, walk straight to the door. She looks around…and then right up at Morgane’s spot on the balcony, even shrouded in darkness as she is.
Azette’s purple eyes seem piercing even in the greylight. “Forsooth, what light through yonder window breaks?” she says, after a moment, amusement clear in her voice.
Morgane grins and rolls her eyes. “That line doesn’t start with forsooth, dear.”
Azette shrugs. “‘Tis my own quote, then.”
“There are no lights up here. Aurelien’s already asleep.”
“Ah! Then it must be your natural radiance.”
Morgane snorts. “Oh, yes. Behold my gross incandescence - it keeps the neighbours awake at night.”
Azette shrugs the pack from her back, placing it on the front doorstep. “I’m not so certain. I might need to get a little closer to behold it properly.”
Morgane doesn’t get the chance to ask what she means by that.
Azette runs forwards, leaping and grabbing on to top of one of the downstairs window frames.
Morgane laughs, incredulous, then clasps a hand over her mouth to keep herself quiet.
She’s there for only a second or two, pulling herself upwards and lifting a leg to the frame (in an impressive display of flexibility, if Morgane is being honest with herself) and clambering up to the ledge. Another leap and she grabs the bottom of the balcony. Morgane yelps, running to the edge to make sure Azette hasn’t fallen into a heap on the cobbles.
She’s there, dangling, and…swinging back and forth.
“A little space, my Lady?” she asks, and Morgane backs away to the other side of the balcony.
There’s a dull thud as Azette’s feet impact the floor of the balcony below Morgane’s feet, then Azette is swinging back.
Her fingers slip free of their spot on the balcony, and she’s flipping. Driven upwards. She does a full frontflip, and lands on her feet on the balcony railing.
“Oh, yes. You’re far more brilliant up close.” She grins, far too widely for someone who pulled a stunt like that.
Morgane’s mouth falls open. “Azette Sejois. You are impossible!”
“I try my best.” Azette’s grin widens, and she holds out a hand. “Help me down? This railing is icier than I was expecting.”
Morgane rolls her eyes, but obligingly steps close and holds a hand out.
Azette takes it, stepping down from the railing on to the balcony, and a little into Morgane’s personal space.
“Think we woke up my brother?” Azette’s cold fingertips stroke over the back of Morgane’s hand.
“Oh, definitely. You’re making him tea tomorrow morning as an apology.”
Azette scoffs. “I am not!”
Morgane snorts a laugh, and, after a moment, Azette joins in.
Every time she comes back, Morgane is reminded of…something.
She doesn’t know what, really. She doesn’t question it, too deeply. She simply knows she enjoys the inquisitor’s company. She enjoys her being close by, and misses her when she’s on assignments in the highlands.
Morgane had been blessed enough to find a husband who loved her for all that she is, and accepted her, and brought her into his house.
To have his family love and accept her, as well, is almost more than Morgane feels she deserves. To have them embrace her as a companion and as family. And Azette’s companionship…it means more to her than most.
“…It’s good to see you,” Morgane admits, after a few moments of silence.
“You too, my Lady.” Azette’s lips are curled into an insufferable smirk, again.
Morgane groans, long-suffering. “We’ll work on that.”
“May I introduce to you Lord Aurelien Sejois; his wife, Lady Morgane; and his sister, Lady Azette.”
Azette doesn’t know why she let herself be talked into this evening.
She really, truly doesn’t.
She’s meant to be out there, hunting. She isn’t built for the wining-and-dining that Aurey seems to flourish with.
And she especially isn’t here for the way the other nobles look down their noses at her. Entitled prigs.
But then Aurelien gets caught up in some conversation about Eorzean fabric taxation (with him politely ignoring the pitying sneer on the lips of the noble he’s speaking to), and Morgane slips away from him to stand next to Azette instead.
“Come now, sister dear,” she says, linking arms with Azette and starting to walk her through the crowds. She leans in close to whisper the next part. “They might be miserable bastards, but it’s important to show our faces.”
Azette holds back any sort of reaction to Morgane’s closeness.
Right. That’s why she let herself be talked into it. Of course.
“Important for my brother and yourself, perhaps,” she muses, slipping them past another unpleasant-looking nobleman. “Though I don’t quite know how I was persuaded to join you in this suffering.”
Morgane smirks. “Because I’d be so much more bored without you here.”
“Ah, I see. So I am to suffer for the sake of your idle amusement?”
“Yes.” Morgane says.
Azette rolls her eyes and gently hip-checks Morgane. “There are worse fates than to amuse you, one supposes.”
Azette.
Morgane doesn’t get a chance to respond to that particular line, as Azette’s attempts to guide them away from anyone who looks like they might want to speak to her finally fail, as a noble steps directly into their path.
“Lady Morgane! Always such a pleasure.” His smile makes it abundantly clear that he’s lying.
Morgane’s smile shifts to something just as fake. “Lord Florian. How wonderful to see you again.”
“However is your house doing? I heard that you were having some trouble with the door.”
Azette tenses up, and Morgane takes her hand to try and relax her. Her fingertips brush against Azette’s new gloves.
“It’s all sorted now. Nothing to worry about.”
“I’d hope not. I know such things can be…terrible inconveniences. How you fixed it with so few staff members, I can hardly begin to imagine.”
Azette’s lip curls. “Well, some of us are able to imagine raising our own hands to do more than drink, my Lord.”
Sorry, Morgane. Couldn’t resist.
The Lord in question blinks a few times as he looks her up and down. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve had a chance to properly be introduced. Who, exactly, are you?”
“I am Lady Azette Sejois -”
Florian starts to sneer.
“- Inquisitor of the Supreme Sacred Tribunal.”
His sneer vanishes.
He raises a hand to his collar, tugging at it a little to allow himself to breathe.
“Inquisitor. I had no idea you were-” He cuts himself off, clearing his throat nervously before his smile shifts to something faker than she’s seen all night. It’s greasy and conniving. “- It’s so good that you could make it. I’ve been just desperate to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you, Lady Azette. All good things, of course!”
“Of course.” She looks at him blankly.
“If you have some time, I would love to discuss something with you as regards to House Vallenoix. Their House works to supply wine from the surviving vineyards to Ishgard. And my own family’s knowledge of wineries and vineyards has given me reason to believe-”
Less than a minute between him learning her identity and trying to throw his competitor to the drakes. Incredible. Truly.
“Apologies, my Lord, but there are important matters that have drawn Inquisitor Azette’s attention. You don’t mind, do you?” Morgane interrupts him, and drags Azette away before he’s even able to stutter out a snivelling affirmation.
They make it almost seven fulms away before they both break down. Morgane fills the room with a joyous, delighted laugh, leaning hard against Azette. Azette chuckles, squeezing her hand.
“I’ve heard so much about you, Lady Azette~” Morgane singsongs, breaking down into more laughter.
“However were you able to do menial labour without The Help!?” Azette responds, raising her hand to her chest in faux-shock.
Morgane snorts and bumps shoulders with Azette.
Maybe this evening won’t be quite so insufferable, after all.
Morgane shivers in the frigid cold, pulling the collar of her coat up a little further as she tries to reach the safety of House Sejois.
The winds had come from nowhere. She’d been expecting a cold winters’ day in the leadup to Starlight, but she hadn’t been anticipating this level of wind. It bites at the bare skin of her hands, and she tries her best to tuck them into her coat.
She grimaces in no small amount of displeasure and hurries her pace.
The cold has been worth it, though, she thinks, pulling the hemp bag on her shoulder a little closer. It’s hardly the most befitting for a noble, but she’d like to see another noble fit their Starlight presents inside their tiny purses and handbags.
(No - she knows another Noble would simply have their servants carry the gifts, if they even bothered to personally go out to find the perfect gifts.)
A new, ornate set of shaving razors for Aurelien - his are getting more than a little old, and he’s been cutting himself while shaving more often, recently.
An expensive jet black paint for Valerie - Morgane knows how sparingly her mother-in-law uses such colours, given their truly exorbitant prices at market.
Nothing for her parents, yet. She’ll probably send them a card, if she’s feeling particularly nice.
A pair of letter-openers engraved with Halonic scripture for Aurelien’s younger brothers. She doesn’t get to see them often, and, in truth, she still finds herself forgetting their names on some rare occasions. The letter openers shall, hopefully, serve as a promise that she’ll message them more often.
And for Azette…
Morgane falters at the front door to her House. Her cheeks flush, just a little, and she buries her face further against her coat, as if anyone could see the colour of her cheeks.
In the meetings she’s had with her sister-in-law in the years since Morgane’s marriage into the house, she’s never seen Azette without gloves, of one style or another. Morgane had these made by a leatherworker from Gridania. They should fit perfectly, assuming the measurements from the servants had been accurate. A soft, dark brown leather, with the symbol of House Sejois embossed upon them.
She’d wanted to get Azette something…personal. Something of a luxury, given the woman’s life in the Inquisition. But…something that would last. Not simply a nice box of chocolates to be eaten and forgotten. Something she can wear for years to come.
She shakes her head, clearing her thoughts and pulling the house key from her coat’s pocket.
She unlocks the old door, then tugs at it. It doesn’t budge.
Tugs at it again. It’s sticking, as usual.
Just once, she wants it to not stick.
She sighs.
Grips the door handle.
Steps close to the door.
Wrenches the entire door upwards as she tries her level best to unstick it, performing a much-practised motion of lifting, twisting and pulling all at once.
There’s an ungodsly splitting noise, and the door opens. More precisely, half the door opens. It breaks apart from the half attached by hinges, scattering splinters everywhere.
Morgane blinks.
She looks at the half a door she’s holding, entirely separate to the door frame.
Inquisitor Sejois lowers the body of the first heretic down into the ice and snow with nary a sound. A dagger to the throat, and a half a dozen times to the chest, had made short work of him.
Once his body is lowered to the ground, and she’s certain nobody within the cave system has heard any trace of her, she slips out of the cold and the snow. Into the caves.
She watched them arrive here, a handful of bells ago. Eight heretics.
Well. Seven, now.
She spins the dagger back and forth in her fingers, staying low. Her feet crunch on the ice beneath her feet, and her free hand traces the cave wall.
She hears voices ahead of her. Two, by the sounds of things. And, as she rounds a corner, her suspicion is confirmed. Two, standing on either side of an old, rickety table. Counting out…something. Coin? Medallions? She can’t tell, from this angle. One of the heretics has her back in the way. Her eyes flick over the woman’s spear, strapped to her back. She can’t see the other man’s weapons. A longsword, maybe?
“Damn, this one’s half-broken already. A twist, and it’ll come apart.”
Azette slips one of her patas from her belt, gripping it with a finger on its mechanisms.
“Then leave it. No point taking them if they’re going to break in two.”
She slips into the room of the cave they’re in, sticking low. The heretic facing her direction is focused on his work, but she keeps herself directly behind the one with her back to her, just in case.
“Oh, man, hey, look at this one–”
She slams the blade of the pata into the point between the shoulderblade and neck of the heretic in front of her. Angles it downward, towards her centre mass. And extends the blade. In a split second, the blade shifts from barely a knife, to the length of a shortsword.
Azette throws her dagger. It strikes the man who’s facing her in the eye before he can even react to the evisceration of his comrade.
She guides the woman to her knees, trying to twist her blade free.
The man with the dagger in his face drops forwards, rather than backwards. The table collapses under his weight, shattering loudly and scattering blood-spattered coins in all directions.
Fuck.
“Hey, everything okay?!” a voice calls from another chamber.
She tries to wrench her blade free again. She glances around, sees shadows on the wall. Hears footsteps.
The blade comes free with a gush of arterial spray, covering Azette’s face in bright red.
She draws her second pata, and, without any other good options, rushes towards the source of the voice.
As she rounds the corner, the heretic has just enough time to widen his eyes and yell in alarm when both of her patas drive straight through his chest.
She lifts him off the ground with her blades and momentum, before letting him drop to the floor and retracting her blades again.
“Shite!” she hears, from the room ahead of her, then noises of weapons being drawn.
Well. That answers where the last ones are.
Half down without any effort.
Not bad.
Azette cracks her neck. Rolls her shoulders.
She tastes blood on her lips.
And she rounds the corner.
Four heretics are pointing weapons towards her.
A sword and shield. A sword. A lance. And a double-barrelled rifle.
Oh, right.
The rifleman snaps the breech of his weapon closed, and raises it.
He fires.
She ducks low, and hears ice and rock shatter behind her from the impact.
The entire cave complex echoes from the sound of the weapon going off, and she surges forwards.
He adjusts his aim.
She raises one pata in front of her, twisting it to show the handguard.
The second shot strikes her weapon, ricocheting off. The mechanism retratcts, and stays there.
Hm. That makes this a little more interesting.
The gunner breeches his rifle. Empty casings eject over his shoulder.
She elbows him in the face as she passes him by, focusing on the other attackers for the moment.
The swordsman swings his sword at her, and she blocks it with her faulty pata. An improvised buckler will still do the job.
She smirks at him, and he swings again. Block. Block. Swing– blocked by his own, very much not improvised shield.
The gunner loads a second shot, and snaps the weapon closed again.
The swordswoman swings for her, and Azette changes targets.
Azette’s blade meets the heretic’s, and she clashes them together. Raising them out of the way as Azette surges forwards, stabbing the woman in the chest with the retracted blade of her other pata. It’s not enough to kill her, but it’s enough to stagger her.
Enough for Azette to retract the blade of her second weapon, point it towards the woman’s face…and extend it again.
She doesn’t bother to wrench either weapon free of the faceless woman, opting to let both go for the moment and keep her momentum up.
The sword of the swordsman whistles past her shoulder, and she tackles the lancer.
The gun goes off again.
The heretic she’s grappling yelps, and Azette sucker-punches her in the jaw.
Dazed, she grabs the lancer and twists them in front of her…
As the second shot fills the cave with noise.
The lancer stops struggling.
Azette smirks, and grabs the lance as it starts to drop to the floor.
“You just shot Gretel!” the swordsman yells at his compatriot.
“I’m sorry! She’s really fast!” the gunner yells back. His hands fumble as he tries to reload again.
Azette charges with her lance dragging along the ground, trailing a long scar in the ice.
He raises his shield to block.
Azette smirks, and brings the lance upwards, slipping it through his guard. It pierces clean through his shoulder, and he screams.
She keeps charging, her momentum driving them both further until the lance stabs into the wall behind him.
She turns to face the gunner, and wanders towards him. His hands are still shaking. He drops one bullet to the floor, but loads the second one in.
He snaps the chamber closed.
She grabs the gun out of his hands and hits him in the face with the butt of it.
He drops to the floor, nose bloodied.
He barely has a chance to scream before a gunshot fills the caverns with noise one final time.
The final heretic manages, eventually, to drop his shield, and snaps the length of the lance. He wrenches himself free, and tosses the spear tip to the floor. Blood flows freely from the wound through his shoulder, and if one were to angle themselves right, they’d be able to see clean through it.
Azette is very slightly out of breath as she retrieves her undamaged pata and tests the mechanism a couple of times, barely paying the final heretic any attention.
“Say…” she asks, after a moment. “Would you like this to go fast…” she extends the pata again. “Or slow?” She flexes the fingers of her free hand, demonstrating the plated, spiked gloves she’s wearing.
“Who…who the fuck do you think you are?” the final heretic asks, as he raises his sword to point towards her.
Azette looks over at him, and clips her pata on to her belt.
She thinks his question over, for a few long seconds.
“I’m with the church,” she says.
The heretic screams as he charges towards her, sword raised.
Aurelien Sejois cleans up well. His suit isn’t the most ostentatious, but it’s certainly well-fitting. He beams as he spots his sister in amongst the wedding reception, making his way through the crowd.
Azette bows her head a little to hide her grin. “Congratulations, Lord Sejois.”
Aurelien groans. “Please, Azzy. Not even as a joke.”
She lifts her head, showing her smirk, and steps forwards to give him a hug. “Sorry, brother. The congratulations were genuine, though.”
“Did you ever think you’d see me here?” he asks, stepping backwards and looking around the reception dinner. It’s packed, and lively. The advantage of being one of the lower noble houses is that the weddings get to have just a little of the commonfolk’s fun. If the high nobility already look down their noses at you as filth, you might as well have a little more mulled wine than is strictly necessary and celebrate just a little more loudly than the high houses.
“In truth? Nay. I was convinced you would die dainty and virginal.”
Aurelien’s mouth falls open, faux-shocked, and he punches her shoulder. “Arse.”
“Must run in the family.”
He rolls his eyes.
Then, something seems to occur to him. He gets a look in his eyes. Azette has long since learned to dislike that look.
“You’ve been out on assignment so long - you haven’t met my lovely bride yet, have you?”
Azette pretends to wrack her memory for a moment, but in truth she knows it’s been over a year since she was last home for more than a night or two. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, no.”
“Stay right there,” he says, and points to the floor just to demonstrate. “Don’t go disappearing like you have a habit of doing.”
He disappears into the crowd.
Ever loyal, she stands in place and awaits his return. She doesn’t know many people here, in truth. The rest of her family are mingling, but everyone else here is a stranger to her.
Aurelien reappears after a few moments, arm linked with the bride. The dress makes it fairly obvious, and Azette had seen her from a distance during the ceremony.
As she steps into view, though, Azette realises that the distance did not do her justice.
Her hair is dark, and long, and lustrous. Azette has never been one for the word lustrous, but that’s the only way she can think to describe it.
Her eyes are a deep, vivid blue. Freckles adorn her pale skin, with a beauty mark just beneath one eye.
Her sharp, painted lips curve into a smile, and Azette wonders how in Halone’s name her brother managed to find such a woman.
“You must be the sister that I’ve heard so much about,” the bride says. She steps forwards, wraps Azette in a hug, and kisses her cheek softly.
They pull away, and Azette fidgets with the collar of her dress uniform.
“Lady Morgane –” Morgane begins. Pauses. Beams. "–Morgane Sejois, now, I suppose. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.“
Azette bows her head once more, slipping her hands behind her back to stand at ease. "My Lady,” she says. “Inquisitor Azette Sejois, at your service.”
“Thank the gods, you didn’t bow.” Morgane says, relieved. “We’ll have to work on the My Lady part, I see, but if you didn’t bow you’re already doing far better than most of the men at this reception.”
Azette smiles. “We’ll work on it.”
Morgane leans forward to whisper, somewhat conspiratorially. “To be perfectly honest, I’d convinced myself that Aurelien had been making you up.” She giggles at the thought. “The bold, daring Inquisitor sister. I thought he’d invented you to make himself seem more interesting.”
And she’s funny.
Of course she’s funny, too.
Azette laughs softly, and nods. “I thought he was doing the same for you. The beautiful fiancée who was never quite available whenever I was visiting home.”
Aurelien scoffs, and Azette is reminded, abruptly, that he’s there in the room. And that they are, in fact, in a crowded room. “You’ve been talking for two minutes and already you’re both making fun of me.”
“We do it because we care, love.”
“I can’t let your ego grow too large, Aurey.”
He just rolls his eyes again.
“Well,” Azette begins. “I don’t know what my brother did to endear you to himself. But whatever it was, I’m sure that he is not deserving of someone as lovely as you.”
“You flatter me, Inquisitor.”
“No more than you deserve, my Lady.”
Morgane narrows her eyes, a smirk playing at her lips. “We’ll work on that.”
“For you, my Lady, I would work on anything.”
Morgane raises an eyebrow. “Well now. You didn’t tell me your sister was so charming, Aurelien.”
“I avoided mentioning it,” Aurelien groans.
“Perhaps I married the wrong Sejois.”
“Behave, both of you.” Aurelien gives Azette a pointed look, despite the humour in his tone.
Morgane sighs, dramatically. “Yes, dear.”
Azette opens her mouth to agree. Or, more likely, to disagree.
If you didn’t want me to flirt with your wife, brother, you shouldn’t have married.
The simplest joke in the world. But as the words are on the tip of her tongue, she hesitates.
She closes her mouth. Looks to Aurelien. Looks to the ring on his finger, matching the pair of Morgane’s.
She looks at Morgane.
She feels something start to burn in her chest. The dimmest of sparks. And the words die in her throat.
“Did Aurelien ever tell you…” she begins, instead. “…of the time he tried to steal a love letter I wrote?”
Azette spots her dearest brother racing down the steps to the Jeweled Crozier and tries to run faster to catch up. He’s older, with longer legs than her. She, truthfully, doesn’t know if she’ll be able to catch up with him.
But like hells is she going to just give up. Not when he’s got that letter in his hands.
She reaches the top of the steps, and sees him already in the distance, struggling through the marketgoing crowds - with another crowd of people wandering their way up the steps.
She gasps roughly, stopping for a moment to catch her breath (and to regard her surroundings).
She can do this.
She doesn’t go down the steps - doesn’t interfere with the crowd of women in their petticoats and frocks. Instead, she runs along the balcony above.
Takes a breath.
Vaults the railing.
Her feet land on the top of the Market Board, some fulms below, and one let slips off. She falls, grabbing the top of the board with both hands as her thigh slams into it. She grunts in pain, but doesn’t stop.
She twists, instead, slipping her leg free, holding on to the top, and lowering herself to the ground.
Then she’s running again.
She dodges a lord, and a lady, then half-shoves a servant out of the way (sorry; it isn’t personal, she just knows which people would get her grabbed by knights).
“Aurelieeeen!” she yells into the crowd, and for a moment she sees his face, turned to look at her. She smirks in his direction, before she loses him again.
She shoves her way through to the top of the next set of stairs, and sees him. He’s almost to the stairs to the Brume, and there are so many people in the way. Halone, she’s never seen the place this busy.
She can’t get through the crowd. But there are alternatives.
She starts to run again. The toe of her boot feels the edge of the top step.
She leaps.
She lands atop the wooden roof of a stall, and ignores the yell of the shopkeeper. She doesn’t have time to worry about that now.
Another leap, and she lands on the second stall. More yelling, and Aurelien turns to look at the commotion. His eyes widen.
“What in Halone’s name are–”
She leaps. Lands on a stack of boxes. They aren’t stacked quite as neatly as she’d hoped, and the top crate tips under her weight. A quick hop has her on the next stall along, but she hears the sound of the crate hitting the floor behind her.
Aurelien isn’t even trying to run now, staring instead at her display of acrobatics and the devastation she’s leaving behind her.
Another leap, and she rolls through the landing before snatching the letter held limply in his fingertips.
“Ha!”
She grins and shoves the letter into her shirt, where she’s sure Aurelien wouldn’t dare to take it back. She sticks her tongue out at him, delighted, but he doesn’t seem to be paying her any mind.
“Sister…”
Her ear twitches and she turns around to see the crate she knocked over. It had, evidently, contained pottery.
Pottery which had shattered rather nastily on impact with the ground.
Oh.
She looks to the stall owner, then to the crowd of people who’d witnessed it all.
“…Good luck, brother!” she says, patting Aurelien on the shoulder.
Run. Up the bare tree, fingers gripping bark. Sneak along the branch, hands and feet firm against its slippery surface. Leap. Land. Run. Climb up and over the fence. To the wall. Handholds, find handholds. One up and to the left. One more, barely within reach. Climb. Reach the top. Grab the flag, yank it down.
Azette whoops and cheers, a grin on her face as she holds the flag of Ishgard in her hands.
“Too slow,” comes a voice from below her, and she looks down to see Inquisitor Antoine holding a minute timer, sands already run out. “Again.”
Damn it. She’d felt sure she’d been fast enough. She nods, face falling back to its neutral resting point, and replaces the flag before dropping from the wall. She lands with nary a sound, and makes her way back to the starting point, rolling her shoulders as she goes.
“Go.”
Run. Up the bare tree, fingers gripping bark. Climb along the branch, faster, faster. Leap. Land. Run. Clamber over the fence. To the wall. Handholds. One up and to the left, use momentum to reach the further one. Climb. Reach the top. Grab the flag, yank it down.
“Too slow,” Antoine says again, shaking the empty glass timer. “Again.”
She growls in frustration, but obeys.
“Go.”
Run. Up the bare tree, fingers gripping bark. Climb along the branch, slippery, faster. Fall.
Her arm slams into the ground first and she cries out in pain, fingers curling.
Antoine steps over to her, offering a hand to help her up. “Are you hurt?”
She smacks his arm away and forces herself to her feet, rubbing her arm. “I’m fine,” she growls out.
“Then go again.”
She settles back into her starting point, rolling her shoulder.
“Go.”
Run. Up the bare tree, fingers gripping bark. Climb along the branch, fast, careful. Leap. Land. Run. Vault the fence. To the wall. Handholds. One up and to the left, use momentum to reach the further one. Wrench the arm. Fall.
She curses, punching the floor as she forces herself up again.
“Perhaps we should take a break for the day,” Antoine says, kindly, and Azette’s thoughts swirl.
“No. I can do this.”
“Then go again.”
She curses again, rolling her shoulder again and cracking her back as she makes her way to the starting point.
“Go.”
Run. Leap. Grab the branch, climb up. Leap. Land. Sprint. Vault the fence, don’t slow down. To the wall. Better handhold to the right, out of reach. Up and left. Leap. Grab. Climb. Reach the top, tear the flag down.
Azette collapses against the top of the wall, gasping for breath. Her left arm aches and her lungs burn.
“Better,” Antoine says, and it’s the best thing she’s heard all day. She looks up, and sees him holding the timer on its side, the smallest amount of sand still on the top.
