Once a week, he retrieves the contents of his botanist’s pack from the mild stasis within, and the two of them sit down to sort through what he's gathered. Cords of branchwood, bundles of herbs, handfuls of seed– between Ori’s field experience and his retainer’s expert eye, the two of them divide up what to use, what to store and what to sell.
Jeannaut looks up from his work, although his long hands don’t stop moving. Most weeks, Ori near matches him for efficiency– today, his stack of paper packets of seeds is noticeably smaller than Jeannaut’s collection of herbs neatly tied with twine.
“...Yes, sir?” he prompts, when the rest of Ori’s sentence fails to materialize.
Ori looks back at him for a moment. “Never mind,” he says with a sigh. “We’ll have to take most of this saffron to the market, I can’t possibly use all of it. I don’t know why I gathered so much.”
“Perhaps your thoughts were elsewhere,” Jeannaut suggests gently.
Ori blinks at him, as if just returning to the conversation. “Hm?”
“I believe,” says Jeannaut, “you were about to ask something?”
“Oh,” says Ori. “That. No, it was a silly question.”
“Then perhaps it will provide us both a much-needed diversion.”
He makes a face. “Oh, fine. I was going to ask– well– have you ever been with another man?”
There’s a moment of silence, spooling out like the twine. Jeannaut ties off another tidy bundle.
“I told you it was silly,” Ori says, turning faintly pink, and quickly goes back to his pack. “Let's see, what else– figs. Plant them, do you think, or sell the seeds?”
“I recommend selling,” says Jeannaut. “Figs thrive best under an expert hand, and such an interested party would likely consider the cultivation as great a reward as the fruit itself. And the answer,” he adds, perfectly composed, “is yes.”
“Ah,” says Ori, and clears his throat. “Is it… very different?”
The other man sets his shears down at last. “If I may speculate,” he says, “I expect your first consideration will be one of– scale, shall we say, not necessarily experience.”
“I didn't say who it is,” Ori protests immediately.
“Nor, indeed, that any such specific suitor exists.”
Ori winces, caught out, and the pink in his cheeks rises higher. “I'm predictable, aren't I,” he says.
The expression on Jeannaut’s face is something approaching a smile. “You are a man of consistent taste, sir.”
“That's a polite way of saying I'm predictable.” He turns his attention back to the table, to cover his blush if nothing else. “I shouldn't have asked, it's not my business. I'm sorry, Jeannaut.”
“I pray you think nothing of it, sir. An honest man takes no offense to an honest question. If you'll allow me–” He slides the little pile of figs carefully out of Ori's hands and toward himself.
They work in silence for a while, Jeannaut as steadily as before, Ori determinedly busy. They're near finished before Jeannaut speaks again.
“If you would like,” he says, “I would be happy to offer a practical demonstration.”
He says it so calmly, so much like any other matter, that it's several moments before Ori realizes what he meant. When he does, his head snaps up immediately. “No, I didn't mean– I just couldn't think who else to talk to, I would never ask you to do something like–”
“I know,” Jeannaut says. It's rare for him to interrupt, and even rarer to offer physical contact– but that's exactly what he does, placing a steadying hand over Ori's own. “I know you well enough, sir, to know that it is not in your nature to attempt such an imposition. If I thought it were,” he adds, “I would not have offered.”
“Ah,” says Ori. “Yes, well.” The blush has taken over his face completely, but he sets his shoulders with determination. “All right, then I accept. Tonight?”
Jeannaut raises one eyebrow. “The matter is that urgent?”
“Not at all,” Ori says, “but longer than that and I may lose my nerve.”
“I see. In that case–” He considers what remains of their work. “Why not allow me to finish here, and attend to any other duties you may have? The sooner discharged, the sooner at leisure.”
“Not to mention, that'll keep me too busy to worry?”
“As I said, you are–”
“Consistent, right.” Ori sighs as he slides down from his chair. “I'll ring when I'm finished? Not that it's– official business, you know, but–”
“I quite understand,” Jeannaut says. “Try not to rush– whenever you feel yourself ready.”
“So to speak,” Ori can't help adding.
At the door, he turns back. “Jeannaut–?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Why?” says Ori.
Once again, that expression that’s almost a smile crosses his face. “Call it a botanist’s curiosity, if you will,” Jeannaut replies. “You are a charming, capable, and rather determined young man, Orishan, and I should like to observe this cultivation of yours. I believe it will prove just as interesting as the result.”
PART 2 : Jeannaut assists Ori with an endeavor of inquiry. (Or, when your objectively attractive colleague offers to help you figure out if you like men, you accept.)
~1200 words, solid T for There's Kissin' In This One
-
The precise sequence of three knocks is both expected and unmistakable, but Ori still opens his inn room door with something like caution.
“Orishan,” says Jeannaut, “good evening.”
“Jeannaut. You look–”
–actually, he's never seen him out of uniform or field clothes, or with his hair in anything besides his usual tight braid. He's opted instead for a plain linen shirt and very well-fitted chausses, soft leather boots, and a much looser ponytail. It makes him look– dashing, maybe? A bit dangerous?
“–Different,” Ori settles for.
The Elezen arches one brow. That expression, at least, is exactly the same. “I shall accept that as the compliment I assume it was intended to be,” he says. “May I?”
“Please,” says Ori, standing aside.
They’ve been alone together any number of times. This isn’t new. Not this part, anyway. He watches Jeannaut sit down to remove his boots, noting the way he casts his eye over the parts of the room that hadn’t previously been– relevant, and feels the gentle fizz of nerves in his stomach.
“Can I offer you some chilled fruit juice? You’ve never mentioned drinking wine or ale,” Ori adds, when Jeannaut looks surprised. “So I thought perhaps…”
“Very observant,” says Jeannaut, approving, and Ori feels like he’s passed a test. “Fruit juice will suit me, thank you, particularly if it’s of your own making.”
“As if I’d serve a guest anything else.” Ori fetches two goblets– the ones provided by the Roost are of perfectly serviceable quality, if not the peak of elegance– and starts to pour.
“I notice,” Jeannaut adds, “you have a Lohmani white there as well. If you prefer to partake yourself, I certainly would not begrudge you.”
Ori gives him a slightly sheepish smile. For powers of observation, he’s got nothing on Jeannaut. “I have been waiting to open it,” he admits. “This is as good an occasion as any, don’t you think?” And half a goblet will settle his nerves, although he’s certain Jeannaut knows that already.
“You flatter me.”
“I hope so,” Ori says. “Just a moment–”
The inn’s furniture was clearly designed with tallfolk in mind. After bringing both goblets over, Ori climbs up onto a chair and then up to sit on the table itself, which puts the two of them much closer to eye level. “There.” He picks up his drink, and Jeannaut raises his own in return. “To the pursuit of knowledge,” he says.
Jeannaut looks approving again. “Indeed,” he replies. He touches his goblet briefly to Ori’s and they both drink.
The wine is just as good as he anticipated, and although it’s chilled as well, a few sips warm him considerably. “So,” he says, “where do we begin?”
The other man lifts his hand to carefully brush Ori’s lips. “Here, I think.”
Ori laughs despite himself. “I know how to kiss, Jeannaut.”
“I’m quite sure you do,” says Jeannaut, unfazed. “And, as in any endeavor of inquiry, it is always best to start with what one does know.”
“All right, then, come around here where I can get to you.”
He does shift closer to where Ori sits. But before he does anything else, he tilts Ori’s chin up, gentle but firm, and holds him there.
“Look at me, Orishan,” he says, in a tone that sends a little shiver chasing down Ori's spine. Hearing his name from Jeannaut is still strange– and a little thrilling. “I intend this to be enjoyable as well as informative. If anything causes you discomfort, physically or otherwise, you will tell me?”
It’s phrased like a question, but it isn’t one. “Yes, sir,” says Ori, unable to help himself.
That single eyebrow lifts again. “And don’t be pert,” Jeannaut says. “That is a rather different experience.”
Before he can form another witty reply, Jeannaut moves forward to stop Ori’s lips with his own.
He doesn't know what he expected. Precision, maybe; the dedicated but detached focus the man applies to every other pursuit. He didn't expect intensity. Jeannaut’s kiss takes him over completely, irresistible as the tide, and he manages one short sound of surprise before he gives in and lets it drown him.
Jeannaut moves his hand behind Ori's head, at the nape of his neck, holding him in place. His tongue touches Ori's lips– he parts them, instinctive, to allow him in. He likes being kissed like this, being overwhelmed and claimed, and Jeannaut is certainly skillful at it. Ori encourages him with fingers slipping into his hair and with soft moans to delve still deeper.
His other hand does something to Ori's knee that makes the smaller man arch into him and gasp against his mouth. “Unfair,” Ori says, pulling back only long enough to protest. “Don't you have a weakness?”
“Very probably,” Jeannaut replies. “Do you think you can find it?”
It's another challenge. “Right,” says Ori, half to himself, and he kisses him again while he considers it.
His fingers find the lower curve of Jeannaut’s ear. “Let’s try this,” he murmurs. He pulls away again to apply his attention there instead, tugging gently on the lobe with his teeth, and then kissing the corner of his jaw just beneath. Then, just below that, the place where his pulse beats close to the skin– although that draws a pleased sound from the other man, it isn’t the reaction he’s looking for.
Ori kisses down his throat next, taking his time along the elegant line of his neck, and slips his tongue into the hollow at its base. “Ah– very good,” he hears Jeannaut say, and he feels a little tinge of pride at the slight hitch in the other man’s voice– “but that isn’t quite it.”
“I ought to bite you,” Ori mutters, his lips still against Jeannaut’s skin.
He doesn’t have to see his face to know his expression. “If you think that an effective method, by all means,” his voice says.
Ori does bite him, lightly, on the collarbone, just for that. But he’s right– that’s not it either.
“How about this,” he says. Jeannaut’s hand remains behind his neck, holding him gently; he places his own hand over the other man’s wrist. “You’re very careful with your hands, aren’t you? I ought to know, I’ve seen you work. But–” he turns his face into Jeannaut’s palm, his lips brushing the base of his thumb– “no matter what the work is, you always wear your sleeves long.”
“Is thinking aloud an accustomed part of your approach?” says Jeannaut, in a tone that might be amused.
“I’m told it’s endearing, thank you,” Ori replies, without missing a beat. He undoes the tie at his wrist, slowly and carefully, and just as carefully pushes the fabric of the sleeve back. “I think,” he says, “your weakness is right– here.”
There it is– the slight but sharp intake of breath when his lips touch the pulse point. Someone less accustomed to him might not notice it. Ori does.
He presses more firmly into the skin there, lips and teeth, and flicks his tongue between them, and this time Jeannaut’s reaction is noticeable indeed. This time the feeling of pride comes all in a rush, at causing the man to lose any amount of his ever-present composure.
“Well done indeed,” Jeannaut says. “And now, we’re going to bed. Shall I carry you?”
Once a week, he retrieves the contents of his botanist’s pack from the mild stasis within, and the two of them sit down to sort through what he's gathered. Cords of branchwood, bundles of herbs, handfuls of seed– between Ori’s field experience and his retainer’s expert eye, the two of them divide up what to use, what to store and what to sell.
Jeannaut looks up from his work, although his long hands don’t stop moving. Most weeks, Ori near matches him for efficiency– today, his stack of paper packets of seeds is noticeably smaller than Jeannaut’s collection of herbs neatly tied with twine.
“...Yes, sir?” he prompts, when the rest of Ori’s sentence fails to materialize.
Ori looks back at him for a moment. “Never mind,” he says with a sigh. “We’ll have to take most of this saffron to the market, I can’t possibly use all of it. I don’t know why I gathered so much.”
“Perhaps your thoughts were elsewhere,” Jeannaut suggests gently.
Ori blinks at him, as if just returning to the conversation. “Hm?”
“I believe,” says Jeannaut, “you were about to ask something?”
“Oh,” says Ori. “That. No, it was a silly question.”
“Then perhaps it will provide us both a much-needed diversion.”
He makes a face. “Oh, fine. I was going to ask– well– have you ever been with another man?”
There’s a moment of silence, spooling out like the twine. Jeannaut ties off another tidy bundle.
“I told you it was silly,” Ori says, turning faintly pink, and quickly goes back to his pack. “Let's see, what else– figs. Plant them, do you think, or sell the seeds?”
“I recommend selling,” says Jeannaut. “Figs thrive best under an expert hand, and such an interested party would likely consider the cultivation as great a reward as the fruit itself. And the answer,” he adds, perfectly composed, “is yes.”
“Ah,” says Ori, and clears his throat. “Is it… very different?”
The other man sets his shears down at last. “If I may speculate,” he says, “I expect your first consideration will be one of– scale, shall we say, not necessarily experience.”
“I didn't say who it is,” Ori protests immediately.
“Nor, indeed, that any such specific suitor exists.”
Ori winces, caught out, and the pink in his cheeks rises higher. “I'm predictable, aren't I,” he says.
The expression on Jeannaut’s face is something approaching a smile. “You are a man of consistent taste, sir.”
“That's a polite way of saying I'm predictable.” He turns his attention back to the table, to cover his blush if nothing else. “I shouldn't have asked, it's not my business. I'm sorry, Jeannaut.”
“I pray you think nothing of it, sir. An honest man takes no offense to an honest question. If you'll allow me–” He slides the little pile of figs carefully out of Ori's hands and toward himself.
They work in silence for a while, Jeannaut as steadily as before, Ori determinedly busy. They're near finished before Jeannaut speaks again.
“If you would like,” he says, “I would be happy to offer a practical demonstration.”
He says it so calmly, so much like any other matter, that it's several moments before Ori realizes what he meant. When he does, his head snaps up immediately. “No, I didn't mean– I just couldn't think who else to talk to, I would never ask you to do something like–”
“I know,” Jeannaut says. It's rare for him to interrupt, and even rarer to offer physical contact– but that's exactly what he does, placing a steadying hand over Ori's own. “I know you well enough, sir, to know that it is not in your nature to attempt such an imposition. If I thought it were,” he adds, “I would not have offered.”
“Ah,” says Ori. “Yes, well.” The blush has taken over his face completely, but he sets his shoulders with determination. “All right, then I accept. Tonight?”
Jeannaut raises one eyebrow. “The matter is that urgent?”
“Not at all,” Ori says, “but longer than that and I may lose my nerve.”
“I see. In that case–” He considers what remains of their work. “Why not allow me to finish here, and attend to any other duties you may have? The sooner discharged, the sooner at leisure.”
“Not to mention, that'll keep me too busy to worry?”
“As I said, you are–”
“Consistent, right.” Ori sighs as he slides down from his chair. “I'll ring when I'm finished? Not that it's– official business, you know, but–”
“I quite understand,” Jeannaut says. “Try not to rush– whenever you feel yourself ready.”
“So to speak,” Ori can't help adding.
At the door, he turns back. “Jeannaut–?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Why?” says Ori.
Once again, that expression that’s almost a smile crosses his face. “Call it a botanist’s curiosity, if you will,” Jeannaut replies. “You are a charming, capable, and rather determined young man, Orishan, and I should like to observe this cultivation of yours. I believe it will prove just as interesting as the result.”
pre-canon, ~1100 words, it'll be zenoswol in about 20 years
Kiyoko has a dream, and maybe someone else does too.
-
In her dream the girl walks down a corridor that echoes like a cavern. Here and there torches burn with a strange, unmoving light, throwing harsh-edged shadows into the vaulted ceiling. Her feet are cold on the stone-and-metal floor– odd, to feel the cold in a dream.
At the end of the corridor she reaches a door, large and ornate, the handle just slightly too high. It looks like the sort of door that should be locked. She pushes on it anyway and finds it opens without a sound.
On the other side is a bedchamber. The light burns here as well, for some reason, despite it being the middle of the night. Is it night? It must be; if she’s in her own bed dreaming, it must be night here in her dream too. The bed here is large, hung with heavy fabric from its four-post frame, the mattresses stacked two high. It doesn’t look comfortable– it looks forbidding. And sitting upright, his knees to his chest, looking far too small amid the pillows, a boy is looking back at her.
“You shouldn’t be here,” the boy tells her.
She tilts her head, considering. “Why not?” she says. “It’s my dream.”
The boy simply looks at her. His eyes are bright blue, more piercing even than that strange light. “You don’t know who I am.” It’s a statement, not a question. Not an answer, either.
“Should I?” the girl asks again. But he says nothing to that. Instead she crosses the room, bare feet on cold floor, and with some effort pulls herself up onto the too-large bed. She sits with her knees folded underneath her, facing the boy, who watches her silently with those bright unblinking eyes.
“How do you know it’s your dream?” he says at last, as if the intervening time had not passed.
She considers again. “I suppose I don’t. Maybe we're sharing it. Are you dreaming?"
"You're strange," the boy says.
"Yes," the girl agrees.
He folds himself into a new position, mirroring hers, no wasted movement. He might be a little older, or just a little younger; something in his eyes might be centuries old. On his forehead something shines like a pearl. She wonders if it's hard like a pearl too.
"I don't dream," he says at last, then adds, "Not like this."
"Then perhaps I really am here."
"No one's supposed to be here."
"No one," the girl repeats. "Except you?"
The boy frowns at that, but he says nothing. He holds up his hand toward her, and, when she doesn’t draw back, lays curious fingers on the tip of her horn.
She draws in a short involuntary breath. It isn’t painful, just… unfamiliar, and sensitive, and it makes her feel a bit as if the room is slowly tilting. She fixes her eyes on the boy's face instead, on the pearl on his forehead and on his eyes, unmoving points by which to orient the vessel.
The boy seems not to have seen the like before. He moves his hand from end to end, examining the shape and texture of the horn as one might a fascinating artifact, and then turns her head first to one side, then the other, studying her face just as she studies his.
“One of your eyes is different,” he says at last. “Why?”
“Mama says it’s because of my father.”
"Your father," the boy repeats, like a ritual, withdrawing his hand. Then his gaze sharpens. "Does it hurt?"
"Sometimes," the girl admits. "When I look at people, I see lights around them, all different colors. Sometimes it's too bright and it hurts to look at."
"Do I have a light around me?"
"Mm. Yes, but no. You have…" She frowns, thinking hard. "You have a space where a light should be. I can see where I can't see it."
"That doesn't make sense."
"I can't explain it better than that," the girl says. "I've never met anyone like you."
"There isn't anyone like me," says the boy, proud, sad, insulted.
"That sounds lonely," the girl says, and the boy looks away. The silence is too large, like the bed, like the room, and absolute.
"There's no one like me either," she volunteers, eventually. "Maybe… maybe we could be friends?"
He looks back to her, surprised, blue eyes piercing like the searchlights sailors look for to find the land. "Friends," he repeats. He turns the unfamiliar word over in his mouth. "Friends. I've never had a friend before."
"Neither have I. But now we both do, all right?"
"My first friend," the boy says, and the girl nods.
Suddenly impulsive, she lifts her own hand toward his face. “Can I–?”
He says nothing, but he doesn’t draw back. She lets one finger gently touch the thing, like a pearl but not a pearl, on his forehead.
It’s harder than skin, softer than horn or scale. Cooler than flesh but warmer than bone. The boy gives a barely audible hiss, and for a moment his expression looks much like she felt when he touched her horn. For a moment, the girl thinks she sees–
She draws her hand back. The dream is starting to fade.
“Will you come back?” asks the boy. He must feel it too; there’s urgency in his voice that wasn’t there before.
“I don’t know if I can,” the girl admits. “I’m not even sure how I got here.”
“Then I’ll find you.” Not a threat, not a promise, just a statement. That strange unmoving light starts to waver, like the moon from underwater.
“You’re my friend now,” says the boy’s voice. “If you don’t come back, I’ll find you.”
-
“I met a boy,” Kiyoko says, lingering over the last of breakfast, “with a pearl on his forehead.”
Her mother puts her chopsticks down, every ilm collected. She knows her daughter is perceptive. “Where?” she asks.
The girl frowns. “I don’t know,” she says, as if suddenly realizing it. “Maybe… it was a dream?”
“Maybe it was,” says her mother. “But if you see him again, or anyone else like him, will you tell me?”
For a long moment Kiyoko stares at her, the way she does sometimes, as if seeing something only visible to herself; and Kagami wonders if her practiced calm covers near as much as she thinks. But at last the girl nods.
"Go wash up, if you're not going to finish," Kagami tells her daughter. "Masuyo's going to take you swimming outside the dome today."
She sits at the low table for a long while after Kiyoko departs, thinking of a years-forgotten dream of her own. But it doesn't quite come back to her, and eventually she stands up and goes about her work. That afternoon her daughter comes back, tired and still slightly damp and quietly pleased with herself; she doesn't mention the dream again, and in a fortnight Kagami has forgotten about it too.
Summer shades her eyes against the setting sun. "Up there," she says. Raubahn follows her gaze and sees the stand of black willow trees atop the rise-- not many, and not as large as some, but large enough. Tall enough to have been growing since before the Calamity, the occupation, the mad king. To have survived it all.
"Aye," he says, "it looks a fine spot. I'll stay here, if you like."
"You can come up," Summer responds, as they dismount. "I'd like it if you did. Just-- give me a moment first, all right?"
He nods, and she ducks her head just briefly for him to kiss her cheek. Then he moves off the packed-earth path, to find somewhere safe to hitch their chocobos, and she starts up the rise.
It's a steeper climb than it looked from the bottom. If she weren't in uncommon shape for her age, Summer thinks, she'd be quite out of breath. But the view from the head of the rise is worth it-- the Fringes spread out around her, the sunset glinting on the river and painting its colors onto the bluffs, and the trees' long shadows stretching out to the land like welcoming arms.
She rests her hand on the bark of the nearest one. It's deep brown, beginning to show the grooves and rough bark that come with age. Like her, maybe. Like he might be now.
"We did it, Silent," she murmurs. "No more kings, not here. And it was even harder than you thought it would be. But whatever comes next... it'll be better than what we had."
The soft sound of feet on the rocks tells her Raubahn has caught up. She doesn't turn, but she lets him come to her, put his arm gently around her waist, and she leans into him when he does.
"There was a black willow tree just outside our village," Summer says, half to him, half to the air. "Just the one, as long as anyone could remember. I used to go there to gather bark for Father's medicines. We met there, you know-- I was seven, and he was nine. He was named for that tree, and he liked to sit underneath it and think about-- whatever it was children thought about-- and that day I was climbing in the branches, and I dropped my basket right on him."
Something like a laugh escapes her at the memory. The sound gives Raubahn permission to smile too. "Oh, he used to fret when I climbed so high up," says Summer. "But I did it anyway, because I liked him fretting over me. And then one day he said, if I came down from that damn tree, he'd marry me... and I never climbed it again."
She doesn't have to tell him the rest-- how, always the more cautious between them, Silent Willow had kept his head down, and how he'd been taken to Theodoric's palace anyway. Why he had no grave to visit, and why the black willow tree wasn't there now. Raubahn knows all that. But this, the quiet days before-- they were never for sharing, only now and only here.
He lets Summer go, so she can stoop down to place the stone she's brought at the base of the tree. She kneels there for a quiet moment. When she stands, to lay her hand on its trunk again, Raubahn places his own next to hers.
"Rest well, Silent Willow," he says solemnly. "Rhalgr take up your cause."
Summer turns at last into her husband's embrace, and he holds her in their own silence, under the willow trees, in the last light of the sunset.
Eventually she sighs. "We ought to climb back down," she says, "before it gets too dark."
"Ever practical," Raubahn agrees, but this time he kisses her before he lets her go.
"Ah, a guest from Gridania? I thought I--" But the joke Raubahn was about to make fails to materialize, as he sees exactly who it is Kan-E-Senna has sent.
The woman raises an amused eyebrow at him. "General Aldynn," she says. "Don't tell me, you were expecting someone taller."
"You must be Summer Storm." He looks, somewhat upward, at her face-- there's no mistaking that profile, or that sense of humor. "Your brother speaks highly of you."
"Copper is the champion of Ul'dah? I swear, every time I leave him alone--"
Raubahn hides a smile. "He told you naught of his exploits?"
"Oh, he wrote to me there had been troubles with voidsent and mysterious mages, he neglected to mention he'd been dispatching them himself."
She looks so cross, so much the exasperated sibling, Raubahn gives up and laughs outright. "Well, I see I need not waste time telling you the woes of Ul'dah. Although if what Kan-E says of you is true, you're at least as formidable as Copper Sky-- or he is, compared to you."
Summer examines him for a moment, clearly trying to decide whether he's joking. He returns his straightest face. At last she laughs too, a surprisingly soft sound, and extends her hand.
"It's good to be back," she says, "however briefly."
He takes the offered hand. "The good is Ul'dah's, for the time you're here. Now then-- let's have your message, envoy of Gridania."
wolianger week days 4 and 5 have been stuck together, because my brain spotted a throughline and wouldn't let it go
HOWEVER, AN AUTHOR'S NOTE
since the second part is a little spicier than what I've written so far, and lalafell ships are uh, tricky, I'm going to post it as a reply to this rather than in the main post. That way you can read it or not, and interact with whichever version you're comfortable with.
-
part 1 - chain
~900 words, again some undefined post-ShB time. Urianger has a very specific routine as regards his jewelry.
-
Going to bed together is enough of a novelty still, and one I don’t intend ever to take for granted. But getting ready for bed together, Urianger and me, well. The first time I watched him remove the jewelry he wears– rings, the bands on his arms, the chain at his waist, pauldron and gorget– for a man who’s always worn layers of cloth and bands of gold like armor, never a piece out of place, to let anyone see him without– well.
Each time he takes the pieces off he does it in the same order, like a ritual. Perhaps it is. Study of the stars is quite literally over my head, but he’s told me before that the clothes he wears suit his art. And I know well enough how steps in a dance or notes in a song must go in their order– perhaps this is the same.
Every other night I’ve prepared for bed while he does, not wanting to stare, only stealing glances to satisfy my fascination. Tonight, when he unrolls the length of worn velvet that holds the jewels, I surprise the both of us by speaking up.
“May I…?” I hear the words speak themselves using my voice. Urianger’s eyes widen, and for a moment I can’t tell if he’s pleased or offended.
Then I see the familiar flush start to rise on his face. “I– yes,” he says, “if thou wouldst.”
I feel myself blushing just as much, if not more. But I nod. “I would.”
The dressing table’s accompanying bench is just wide enough for him to sit and me to stand. Slowly, as if still unsure, he presents one hand to me palm-down, and just as carefully I take it in both of mine.
Always the rings first. I remove them gently, one by one, and set each one on the velvet cloth. Then the rings from his right hand, the thumb connected by a fine chain to the first bracelet. I’m no goldsmith myself, but I’ve spent my share of time among jewelry and gems– these are very fine work indeed. The crafter in me can’t help wondering who made them.
Next the arms, left, then right, each band and bracelet one by one. The metal is faintly warm after a day’s wear. I see the fine hair on his arms lift just slightly as I slide each band free, yet he hardly moves until I finish. These pieces, the ones that touch skin, must be cleaned with a smaller cloth– I let Urianger do that, watching those long elegant hands as they work. Seeing them bare of their ornaments is as intimate as seeing any other person entirely unclothed.
For the belt he has to stand, which he does with no prompting from me. I’m careful removing the few pins, fashioned like stars, that support the drape of gold chain and pendant gems– I don’t want to prick myself, or worse, snag the fabric of his dress. I hook them to the belt instead, the way I’ve seen him do before. Then I reach my arms around him– they only just encircle his waist, and I take in the warmth of him, the feel of smooth fabric on my skin– to undo the crescent clasp, and just as carefully he steps away, leaving me with the entire constellation in my hands.
“It’s heavy,” I say, surprised. Not that I should be, knowing the properties of gold, but the way he moves–
Urianger turns to take the belt and all its stars from me. “‘Tis so on purpose,” he replies, arranging it carefully, so the chains won’t tangle. “The weight, it… groundeth me. ‘Tis a comfort, an anchor.”
“I understand,” I say, and I reach out for him. “Come back, sit.”
The gold pauldron attaches with a longer pin, its own hanging stars for counterweights, linked at the back with one last long complex chain. My knuckles brush his skin as I lift it away. I want so badly to kiss him just there, at the top of his spine where that chain hangs from the gorget, but that isn’t part of the ritual– somehow I know, without him having to say, that that would be an overstep. Instead I simply unfasten the chain from its topmost ring and lay it out on the cloth.
Last is the gorget, its clasp and hinges near perfectly concealed. It takes me a few attempts to open it. Urianger sits still and patient anyway, and only someone as close to him as I am right now would notice the slightest shiver when the clasp gives way at last. Once again I find myself reaching around him to lift the whole piece away– it’s even heavier than the chain belt, and I wonder if its weight is as comforting– and once again he takes it from my hands.
“There,” I murmur as he sets it down. My lips just barely brush his ear. I stay there, my arms over his shoulders, watching him clean the gorget’s inner surface. With that done, he closes his eyes and takes in a long, slow breath. He releases it just as slowly and I know the ritual is finished.
“So,” I say, “how did I do?”
I think he smiles. “Well,” he says. “I could not wish for better.”
“I’ll do it again. Any time you like.”
Only then does he turn his face to mine, catching my hand in his. Only then does he lean in for a kiss, and I, of course, meet him halfway there.
(M RATED. nudity, a lil voyeur/exhibition, a lil body worship if you read it that way, mention of piercings. worth noting that all the description here is of/about the non lala character, but the warning stands!)
Without the weight of all its ornaments, Urianger’s dress is loose at the shoulders. I let my hand rest there, just at the border of fabric and skin, while my next thought takes its gradual shape.
“Urianger,” I say at last, “can I undress you?”
He lets out a soft breath that’s almost a laugh. “As if thou needst ever ask.” He kisses me again, slipping a hand behind my head to draw me gently closer, and for a while I simply let him.
“Wait,” I say, after another while, “that isn’t exactly what I meant.”
He draws back. “What didst thou mean?”
“Just that. Oh, the rest too, but… I just want to look at you first.”
At that he blushes deeper. “I… ‘tis not that I’ve any objection, but surely we have… seen one another… no few times?”
“Ah, but you forget,” I say, and I can’t help but allow myself a little wickedness, “there’s so much more of you to take in than there is of me.” The way his eyes widen goes straight through me to my core. I reach out for him, brushing my fingers over his cheek, right where his Archon mark sits. “Let me admire you,” I murmur, “the way you deserve.”
I feel his shiver on my own skin. “Do as thou wilt,” he replies, quiet and low. “I am thine.”
Well. I draw a deep, steadying breath. “Then hold still.”
Slowly I let my hand trace down, over the long elegant line of his neck, interrupted only by faint and fading marks where the heavy gorget rested. The sleeves slip easily from his shoulders, first one, then the other. I’m delighted to realize, with better light and fewer distractions, Urianger’s blush extends all the way down to his chest. I let the fabric fall around his waist, revealing the delicate gold bars in both nipples– another very intriguing surprise, the first time I saw them. I almost reach for him again– but this is a ritual too, in its own way, and I find I don’t quite dare– not just yet.
“Stand up,” I say, and he does. The garment’s waist falls just as easily without the chain belt to cinch it closed. The light skirt he wears underneath fastens with two simple ties, and I undo one, then the other, and it too slides to the floor.
And now he stands before me in only his smallclothes– surprisingly muscled shoulders and broad chest, a stomach still a little soft, a navel adorned with a small golden crescent, and the trail of fine silver hair that descends from underneath it, trim hips and strong, lean thighs– better than art, better than the finest-wrought statue, because he’s warm and so close and all of him alive.
Despite his deep flush, his golden eyes meet mine steady and unabashed. He stands so still, a stillness that must be borne of practice, only his chest rising and falling with his breath. I near to hold my own as I slip gentle fingers beneath the waist of his smallclothes, and free him from even that much fabric.
“Beautiful,” I hear myself whisper, reverent. “Urianger– my heavens– you are beautiful.”
He holds my gaze with his, the intensity of it rising like a tidal swell, and suddenly the air between us is near tangible with it. I barely have time to nod before he sweeps me up, kissing me breathless.
“Now,” he says, against my lips, “if thou wilt but allow me to return the favor–”
He’s already carrying me toward the bed, knowing my answer. “Yes,” I say anyway. “Yes.”
wolianger week days 4 and 5 have been stuck together, because my brain spotted a throughline and wouldn't let it go
HOWEVER, AN AUTHOR'S NOTE
since the second part is a little spicier than what I've written so far, and lalafell ships are uh, tricky, I'm going to post it as a reply to this rather than in the main post. That way you can read it or not, and interact with whichever version you're comfortable with.
-
part 1 - chain
~900 words, again some undefined post-ShB time. Urianger has a very specific routine as regards his jewelry.
-
Going to bed together is enough of a novelty still, and one I don’t intend ever to take for granted. But getting ready for bed together, Urianger and me, well. The first time I watched him remove the jewelry he wears– rings, the bands on his arms, the chain at his waist, pauldron and gorget– for a man who’s always worn layers of cloth and bands of gold like armor, never a piece out of place, to let anyone see him without– well.
Each time he takes the pieces off he does it in the same order, like a ritual. Perhaps it is. Study of the stars is quite literally over my head, but he’s told me before that the clothes he wears suit his art. And I know well enough how steps in a dance or notes in a song must go in their order– perhaps this is the same.
Every other night I’ve prepared for bed while he does, not wanting to stare, only stealing glances to satisfy my fascination. Tonight, when he unrolls the length of worn velvet that holds the jewels, I surprise the both of us by speaking up.
“May I…?” I hear the words speak themselves using my voice. Urianger’s eyes widen, and for a moment I can’t tell if he’s pleased or offended.
Then I see the familiar flush start to rise on his face. “I– yes,” he says, “if thou wouldst.”
I feel myself blushing just as much, if not more. But I nod. “I would.”
The dressing table’s accompanying bench is just wide enough for him to sit and me to stand. Slowly, as if still unsure, he presents one hand to me palm-down, and just as carefully I take it in both of mine.
Always the rings first. I remove them gently, one by one, and set each one on the velvet cloth. Then the rings from his right hand, the thumb connected by a fine chain to the first bracelet. I’m no goldsmith myself, but I’ve spent my share of time among jewelry and gems– these are very fine work indeed. The crafter in me can’t help wondering who made them.
Next the arms, left, then right, each band and bracelet one by one. The metal is faintly warm after a day’s wear. I see the fine hair on his arms lift just slightly as I slide each band free, yet he hardly moves until I finish. These pieces, the ones that touch skin, must be cleaned with a smaller cloth– I let Urianger do that, watching those long elegant hands as they work. Seeing them bare of their ornaments is as intimate as seeing any other person entirely unclothed.
For the belt he has to stand, which he does with no prompting from me. I’m careful removing the few pins, fashioned like stars, that support the drape of gold chain and pendant gems– I don’t want to prick myself, or worse, snag the fabric of his dress. I hook them to the belt instead, the way I’ve seen him do before. Then I reach my arms around him– they only just encircle his waist, and I take in the warmth of him, the feel of smooth fabric on my skin– to undo the crescent clasp, and just as carefully he steps away, leaving me with the entire constellation in my hands.
“It’s heavy,” I say, surprised. Not that I should be, knowing the properties of gold, but the way he moves–
Urianger turns to take the belt and all its stars from me. “‘Tis so on purpose,” he replies, arranging it carefully, so the chains won’t tangle. “The weight, it… groundeth me. ‘Tis a comfort, an anchor.”
“I understand,” I say, and I reach out for him. “Come back, sit.”
The gold pauldron attaches with a longer pin, its own hanging stars for counterweights, linked at the back with one last long complex chain. My knuckles brush his skin as I lift it away. I want so badly to kiss him just there, at the top of his spine where that chain hangs from the gorget, but that isn’t part of the ritual– somehow I know, without him having to say, that that would be an overstep. Instead I simply unfasten the chain from its topmost ring and lay it out on the cloth.
Last is the gorget, its clasp and hinges near perfectly concealed. It takes me a few attempts to open it. Urianger sits still and patient anyway, and only someone as close to him as I am right now would notice the slightest shiver when the clasp gives way at last. Once again I find myself reaching around him to lift the whole piece away– it’s even heavier than the chain belt, and I wonder if its weight is as comforting– and once again he takes it from my hands.
“There,” I murmur as he sets it down. My lips just barely brush his ear. I stay there, my arms over his shoulders, watching him clean the gorget’s inner surface. With that done, he closes his eyes and takes in a long, slow breath. He releases it just as slowly and I know the ritual is finished.
“So,” I say, “how did I do?”
I think he smiles. “Well,” he says. “I could not wish for better.”
“I’ll do it again. Any time you like.”
Only then does he turn his face to mine, catching my hand in his. Only then does he lean in for a kiss, and I, of course, meet him halfway there.
ShB 78, ~600 words, uh minor body horror i guess?? Urianger tries to help Ori recover from his final battle with Ran'jit. Operative word being 'tries'.
“I’m trying.” I truly am. “It’s the Light, it–” numbs me to my own body, is what it does, so much now that if I don’t move I’m afraid I’ll forget how. The wounds ought to be serious, Urianger tells me they are– a long gash on my leg, where I wasn’t fast– or lucky– enough to avoid Ran’jit’s blade, another one in my side– his expression says they’re serious. I can hardly feel them at all.
“Orishan.” Slowly I become aware he’s speaking to me again. How long has he been speaking to me? “Orishan,” he says, “I must ask something of thee. The Light– doth it pain thee now, more than it did?”
“Not pain exactly. I just can’t–” describe it really, I can’t focus on it enough to. My mind slides right off. Better to keep moving, to take the next moment while it’s still there–
This time he touches my cheek, guiding my face back to his. “Stay with me,” he murmurs. “Look at me, my star.”
The way his eyes pierce through me, so full of emotion I know I ought to be able to fathom, hurts in a way nothing else does. I make myself look at them anyway.
“The Light within thee preventeth my healing. I realize ‘tis no small task, but thou must needs hold back its aether.”
“I can’t–”
“Thou needst not tame it,” he says, before my focus can wander again, “only contain it for a short time. I shall guide thee, I promise.”
His long hand cradles my head, his thumb tracing soothing circles on my temple, one point at least where I can remember I exist. “I’ll try,” I say.
Urianger settles himself closer, kneeling in front of me where I sit on the overstuffed divan– the nearest piece of furniture to where, he’d said, they found Ran’jit and me both collapsed– the general dead, me just barely not. Gently he touches his forehead to mine. His other hand hovers at my side– I think it should sting, there at the wound, but if it does I can't feel it.
"Close thine eyes," he says. "Listen only to my voice. Think only of thine own aether, and naught else."
I do as he says and, with some difficulty, I let myself sink.
This– this, I feel. The Light sits heavy and hot inside me, pushing against my skin, pushing against the boundaries of me– I'm tight and tense with it, a too-ripe fruit, an over-full wineskin. "It hurts," I hear my voice say.
"Aye, I know it doth. 'Twill be so but briefly." His thumb continues its pattern, a tenuous anchor, but one I can hold. "Breathe. That aether– see its shape. Imagine thou dost hold it in thy hands."
It burns me, the effort, reaching inside of myself to hold the Light. I feel my breath catch ragged in my chest, choked with it, I feel tears like molten metal on my face. I wonder if it is still tears that come from my eyes, or blood from my wounds.
Urianger's aether, when it comes, is a cloud passing briefly across the sun, the barest sip of cool water. I feel myself reach for it, thirsty for it, needing more. I feel the Light reach for it–
"'Tis done," he says, and I release it, a gasp like rising from drowning. The Light lets my attention slide away from it again.
"Did I–" hurt him? His breath sounds just as rough as mine.
"Nay– 'tis with the effort, no more." He strokes the hair back from my face, brushes my tears– only water– away. "I am unharmed, and thou art healed."
"For now," I say.
He kisses my forehead, the lightest touch. I can almost feel it. "For as long as I am able."
A forger, a fence's guard, a late-night handoff gone wrong-- these two sudden allies don't remotely expect what happens instead.
1500 words, ~20 years pre-Calamity, oc x oc exact opposite of a slow burn. It's Ori's parents' backstory! Here Be Smoochin'.
-
Otan Ketan is having a very bad night.
He was sure there had been something fishy about the last-minute change of rendezvous, but Jannemont had insisted on making the handoff, and of course the old fraud wasn't going to do it himself.
So now here he is, backed down a dark alley at the business end of a blade, with two distinctly unfriendly personages looming over him.
Bit overkill sending an extra, he thinks resentfully. It's not like looming over him is hard.
"Now, what's gonna happen, Professor–" the big Hyur's voice is all self-satisfied scorn– "is you're gonna hand over them scrolls, and maybe my associate here lets you keep an eye." The Miqo'te beside him draws a smaller, but certainly no less sharp, knife.
Otan Ketan clutches the round leather case and swallows hard. "I'm guessing you don't work for Tatashai, then," he says. "He'd never be this messy."
"Messy–?"
Was that movement, in the shadows behind the pair of thugs? "You're a big man," says Otan Ketan, reaching for a bluff. "Noticeable, you might say. Care to bet no one saw you come down this way? What are the odds, do you think?"
"He's stalling," the Miqo'te hisses. "I say we–"
There's a silver flash in the darkness, and the man drops his knife, clutching his suddenly bleeding wrist. "What in hells–" the Hyur starts, and then he folds knees-first onto the cobbled ground. He doesn't get the chance to yell before there's a dagger in his neck.
The mystery assailant turns, a second dagger in hand, but the Miqo'te has vanished already. "Thal's balls," says a surprisingly light voice. "Least he don't have the goods, right?"
She bends and retrieves both blades, her own and the abandoned one. When she stands up again, Otan Ketan finds himself face to slightly higher face with the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.
He wordlessly shows her the leather case for confirmation, still safely in his arms. "Huh," the vision says. "You was all talk a second ago. Ain't concussed, are you?"
She reverses the dagger deftly in her off hand and uses the pommel to tilt his chin up, then back and forth, tracking the movement of his eyes with her own. Hers are flawless jade, the kind of gems he only dreams of recreating, a clear and perfect green even in the scant torchlight. Those eyes belong in a palace somewhere, not the dingy back end of a Horizon alley.
"You're all right," she says, more a command than a question. "Come on."
-
The apartment she takes him to is a second-floor back room, accessed by a precarious ladder, which she pulls up after them. The door on the other side is firmly bolted.
"Not back to Jannemont?" he'd said, when it had become apparent she was leading him in the opposite direction.
"He sent you, right? Can't be sure he ain't in on it," she'd replied. Then she had gestured very clearly for him to hush, and so he'd hushed.
"We can talk here," she says now. "'S my own personal saferoom. Even Tatashai don't know about it."
"Then why…?" Otan Ketan gestures to himself. "I mean, you don't even know me."
The woman plants her hands on her hips. Gods, she's even beautiful when she frowns. "I'm Ririzu," she says. "And you're–?"
"Otan Ketan," he says immediately. He could no more hold back an answer than he could stop breathing.
"There," says Ririzu, "now I know you and you know me. Sit down, Otan Ketan, you look half stunned."
Half stunned, he sits.
The room isn't much, and there isn't much in it. Ririzu rummages around among the sparse furnishings– low table, single stool, sleeping mat rolled up in a corner, a few chests and a lockbox– and comes up with a dusty bottle, half full. The liquor inside is stronger than he's used to and tastes of anise, and he sputters a little swallowing it, but it does help.
"What do we do now?" he says.
She paces, still frowning. "I don't know. Them two alley thugs– I never seen 'em before, and that concerns me some. Have another, it won't kill you."
He does, and he barely coughs at all this time. "Do you always get men drunk after you rescue them from assassins?"
"You're the first," she says, not missing a beat. "It ain't like Jannemont not to double check a rendezvous, either."
"You're right at that," Otan Ketan says. "He's a fool, but he's a cautious fool. And if Tatashai didn't change it, then–"
Ririzu fetches up by the table again. "Something's wrong," she says, thumping its surface, "and I'm taking you nowhere 'til I know what it is."
"You'll get no argument from me," says Otan Ketan. He passes the bottle to her. She takes a stiff belt and passes it back.
"Gods. All this for, what, some phony papers?"
"They're historical records," he says, pride a bit stung, "or, you know, they’re meant to be."
"Daft thing to try to kill a man over. Right– let's see them." And she begins to unfasten the case.
"I'm not sure you're meant to–"
"Oh, let a lady have her fun," she says. "Ain't often I get to inspect the merchandise." The wink she shoots him fills his stomach with a heat that has nothing to do with the liquor.
He's accustomed to waiting patiently while someone else examines his handiwork. He has to be, in this career. A nervous forger is a dead forger. Nevertheless, he watches with his heart racing as Ririzu slides the scrolls carefully from their case and spreads them on the table.
Her bright eyes widen. She gives a low and quite unladylike whistle, and Otan Ketan feels another wash of heat slide into his stomach.
"These are–" she breathes, and then trails off, transfixed.
"Good, I hope?"
"Better than good," she says. "I ain't an expert, but– why in seven hells are you working for an fraud like Jannemont? Hand like this, you ought to be in the cities. Or one of them fancy museums, maybe."
It's so exactly what he'd thought about her that he can't help but laugh. Those jade eyes snap over to him.
"I don't say nothing I don't mean," she insists. "You got a talent, Otan Ketan. You could go anywhere." It isn’t what he meant, but– the way she says it, not flattery, simply a statement of fact, is better than any compliment could be. He opens his mouth to say something in response, although for the life of him he doesn't know what it'll be–
"That's it," Ririzu says suddenly.
He blinks away the surprise of missing the mental step. "What is?"
"We'll leave. Together. Tonight, if you want. You make the goods, I’ll be your guard–"
"But– your job here, and Jannemont–"
"Thal take Jannemont," she interrupts, in a sudden blaze of passion, "and Thal take Tatashai too, they’re gods-damned fools who don't know what they got. They can keep the damn scrolls, split 'em or sell 'em or toss 'em down the gorge– you and me, we could be something."
She ought to sound stark mad, but she doesn't, not at all. In fact he finds he's risen from his seat to meet her– to study her face the way he'd study a painting, to find and capture its every detail. "Gods," he says, "you really mean it."
"I told you, I don't say nothing I don't mean." He has it now, her expression. There's no word for it, but he knows it well– it's the look a person wears when they almost hope and don’t dare. "So, Otan Ketan… what d'you think?"
What does he think? A thousand thoughts fight for space, and the one that emerges first is–
"I think," he says, "you can probably just call me Otan."
The breath she lets out is half laugh, half unlooked-for relief. "Bit familiar, ain't it?"
“Well, you’ve already saved my life and proposed to sweep me off to fortune and glory.” She’s so close, the scant space between them all sparks. “I think– Ririzu– you can be as familiar as you like.”
“Is that so,” she says, and she takes his face between both of her hands and kisses him hard.
He hasn’t had much to compare it to, but he’s sure it’s the best kiss of his life. Her callused hands are warm on his skin, and her mouth is warm and shockingly soft and still tastes of anise, and he reaches his own hands for her and around her, overwhelmingly and delightedly aware of every place her body presses against his.
“Come with me,” she murmurs into his lips.
“Anywhere,” he says, which earns him more kissing, his hips backed into the table and her hand firm in his hair. He’s distantly aware of her other hand starting to undo the fastenings of his shirt.
“Although I think,” says Ririzu, “it can wait ‘til morning.”
Otan Ketan just nods. He’s about to have a very good night.
Moenbryda and Ori discover a few things about each other.
-
There’s a spot on Moenbryda’s work table that’s miraculously not occupied by a book, a scroll, or a half-disassembled gadget. I put the mug of tea there and clear my throat as politely as I can manage.
She picks it up without looking away from her notes and takes a sip. Then she does look at it, surprised, and takes another. “Who taught you how to make birch tea?” she says.
“A– friend,” I answer. “Years ago, in Limsa. Is it up to scratch?”
“You missed the juniper.”
“Not for lack of trying,” I say, “there isn’t a sprig nor berry to be found.”
“And you searched the entire Toll, did you?”
“High and low, on chocobo-back. Soldier's honor.”
She looks at me for a drawn out moment, investigating my expression like an obscure tome. I give her my very best serious face. Then I wiggle my eyebrows at her, and she lets out a peal of a laugh.
“Well,” she says, “I hope you made yourself a cup, because this one’s all mine.”
I did, in fact. I manage to clear another little patch of table for my own mug and climb up onto the chair adjacent to hers.
She slides the top page of her notes– a diagram for some kind of a device, crystal in the middle, calculations and crossed-out lines filling the margins– sideways to me. “Here. What do you think?”
It… certainly is a diagram. “I couldn’t tell you,” I say. “I follow you about as far as ‘point this end at the Ascians’.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” she says.
“Not sure how else to sell myself,” I reply, and she laughs again.
“Fine,” she says, acquiescing, “not everyone’s a scholar. I’d do well to remember that. But you understand more than you think you do. No, I don’t mean all this,” she adds, seeing the way I glance at the notes with apprehension. “I mean the aether itself, how it moves. How to move with it. This–” the diagram– “is just a theory. When I have something I can put in your hands, you’ll know what to do.”
“If you say so,” I say, although the way she says it I’m most of the way to convinced.
“I know so. I’ve seen you do it.” She gives me another long look, and this time I hold her gaze. It’s hard to breathe suddenly. I think if she asked me to go out and find an Ascian to test her theory right this second, I would. I can’t begin to think what to say.
And then she breaks the spell, Twelve be praised, by yawning widely.
“Gods, I’m tired,” she says. “What hour is it?”
“I don’t think you want to know.”
“You’re right, I don’t.” She takes a long sip of her tea instead. I do too, holding the mug in both hands. It’s held its warmth– even inside, it’s chilly in Mor Dhona– and the tea is as bracing as I remember it, even with no juniper.
“Tell me about your friend,” Moenbryda says, dropping the gentlest emphasis around the word. “The one who taught you to make this.”
“Well. Her name was Aislona–”
“Ah, a nice Sea Wolf girl, of course.”
I smile, remembering. “Her family were ocean fishers. They’d go out for a week at a time, two sometimes. I asked her to show me, so I could make it for her whenever she came back.”
“And you developed a taste for it?”
“The tea?”
“Sure,” she says, with a wink.
I know I blush. I blush easy. She looks at me, and her gaze softens a little. “You loved her,” she says. It isn’t really a question.
“Yes,” I say. “I did.”
"A taste-defining relationship, one might say?"
"One might," I say, "yes."
“So what I can’t figure,” she says, utterly casual, “is why you’re the only one in this merry band not standing in line at my door.”
She’s at least done me the kindness of waiting until I didn’t have tea in my mouth. “Professional courtesy,” I manage. “There ought to be at least one of us you don’t have to fend off with that axe.”
“And what if I’m not fending? Unless I’m wrong,” she adds, “and you’re really not interested?”
“No! I mean, you’re not wrong.” I practically trip over the words in my rush to get them out. “But– I thought you and Urianger–”
“Urianger,” she says, quiet now, serious, “knows exactly how I feel about him. And he knows that whenever he needs me, for whatever reason, I’ll be there.”
Then she shoots me a sly smile. "And meanwhile, I don't see a reason any of us should sit around pining, do you?"
“I don’t think I’m pining exactly—”
“Oh, now he wants to talk theory.” Moenbryda reaches over and takes my chin in her hand, and I shut up immediately. “Do you want to debate the point,” she says, “or do you want to kiss me?”
“Definitely the second one,” I say.
She tilts my face up to hers. “Good choice.”
She kisses very thoroughly, it turns out, and I’m more than happy to let her lead. The world narrows down to her fingers firm on my skin, her determined mouth, and the lingering taste of birch. It’s an eon, and absolutely not long enough, before she pulls away.
“Now,” she says, her lips still so close to mine I can feel her grin, “why don’t we leave all this right here, and you can show me what else you have a taste for.”
For half a second it seems like he doesn't know what I mean. And, granted, even I didn't know what I was going to say until the door to my room in the Pendants had shut behind us.
Then the realization dawns. "Did Y'shtola tell thee–"
"She didn't have to, Urianger!" I turn on my heel. "You don't need to see aether to tell something's wrong with me! I can't sleep, I can't focus, everything's so bright– even when I close my eyes–" I'm pacing, I realize. I can't seem to stop doing that either. With an effort I still my feet and face him. "Yes," I say. "She told me. Why didn't you?"
"I wished only to spare thee an unnecessary burden," says Urianger. He doesn't seem to dare to come any further into the room. "Not to trouble thee overmuch with– with possibilities that might not come to pass–"
"So you let this happen to me, and what? Just hoped it wouldn't get worse?"
"That is unjust," he says, and then, quieter– "yet, essentially, true."
I've put another wound in him. I squeeze my eyes shut, for all the good it does. "I'm sorry," I say, "I don't– No one will tell me the whole shape of it, not– not the Ascian," as if speaking Emet-Selch's name might summon him again, "not the Exarch, and now not you– I don't know what to believe. What's the truth and what's a lie, if there's even a difference–"
I can't go on, I’m speaking nothing. It seems if my feet can’t pace my mouth will. I fall silent and stare at the stone floor.
"I would I could bring thee aught of comfort," I hear him say somewhere above me. "Wilt thou not look at me, at the least?"
I hear him move closer, the soft hush of cloth and clink of metal as he kneels by me. I don't say yes, or even nod, but I also don't move away. His hands gently push back my hood with its hanging visor.
He takes in a soft breath. "Orishan, thine eyes–"
I know what they look like. Light-stained and ill-suited, like the sky. He reaches for me, as if half-afraid to touch me, to brush a tear from my cheek with cautious fingers.
"You told me, back at the Shelves, you wouldn't let the fate you saw come to pass." Do I tell him I know Y'shtola questioned that vision too? Did I even really hear it?
"'Tis true, and I intend to keep that promise."
"Then what is going to happen to me?"
"I cannot tell thee," he says, "what I do not know."
I can't bear the way he's looking at me, helpless and wanting and something else I can't recognize. I want to hit him, I want to comfort him, I want to bury myself in him or never see him again– I lay both of my hands flat on his chest, and then my forehead, suddenly overwhelmed.
"Then I give up," I mutter. Another tear falls onto his robe. "I have to keep fighting for these people– for this world– it doesn't matter why. If I'm not meant to understand, if I'm to be a piece on the board for it, then that's what I must be."
His hand rests, tentative, across my back. "What wouldst thou have me do?"
"Can you tell me anything? Anything at all?" But his silence says he can't. Of course he can't. I draw a deep breath and look up.
"Then kiss me," I say.
"Orishan–"
"Please, Urianger. If I can't stop what's happening– help me feel something else for a while."
Something seems to give in behind his eyes. "Very well," he says. It's barely a breath. He removes the lower part of my mask too, half hesitant, half reverent, and just as carefully he eases his lips over mine.
This isn't exactly our first kiss. It's not exactly our first time together, either, not truly. And I'm sure it's not what either of us imagined, him kneeling on a stone floor and me only half here, a whole world away from anything familiar. For a moment I wonder if Urianger feels as lost as I do.
But right now he's here, and his mouth is warm on mine and he holds me like something he's afraid to lose, and I don't want to think about anything else.
Something gives in inside me as well. I return his kiss in a rush and he all but sweeps me up, suddenly breathless and desperate, his hands at my waist and back pulling me closer, mine catching in his silver hair and in the gold jewelry at his shoulder. He bends his head to kiss my ear, the skin beneath it, my throat, and then my mouth again, and I can hear myself making soft desperate noises of my own against his lips.
"Take me to bed," I murmur, between kisses.
"Art thou–" but I interrupt him, tugging at his lower lip with my teeth, and I savor the sound he makes– "Art thou certain thou dost–"
"I want this–" I punctuate my words with kisses along his jawline– "I want you."
He catches me up, holding my face between his hands. "Wait," he says, serious despite the flush in his face. "We must wait."
I can't help but lean into his touch. "We have waited,” I say. “I don't want to wait anymore, I want to be yours."
"With my whole heart I long to give thee thy desire," he says. "I should bring every star down from the heavens and count each one upon thee with a kiss, and thou shouldst be the brightest of their number." His voice is low and rough with holding back, his eyes burning golden through the bright haze. Heat coils tight in my stomach.
"You're not making me want you less," I protest. He stops me with his hand, resting his thumb over my lips. I kiss its pad instead and feel the shiver run through him, hear him draw an unsteady breath.
"But if ever I have thee, I would have thee certain. I would have thee wholly." He has that look again, helpless. Searching, maybe. "I pray thee, for my sake, if not for thine– wait but a little, my star."
"All right," I say. I can hardly hear my own voice. "All right. I trust you."
This time, when he kisses me, it’s slow again and steady. Deliberate, as if he’s telling me something with his lips that he can’t with words. Or as if he already has told me, and I don’t have enough pieces yet to put the puzzle together. I close my eyes, and he kisses first one eyelid, then the other, brushing the tears that won’t stop welling up.
"You won't go?" I say.
"I shall not leave thy side," he replies, something approaching reassuring.
"Stay the night, then."
Urianger rests his forehead against mine, one long hand cradling my head to his. If he weren’t holding me so close, I’m sure I’d fall, and I’m not sure I’d ever stop falling. "As long as thou wilt have me."
“You look beautiful,” I say immediately. Or rather, the words come out of me without consulting my mind or mouth on the way, and hang, like shining motes of light, in the air.
Urianger goes faintly pink, high on his cheeks. Which I can see, wonder of wonders. I know I’m blushing too. Somewhere to the side I hear something suspiciously like Thancred stifling a laugh, which I must be misinterpreting, because Thancred is my friend and would surely not do that to me.
And anyway, I realize, with dawning amazement, I’m not embarrassed.
And neither is Urianger. He’s pleased.
“Come now,” he says, with a shy smile, “‘tis surely not the first time thou hast beheld these features. I have merely taken up astrology, and my present attire better suiteth the art. Though the night be lost, behind the shroud of blinding light, doubt not but that the stars shine still–”
Then he seems to catch himself. That’s definitely a laugh from Thancred. Urianger gives a polite little cough, as if to cover it up, but he’s still smiling just a little.
“But enough of myself. Let us now speak of our task…”
-
It’s not a bad walk from Lyda Lhran toward Pla Enni, uncanny sky notwithstanding. Urianger walks ahead, talking quietly with Minfilia; Thancred disappears once we’re outside the settlement, scouting, presumably. I find myself falling to the rear, admiring the scenery as we travel– the hills, rising and falling, blooming in a riot of color; Longmirror Lake, its waters so clear I can barely tell where land ends and lake begins; the castle of Lyhe Ghiah on its soaring heights, spreading its brilliant wings. Even if– even when– we can restore the night to this place, I think nothing will dim its brightness.
How characteristically strange of Urianger to have taken up with the stars in this eternally shining place. I feel, if I’d known him better– before– I might be less amazed to see him now, like the night sky walking on the earth.
“I know that look,” says Thancred, next to me.
I credit myself that I at least don’t jump. “What look,” I say, “I don’t have a look.”
He folds his arms. “You realize I’m the least likely among us to believe that.” When I, stubbornly, don’t respond, he adds– “Time was, you directed that look at me.”
I sigh. “So you did catch that.” Too late, I realize I’ve given myself away.
“Not that I don’t follow you,” Thancred goes on. “Takes you quite by surprise, doesn’t he?”
“Entirely,” I admit. “Wait- oh gods, you don’t- you and he aren’t-?”
He laughs. I’m glad to hear it, even if it is a bit at my expense. He’s so serious now, so much beneath his surface.
“No,” he says, “we don’t and we aren’t, though not for lack of interest. Truth be told,” he adds, when I look at him amazed, “there is much else that demands our attentions… and the both of us were too concerned for you.”
I stop dead in my tracks and stare at him.
“That surprises you?” he says. “Well- I suppose it does. You never do realize how much the rest of us care for you, do you? You, Orishan, not the ‘Warrior of Light’– or Darkness, or whichever other title of the hour. And I’m sure our friend there would say the same.”
“Thancred-” I start, and then can’t think what else to say. The moment stretches itself out.
“Go on,” Thancred says, nodding at the path ahead. “I’ll catch you up.”
-
“‘Tis quite a view, is it not?” He’s stopped ahead, allowing me time to catch up- with his long stride and years of use he hardly seems to notice the steepness of the trail. “If the path striketh thee as precipitious, ‘tis because it was once a mountain trail. Where the lake now lieth, there was a valley, in whose midst thrived the city of Voeburt.”
The ruins under the lake, of course. The water is so clear I can still make them out from this height. I think of Thanalan’s blasted desert, and the highlands of Coerthas transformed into ice, and I’m not sure I blame the Fuath for drowning it all afterward.
Urianger seems to be thinking the same thing. “‘Tis not merely the hand of the fae folk that altered this land so. The blame for that lieth rightly with the Light– that it should have been allowed to rise unchecked is the greater regret.”
There’s a quiet passion in his voice that makes me look up. His expression, the golden glint in his eye as he looks out over the drowned valley– perhaps he’s always had this intensity about him and I simply never noticed, but I doubt it. I think his time among the fae has altered him just as much. And suddenly, just for a moment, his transformation makes perfect sense.
“I meant what I said, you know,” I say impulsively.
Urianger looks down at me, his brow furrowing a little as he tries to catch up. “When I said– you looked beautiful,” I clarify. “I didn’t just mean your clothes. You look… yourself. You look happy.”
“I… suppose I am,” he says, slowly, as if realizing it himself. “In spite of the tragedy that surroundeth us, full glad I am to be here. In it I find a kind of purpose, a strength of resolve. I can no more ignore the plight of this world than I can choose to stop breathing. If that to thee is beauty…”
He trails off, for once, and I feel something grip my heart. I reach my hand up and he reaches his down to take it.
“You know this world better than I do,” I say, “but I’m here. Whatever comes, we’ll face it together.”
The smile he gives me now is less shy, but just as gentle. “Then I doubt not but that we shall prevail.”
It was Urianger who suggested we move on from Il Mheg as soon as possible, and yet- after we've collected our effects, I find him atop one of the faerie hills, sitting among the flowers, gazing upwards at the new night sky. I've never seen him look so… reverent? Awed? And I've never seen him sitting on the ground.
"So," I say, "is it everything you imagined?"
"'Tis beyond imagining," he replies, not turning so much as his head. "To study the heavens, absent of their sight, to learn each unfamiliar star and sign, the geometry that yet connecteth them, and only then to see… 'twas for this," he says- and at last he turns his gaze toward me- "for thee, I have long waited."
I feel my breath catch. "How did you know?" I hear myself say. "Defeating the Lightwarden, restoring the night, all of this… how were you so certain I could do it?"
"Save that thou hadst achieved it once already?" Urianger smiles- fond, indulgent, gentle. "Thou seest not thyself. These several years, though I saw not the stars, I yet believed they shone- to think aught else would be defeat. And so I knew… and so do I know thee."
"Urianger, I-" I can't think what to say. He's so close- we haven't been this close since, well- at any rate his face and mine are of a level, and his golden eyes look into mine as if he's seeing a second sky. I could take one small step and-
He leans forward to close the slight space between us-
-and I step back.
"Forgive me," he says immediately, "I overstep-"
"No, it isn't that," I interrupt, before he can keep apologizing. But I can't bring myself to say the rest.
And he doesn't press. He just watches me, and waits, and all at once a dam within me breaks.
"I'm afraid," I admit. "I hurt you once already. After Moenbryda-"
"Nay, blame not thyself," he says. "'Tis true I was heart-struck, but not by thee. 'Twas simply…not the time."
"And now it is?"
"That is for thee to say."
Urianger reaches for my hand, and I let him take it, his long fingers with their golden rings folding gently around mine.
"I have waited ere now," he says, "and 'tis a practice most familiar. 'Tis no burden, then, to wait a while longer." And he gives me that smile again, soft and fond, and Twelve help me, I want to see that smile again and again.
He knows exactly how I feel about him. I hear the voice as if it's here, next to us among the flowers. And he knows that whenever he needs me, for whatever reason, I’ll be there.
"I'll tell you," I say, just as soft. "When I'm ready. I promise."
"I can ask no more." He raises my hand, gently, and brushes the slightest touch of lips there. This time I don't pull back. I feel just as breathless as if he'd kissed me full on the mouth.
"Hey," we both hear Alisaie call from the road, "what are you two doing up there? I thought we were going!"
"And so we should be," Urianger says. He unfolds himself from the ground, a few stray petals falling from his robes.
"Will you tell me about the stars," I say, "on the road?"
He holds his hand down for mine, and smiles, and I hope I never get used to seeing it. "'Twould be my pleasure."
(>1000 words, WoL/Thancred in an exes-becoming-friends way, post Stormblood)
-
It rains, after everything. It’s the slow, determined kind of rain, and it follows us from Porta Praetoria to the Reach like an honor guard. I sit on a crate outside the barber, under the portico– a makeshift waiting room for the infirmary, mostly empty now– and watch it fall steadily for a while. It ought to be comforting, after… everything, and in a way I guess it is. I mostly just wish it didn’t smell like flowers.
"You could be in bed, you know," says Thancred.
Seven hells. Either I've become unused to him, or he really has gotten stealthier. I make a mental note to get him back later.
"I bet you say that to all the boys," I say.
"You got me, I’m patrolling. What is it they say about old habits?"
"Meaning you can't sleep either?" I edge over and pat the crate next to me. He gives another got-me shrug and swings his leg over.
I’m small enough, there’s room for both of us. Just. In the half second it takes him to balance I tuck myself into his arm. I know it’s forward, and a few months ago– hells, a week ago, a day– I wouldn’t have done it. But he doesn’t move away, so neither do I.
The rain falls. It smells like crushed flowers and distant smoke, ceruleum and ozone and old upturned earth, and a thin slash of copper through it like a blade.
“Orishan,” I hear Thancred saying, “where are you?”
“Zenos kept saying– how alike we are. Were.” I don’t think I could stop the words coming out of me, not for gil or glory. “How we were the same. When we fought, before he–”
“They say things like that,” says Thancred.
“You weren’t there.”
“No, but I’ve heard similar. He says ‘we’re not so different,’ he means ‘you’re no better than I am.’ He wants you to believe that’s true.”
I watch the rain. “Isn’t it?” I say. “Does he– did he– see something I don’t? Before he–” crushed flowers, the smell of copper– “He called me his friend.”
“And were you?”
I can’t answer. I didn’t think so, but I don’t know anymore. The rain falls.
“How well do you know me, would you say?” Thancred says eventually.
Probably better than most. Probably not as well as I should. “Where are you going with this?” I say.
“What did Lahabrea see that I didn’t?”
That startles me into looking up. “You’re nothing like him–”
“No?” says Thancred. “He convinced me otherwise, for long enough, anyway.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Of course not,” he says. “You’re here, and you’re still you.”
“Th- that’s not what I meant,” I manage. Suddenly I can feel my face flushing red. We’ve never talked about this, about Lahabrea, about the distance between us after everything, and here I am pitying myself. “I didn’t–”
“I know,” he says, and the hint of steel fades from his expression. “That isn’t quite what I meant either. I’m sorry, I’m not very good at this.”
I can’t help laughing a little. “Join the guild,” I say.
“What I mean is,” he says, “let’s assume that I know you at least as well as you know me, all right? And if you can’t believe yourself, believe me. You’re nothing like Zenos either.”
“All right,” I say, collecting myself, “I’ll believe you.”
“Excellent. Now will you try to get some sleep?”
“I will if you will.”
“That’s a fair bargain.” He starts to stand up, to go. I catch his hand.
“That’s not what I meant,” I say again.
Thancred looks down at me with an eyebrow raised. “Me?” he says, gently, good-naturedly skeptical. “Really?”
And I ask myself, really? After everything?
“Just sleep, not anything else,” I answer. “And not as anything other than friends, not if you don’t want. But– I do need a friend, a real friend, and I’d like it if it was you.”
For a long moment he holds my gaze. “As a friend, then,” he says at last, and he leans down again, carefully- maybe cautiously- reaching to tilt my face toward his. I don't think I've seen him unsure before. But I don’t move away, and neither does he. He closes the distance.
One part of his reputation, at least, is well founded. He is a good kisser. I let myself get lost in it for a while.
“Bed,” he says, after another while, pulling away. He looks a little flushed himself. “Sleep. You don’t get out of it that easily.”
“Who made you commander,” I grumble, but I do take the hand he offers me and climb down from the crate.
He laughs- a real laugh. “My apologies, oh valiant hero. Lead on and I shall follow.”
I do lead the way, out from under the portico toward the tent I’ve been given, with Thancred following me silent as usual. It’s still raining, but I don’t mind. It’s comforting. And it doesn’t smell like anything other than rain.
