It's Me, ⟢ B ⟣ @sheepwithspecs - Tumblr Blog

Jul 10

Only Mine: Chapter 2

|| FFXIV || Rated M ||

Ao3 Link Against her better judgement, Captain Rhoswen finds herself in the Holy See. Her mission: convince Count Charlemend de Durendaire that she is, in fact, his estranged son's loving spouse. Though she'd rather fall on her own cutlass than so much as bat her eyes at the source of her frustration, it's only for four days. What could possibly go wrong?

Ooh, I can’t feel me feet….

After hours on the airship, Rhoswen was colder than she’d ever been in her life. The sun-drenched decks of Limsa Lominsa seemed naught but a pleasant dream at this point, something to pine for while actively freezing to death. She’d burrowed down as far as she could into her cloak, but the icy winds seemed as determined to scour her skin as she was to evade them. A single ray of sunlight might have done her some good, but there was none to be had, with skies hidden above a thick blanket of slate-dark clouds.

Although she’d known that the Calamity had turned Coerthas into a frozen waste, a part of her had hoped for some measure of warmth in Ishgard itself. Unfortunately, these hopes died the moment the airship docked in the landing bay. Clutching at her valise with numbed fingers, she peered past the ship’s mooring ropes to find a stone city besieged with snow. Delicate flakes danced in swirling eddies, clumping together on stacked crates and drifting past the airship’s wings to be lost in a sea of clouds and fog.

If the other passengers noticed this dismal sight, they made no comment as they began to disembark. Rhoswen quickly followed suit, stumbling on her frozen feet. Carvallain did not move, his eyes fixed on the iron gates with a sort of petulant despair. His hands were tightly fisted on his knees, shoulders jerking with each ragged breath.

“Well?” she prompted, toeing his boot with her own. “Changed yer mind yet, fop?”

“Not quite.” He didn’t sound very convinced. Rhoswen bit back a sigh, wishing that she could offer him something other than hollow comfort. Carvallain had been less than forthcoming with details as to why he’d left his home in search of freedom, but she did not need details to understand what he must be feeling in the moment. All she needed was to imagine herself in his place, faced with the prospect of reuniting with her good-for-nothing sire. The thought was enough to turn her stomach, but… this was his choice to make.

“We can still turn tail n’ head fer home.” A shiver wracked her frame despite her best efforts to keep it at bay. That, apparently, was enough to turn his eyes from the gates. He looked her over with a pensive frown, his pale gaze lingering on her windburnt cheeks.

“You’re shivering.”

“I’m freezin’ m’tits off, aye.” She squared her shoulders, trying her best to seem unaffected by the weather. “But a deal’s a deal. If yer here to stay, then so am I.”

“Yes, well… I am counting on that, as it were.” He finally stood, luggage in hand. “Still,” he added thoughtfully, “we should take care that you don’t catch your death. Coerthas is a far cry from Vylbrand.”

“I ain’t scared o’ the cold,” she huffed as they joined the queue of hopefuls seeking entrance to the city. At the gate, a stuffy-looking Elezen in stately attire was recording each passenger’s information with a quill nearly as long as the plume in his cap. He appeared to be locked in an argument with a Roegadyn merchant at the moment, his long fingers tapping the crumpled permits in the man’s beefy hand.

Tipping her head back to search for that all-elusive ray of sunlight, Rhoswen instead found herself cowed by the sheer height of the buildings surrounding the airship dock. Malms upon malms of hewn stone, golden embellishments, carved arches, glass windows with latticed fronts—! Her eyes were drawn higher, ever higher, until she was craning her neck with the effort. Even so, she found that the tip of the tallest spire was lost in the clouds.

“What n’ the seven hells is that?!” she breathed, eyes wide with awe. Carvallain tilted his head, looming over her as he followed her gaze with his own.

“That would be the Vault,” he replied mildly, though his fingers tapped a nervous staccato against her shoulder. “The building beside it is the Sacred Tribunal of Halonic Inquisitory, and that smaller one is Saint Reymanaud’s Cathedral.” He drifted closer, shielding her from the worst of the wind as they waited.

“Why are they all so bleedin’ massive?!”

“Religious fervor, I suppose.” He shrugged. “Until recently, the Church was the ultimate authority within Coerthas. It stands to reason that they’d tower above all else.”

Rhoswen nodded, though the concept itself was lost on her. Like most Eorzeans, she only sought to invoke the Twelve in passing. Of course she was guilty of muttering the occasional prayer to Llymlaen in dicey waters, and was quick to toss out a name or two while venting her anger, but to devote one’s faith entirely, wholeheartedly, to a single deity? She could not begin to imagine.

Her curiosity slaked, she turned her attention instead to the Ishgardians on the other side of the iron gates. Workers had already set upon the crates of supplies and tanks of ceruleum delivered by the ship, while merchants with trimmed mustaches flitted from one stack to the next, counting up the inventory. Armored knights in padded chainmail kept a sharp eye on both citizens and cargo, their hands on their hips and weapons sheathed… for the moment.

There was also plenty of prim, dainty-looking nobles milling about, flaunting and gossiping with one another as they waited for their loved ones to pass through the gates. Many were dressed in a manner similar to her own attire: fashionable leather boots and fur-lined gowns. Others were dressed in layers upon layers of mismatched patterns, gaudy jewelry, and foppish lace, prancing around like feathered Cloudkin in search of a mate.

Are any from House Durendaire? With her piecemeal knowledge of the High Houses, it was impossible to tell. Rhoswen stared openly at one woman’s hat— a conical, pointed monstrosity trimmed in fabric that draped across her brow and down her spine. Is she tryin’ to impress Saint Whats-His-Name by dressin’ up as the bloody cathedral?

To her immense relief, there were also plenty of lowborn Ishgardians, whose mien and attire would not have looked out of place in the stubbled fields of Western La Noscea: calloused men and brawny women in homespun clothing, field gloves, and simple caps. Workmen with tool belts, housewives with starched aprons, ragtag younglings with dirty faces. Leather and grease, grit and iron. These were the sort who knew the true meaning of hard work, who toiled from sunup until sundown for a crust of bread and were meant to be all the happier for it.

My sort o’ folk.

During the course of their whirlwind preparations, Carvallain had briefly explained the difference between the Coerthan highborn and lowborn classes. According to him, House Durendaire was a family of highest nobility. Something about being descended from some ancient hero—she had triedto understand, but there was no concise way to summarize centuries of convoluted ecclesiastical history to someone who could barely read or write. What she did understand, however, was the ridiculous notion that being highborn meant they could turn up their noses at anyone less noble than themselves… including their fellow Houses.

But now, with the war finished and the Church no longer the seat of authority, the people had to get used to a new way of living. They had a government of houses—though not High Houses, apparently—and Ishgardians were told to set aside their differences and embrace equality. No more highborn, no more lowborn. Generations of tradition, gone and forgotten in a trice.

Upon first hearing this, Rhoswen had not been able to hold back her laughter. Who in their right mind would believe that nobles and commoners could come together without a single dilemma? Sure, a Limsan pirate could raise themselves from deckhand to captain with hard work, a few well-placed deaths, and great deal of patience. But in a land where resources were scarce and the highborn lived in palaces while commonfolk made do in the back alleys… how could anyone ever hope to bridge that sort of gap, even with dragon’s wings?

To her amazement, Carvallain agreed with her sentiments. However, according to his sources, Count Charlemend de Durendaire was one of the forerunners of those attempting to do the impossible. It was something of a shock, especially to those who had known him longer than anyone else. This nobleman, who was once infamous throughout Coerthas for his conservative snobbery, had thrown aside his outdated ideals in favor of this new way of thinking! What’s more, he took pains to integrate himself with those of lesser birth, and encouraged his peers to do the same! It was beyond belief, and yet…?

That’s where she came in. Carvallain wished to know if the rumors about his father were true. To that extent, he was willing to use her as a sort of trial by fire. If the Count Durendaire had truly turned over a new leaf, he would welcome them both with open arms. Certainly he would not bat an eye at the thought of having a timeworn, foul-mouthed, slightly-pretty-but-mostly-plain corsair for a daughter-in-law—at least, that’s as far as Carvallain managed before being shouted down in the midst of Hawker’s Alley.

She understood the importance of being seen in the Durendaire manor, of course. Not only was it a test of how its lord would react to her, but also how he would react to others outside the home knowing that his family was now forever linked with lowborn status. If she stayed in his home, there would be nowhere for either of them to hide.

It ain’t that I mind puttin’ a noble fop in ‘is place, but…. Rhoswen glanced again at the crowd on the other side of the gate. While she would rather die than admit it to anyone, including the man at her side, she would have felt much better about the whole situation had she been allowed to stay with the bleary-eyed, stone-faced commoners. There, safely hidden amongst the browbeaten masses, she could be sure of her own footing.

Carvallain insisted that she need not worry about her mannerisms, which would likely seem vulgar by Ishgardian standards. He wanted her to be her true self… though she still wasn’t sure what he meant by it. In fact, he seemed to imply that he wanted her to incite a bit of scandal, if only for the entertainment value.

Fat chance. While she didn’t care one whit for others’ good favor, she did pride herself in having decent manners where it counted. True, her temper often got the better of her, and she was notorious on the docks for her more imaginativeturns of phrase. But a woman of her position didn’t remain on top for years without knowing how to play nice. Besides: there was a certain joy in making things as difficult as possible for her dear “husband”.

They finally reached the officiant, who did not seem too inclined to move from his spot at the front of the gate. Rhoswen could only assume that the glowing braziers and the subsequent warmth they emitted had something to do with it. As they approached, she noted with a sinking heart that, despite being shorter than the Elezens surrounding them, the officiant still towered a full head and shoulders over her.

“Your name and business, if you please.” He looked down his nose at her, his eyes trailing over her modestly elegant attire. She stared back, squaring her shoulders and subtly lifting onto the tips of her toes beneath the heavy skirts.

“I am Carvallain de Gorgagne.” Carvallain bowed at the shoulders, his hand brushing across the front of his thick coat. His voice had managed to regain some of its usual smarminess, though she could still detect the slightest tremble. He was clearly not as calm as he made himself out to be. “Of House Durendaire,” he amended with a flourish. The officiant barely glanced at him, blinking twice as the quill scribbled across his parchment.

“N’ I’m Rhoswen L… erm, de Gorgagne?” In all her whirlwind preparations, it had not occurred to her that to be his wife would mean to take his name, even temporarily. She was not sure that she was keen on the change… though she had no lasting fondness for the not-so-noble House of Leach, either. “O’ House Durn’daire.” Carvallain visibly grimaced at her pronunciation, but wisely kept any snide comment to himself.

“Lord and Lady Gorgagne, allow me to be the first to welcome you to Ishgard.” The officiant did not draw attention to her hesitation, offering them both a sweeping bow. “I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know that the Count has been expecting you. He has himself come no less than three times over the course of the day to enquire about the airship, and whether it would arrive on time, and whether we knew if his esteemed guests were passengers.” There was a tightness around the corners of his mouth that spoke of quickly-waning patience.

“Is he here now?” Rhoswen looked past his shoulder, trying to see if any of the noble dandies were eyeing them in return.

“Indeed, my lady, Count Durendaire was here… though he made his retreat the moment the airship docked. Something about his nerves being unable to handle the anticipation of the happy reunion, I believe?” His thin brows arched and he shook his head in exasperation. “You should be able to locate him at the Arc of the Venerable. That’s where he has spent the majority of the afternoon, as that square provides the best view of incoming flights.”

“Thank you. We’ll head that way now.” With a firm grip on her shoulder, Carvallain guided her ahead of him through the tall gates. They swerved around the teeming merchants, elbowing through the crowd before emerging onto a broad staircase. “Come along,” he urged, practically dragging her up the stairs. “The faster we get this over with, the faster we can find a blazing hearth and a cup of warm—”

“Would ye stop yankin’ me about?!” Shaking herself free, Rhoswen redoubled her grip on the valise. “Long-legged dhalmel of a man!” she huffed, trudging up the stairs after him. His longer stride made it easy to outpace her, forcing him to stop every few steps and allow her time to catch up. “Where even is this Arcane… what’d ‘e say?”

“The Arc of the Venerable.” Carvallain pointed up another set of stairs to her left. “It’s that circular plaza with the fountain. Here,” he added impatiently, sighing as he gestured for the valise. “Let me have that—”

“I don’t need yer help!” she insisted, though her arm was already starting to ache with the effort. The valise was not very heavy on its own, but the frigid air and thick clothing were already taking their toll. When added to the endless stairs and the fact that her stomach was starting to rumble, was it any wonder that her energy was waning? Not that he needed to know that.

“Don’t be stubborn. If you would just allow me to—” Ignoring his impending lecture, she bunched up her skirts in her free hand and, bracing herself with a deep breath, took off in a dead run for the top of the second staircase. “Rhoswen! Where do you think you’re going!? Wait!” he called after her irritably. “You’re going to run into someone, and then where will we be?!”

Skipping the last two steps, Rhoswen landed nimbly on the Arc. She let the valise fall for a moment, catching her breath as she looked around. The Arc of the Venerable was all stonework, though of a more decorative kind. It was both immaculate and beautiful, geometric patterns inlaid amidst rows upon rows of latticed color. Bridges and staircases branched off from all sides, some leading towards the lower half of the city while others stretched ever skyward. Benches lined the circular fountain at its center; more were spread out at intervals along the snow-laden bushes.

A man sat hunched on one of the nearer benches, his elbows on his knees and head bent. A manservant knelt at his side, and in front of him stood a young boy. They were speaking too softly to hear, with the wind whistling in the eaves of the nearby buildings and the fountain bubbling merrily despite the freezing temperature. As he lifted his head to answer them, Rhoswen caught a good look at his face in the lamplight.

Wait a minute. She blinked at him, tongue working in her cheek. I know him. While not possessed of a perfect memory, she had a good eye for faces… and this one was familiar to her. They had met somewhere, once. But where? A woman like herself didn’t exactly frequent the sort of places that a nobleman would seek out on his travels, unless he was an idiot.

At first glance, he did not seem like anyone she would know personally. The man was of middle age, with proud, regal features worn down by time and worry. Rhoswen mapped his features, trying to match them to anyone she might have met over the course of her life: a well-trimmed mustache, thin lips, high cheekbones, prominent nose…..

The Bismarck, maybe? It seemed unlikely. She never stayed for long, and certainly didn’t make a habit of chitchatting with Lyngsath’s patrons. The Admiral? No, she’d definitely remember if Merlwyb had introduced her to Ishgardians. The Moonfire Faire? Perhaps, but he didn’t seem the type to enjoy a sweaty, sandy beach teeming with adventurers.

Screwing her eyes shut, she scraped the furthest reaches of her mind for any inkling of who the fellow could possibly be, and how she knew him. Within moments, a dignified—terrified—voice answered the call from an almost-forgotten memory.

I hail from the nation of Ishgard, and I... ah, do believe that your fine wares would be most highly s-sought after in our nation—

“Oh, bugger me!” Spinning on her heel, she immediately tripped over the valise, stumbling blindly down the stairs and slamming facefirst into something warm and sturdy. “Shite—!”

“Did I not just say to watch where you’re going?!” Carvallain grabbed her by the shoulders, holding her close to his chest as he stumbled a little himself. “Like scolding a child—” he grumbled, shifting his footing as he fought to keep them both from tumbling backwards down the stairs.

Rhoswen didn’t answer immediately, her pounding heart dropping like a stone as the blood drained from her face. She couldn’t even enjoy the warmth of his chest beneath her cheek, or the heartbeat she swore she could feel through his thick garments… not that she’d ever wondered what it would feel like to be held by him, of course.

“That ain’t yer da?” She jerked her head, motioning to where the man sat. “In the blue hat?” Carvallain once again followed her eyes, the corners of his mouth dropping further as he caught sight of the odd entourage on the bench.

“That would be him… the prestigious Count Charlemend de Durendaire.”

“Ugh….” Rhoswen grimaced, sucking in a breath through her teeth. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise; she could remember wondering to herself at the time why he looked so godsdamn familiar. Now, looking up at Carvallain in the waning light, she could easily see the resemblance. The same thick red hair, the same pale eyes, the same haughty tilt to their mouths— how could she have been so clueless?!

“Why?” Carvallain’s brow creased further as he watched the emotions flicker in her eyes. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s just… I might’ve….” She winced, knowing that there was no gentle way to break this sort of news, nor any way she could break it to put herself in a better light. “I threw him out o’ the Missin’ Member a while back.”

“What?!”he hissed, gripping her shoulders hard enough to hurt. “What reason could you possibly have to— When did you even—”

“He came ‘round a few moons back, spoutin’ some nonsense about Limsan wares in Ishgard.” She fidgeted in his grasp, trying to pull herself out of the iron grip without making a scene. “I told him where he could stick his soddin’ wares, n’ that was the end o’ it.”

“I can’t believe you. Of all the—” His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath, seething despite his efforts to regain composure. “Why am I only now hearing about this?! Is it that important that you make a complete and utter fool of me?!”

“What? No!” she snapped, her own temper flaring in response to his. “Ye think he bothered to share his name n’ rank as I was throwin’ him out on his arse!? N’ anyroad: if I thought for a second he was yer da, why would I have sent him yer way in the first place?”

“I can’t believe that you’d be so blind as to— What?” He blinked, surprised. “You sent him to me?”

“I just… I told him he’d have better luck with yer lot.” She shrugged, averting her gaze with a scoff. “I guess he did, seein’ as ye’ve a trade agreement n’ all.”

“But… why?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Why would you take pains to advance my position when we have always been—”

“Don’t matter, does it?!” She managed to wiggle free, ducking his grasp and putting an arm’s length between them. “Only thing that matters is that I had nothin’ to do with him, other than kickin’ him out. But I was perfectly within me rights,” she insisted, crossing her arms with a pout. “To tell true… I’d almost forgotten all about it, ‘till I clapped eyes on him just now. Maybe he’ll have forgotten, too.”

“Forgotten? Him?” Carvallain pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, we would not be so lucky as that. Besides, you’re the sort of face that’s hard to forget.”

“Eh? What the hells’ that supposed to mean?!” He didn’t answer immediately, his eyes scrunched shut and knuckles tapping against his forehead as he thought. Feeling oddly guilty—despite having done no wrong, she insisted to herself—she tried to summon a few words of comfort. “Ye never know… he might be so excited to see ye that he forgets all about yer wife! Then I can find a nice tavern room to stay in while the two o ye—”

“No!” His eyes flew open. “Absolutely not; I need you with m—” He broke off, lips pressed together tightly. When he spoke again, it was with forced calm. “I must insist that you follow our plan. We have to ensure that he has truly turned over a new leaf, remember?”

“That’s if he even lets me in the godsdamned manor!”

“If you are denied entry, than I have no reason to stay. My suspicions will have been confirmed to the fullest.” He frowned. “What we need is a solid alibi… a reason for you to have spurned his offer….”

“Does it matter?” she argued, fighting to keep her voice down. “Spurnin’ is spurnin’, ain’t it?” Even as she said the words, she knew that they were not a given. On the streets of Limsa Lominsa, action was held in higher regard. Most pirates weren’t too keen to waste time with the purpose of things, or the whos and the whys. It was easier to cut to the chase, get things out in the open. But this was not Limsa Lominsa, and Carvallain knew this world of debates and class warfare much better than she.

“Quiet… I’m thinking….”

“Think faster, won’t ye?! We ain’t exactly got the luxury o’ time!” He was saved from further argument by the sounds of approaching voices.

“—no need to fret so, Uncle!” A child’s voice, breaking on the cusp of early adolescence. “I am sure they are well!” A deeper voice answered, fraught with nerves.

“It does not take this long to make one’s way from the airship landing, lest— But perhaps they have not come after all?” The man himself appeared at the head of the stairs, the young boy practically jogging in an effort to keep pace with his anxious stride. Both paused at the sight of her overturned valise, their eyes following the natural line down to where they stood, motionless, near the foot of the stairs.

Seven swivvin’ ‘ells—

For the first time in nearly a decade, Rhoswen felt completely and utterly out of her element. Her heart hammered against her breastbone, and it was all she could do to offer the Navigator a halfhearted prayer of thanks for the three layers of cloth hiding her wobbly knees. It was not that she cared for his good opinion, but an outcry on his part would punch any number of holes in their seemingly airtight façade. In one way, that might be a good thing; at least then she could get back home ahead of schedule.

At the same time, however, a very small voice in the back of her mind protested the idea of an impromptu departure. It sounded unnervingly like herself, only much younger and possessed of an avid curiosity that belied her timid nature. She knew it well.

It was the voice of a very lonely little girl, ostracized and neglected, who still believed that the world was a good place outside of her own unfortunate circumstances. Who was used to being kicked and cuffed on sight, but had not yet learned how to mask her fears with a loud voice and bloodied fists. Who loved nothing more than to stare at the horizon and dream of what lay beyond its glittering ocean waters.

That shy little girl had vanished a lifetime ago, crushed and ground to dust beneath the weight of a cruel, merciless existence. But her voice remained, buried deep within herself where it could rest, safe, with the shredded remnants of what was once innocence. That little voice begged her to explore this new land, to climb its spires and plunge its depths, to satisfy her thirst for knowledge. It longed to keep up the ruse so that she could bask in Carvallain’s unfettered attention, living out the fantasy of a courtly romance with a lordly knight—

That’s more’n enough! She shoved the mental images away with an iron will, cursing herself for her own weakness. It’s just pretend, n’ there ain’t no use gettin’ all worked up n’ moony-eyed over pretense. A few days n’ we’ll back home, hatin’ each other the way Llymlaen intended. But that little voice, for all its cowardice, refused to be fully silenced. It whispered to itself about shared beds, stolen kisses, and plenty of other romantic nonsense that had no place in a pirate’s heart.

To her immense relief, the Count de Durendaire had no eyes for her. He did not seem to even notice her existence, despite the fact that she was practically standing atop Carvallain’s polished boots. His eyes widened as they took in his son for the first time in years, flitting from boots to hair and back as though trying to drink in all of him at once. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again, with nary a sound passing his quivering lips. Finally, he swallowed heavily and managed, in a voice shattered by both deepest sorrow and profound joy:

“You have grown so tall.”

Carvallain’s eyebrows lifted, lips parting in evident surprise. She knew without asking that he had spent days upon days imagining this very moment: what would be said, and done, and implied. But it was clear that, for all he that had imagined coming from his sire, this had not been anywhere close. Seeing his expression, the Count shook his head in dismay.

“Forgive me, that was… foolish, I know. But until this moment, I… I could not help but imagine that little boy I once knew, bounding up the stairs after so long….” He trailed off, blinking the unshed tears from his eyes with a watery chuckle. “But you are grown! Of course, you are grown… and you are returned to us.”

As the Count spoke, long, familiar fingers blindly sought her arm, tugging her closer so that he could rest his hand upon her shoulder as he had on the landing. Rhoswen obliged him, more out of curiosity than any real fondness. What made him cling to her like that?

“I am.” His voice, though clear, wavered slightly as he dug his fingers into the meat of her shoulder. “And I’ve brought someone I’d like very much for you to meet.”

“Ah, yes! Of course, the beautiful woman I’ve heard so much about.” He turned his attention to her, his welcoming smile faltering as their eyes met. “You…?” She internally winced as his expression morphed from confusion to recognition. “The pirate wench… in the tavern!” he gasped, his once-joyful tone warped with shock and wariness.

Wench!? Well, I guess it’s time for yer first big test. She stared up at him, Carvallain’s hand pressing down on her shoulder. Relax, she admonished both him and herself, fighting the dread swimming like a monster in her gut. They were no longer children, subject to the whims of their sires. There was no need to panic. Taking a deep breath, she cleared her mind and let impulse take the lead.

“I hope ye don’t count that little jest against me, yer lordship.” She bent her knees in a quick bow, hand fluttering over her racing heart. “’Tis just that I couldn’t exactly let ye know I was wed to yer pride n’ joy when ye strolled into me place o’ business. Had to keep up appearances n’ all.”

“You knew who I was?”

“O’ course!” she lied through her teeth, plastering a fake grin on her features. “Pres-ti-gious gent like yerself, hailin’ all the way from Ishgard, with features like yers? Weren’t hard to put two n’ two together. I sent ye straight to the Krakens, didn’t I?” Sometimes, the best way to circumnavigate a falsehood was with a nugget of truth. “I weren’t lyin’ when I said ye’d be better off with their captain as yer trade partner… though ye might argue ‘twas all the same in the end.”

“I— Yes, I see.” Count Durendaire fished in his coat pocket, emerging with a silken handkerchief. Mopping his brow, he continued, “Forgive me, my dear, for not recognizing you sooner. From the way he described you in his letters, perhaps I ought to have put two and two together myself.” He returned her smile, though his face remained rather pale. “I welcome you to Ishgard, daughter-in-law, and I hope that by the time you return home, you’ll rethink your stance on cutting out my tongue? Hm?”

Is that… is the puffy-coated bastard actually teasin’ me?!

“These are my cousins, then?” The young boy, who until now had been watching the exchange in rapt silence, tugged on the Count’s long sleeve. It was hard for Rhoswen to pin down his age. Like all Elezen children, he had that awkward, gangly look that would eventually vanish once he hit his growth spurt and shot up to full height between blinks. But this little one could not have been much older than her own Aubrix at home, with a shock of white-blonde hair and the same colorless eyes as his Durendaire elders. When the Count did not respond, he turned his impatient questions to her. “You are my Cousin Rhoswen, are you not?”

Eh? How does the little bugger know me name already? She turned a questioning eye to Carvallain, who suddenly seemed very interested in the shrubbery lining the Arc. Her bemusement quickly turned to realization that there was only one way for them to know her name: he had done far more than describe her in his godsforsaken letters!

Ooh, ye spineless, no-good, cowerin’ whoreson! Just wait until I get me hands on ye!

“Yes, that’s your Cousin Rhoswen.” The Count guided the youngster closer to make proper introductions. “And this is your elder cousin—” Here he paused, glancing at his son. “Carvallain…?” It was less a question and more confirmation, that this was the name he was happiest to assume.

It ain’t his real name? she wondered, and immediately scolded herself for such a stupid question. Of course a young boy running away from home would have to change his name! She might have been tempted to do the same, but she’d known from the start that her sire was too drunk and lazy to chase her any farther than Swiftperch. For a noble boy, though, whose name was well-known within certain circles, it would have been crucial to assume something less conspicuous.

“Carvallain will do,” he agreed, bowing his head. “You must be young Ronantain. Count Durendaire has spoken very highly of you in our letters.” The boy bowed, though the gesture was more of a bounce with how fast he resurfaced.

“You’re truly from Vylbrand?” he asked, not bothering to pause for an answer in his burgeoning excitement. “What’s it like there? I’ve read that it’s warm, with palm trees and all manner of tropical plants. Is it always very warm there? And doesn’t it ever snow? And are there really pirates? And—”

“Ronantain!” the Count admonished, not unkindly. “Your cousins have traveled a long way to reach Ishgard, and they are weary from the journey. What they need now is food and rest, not an interrogation worthy of the Tribunal. Come,” he said, with a glance to the flickering lamps near the fountain. “Let us return to Durendaire Manor. We can speak more leisurely after a hearty repast.”

“Allow me to take your valise, Cousin.” Ronantain leapt forward, picking up her luggage with surprising strength for his small frame. He smiled shyly at her and, Navigator save her, she could not help but return the gesture. She’d always been fond of children, even when she’d been barely older than one herself. Half the reason the Upright Thieves—or the Rogues or whatever the hells they called themselves these days—left the Sirens alone was the fact that had it not been for her fishing him out of barrels and whatnot, wee Jackie would never have lived to see his twentieth year.

“Tomorrow, we can tour the city proper.” The Count waved them forward, leading the way as they crossed the Arc and scaled a wide bridge. “But for now….” Ronantain hurried to keep up, the manservant following at a leisurely pace behind. Rhoswen kept a tight hold on Carvallain’s arm, as much for appearances as well as a reminder that her legs were not as long as theirs.

“Wanna explain how they already knew who I was, fop?” she growled under her breath, tugging unnecessarily hard on his forearm as they trailed behind the others.

“Not necessarily.”

“Coward.” It was next to impossible to dig her nails into his arm through her thick gloves, but she tried anyway. “I shouldn’t have ever agreed to come. I wouldn’t have, if’n I’d known it’d make ye look bad.”

“And yet? Here you are.” He seemed more relaxed, now that the dreaded moment had come and gone without incident. “Not to mention the fact that you’re being duly compensated. So if I were you, I’d stop while I was ahead.”

“But why—”

“I’ve told you already,” he interrupted mildly. “Who else would I possibly marry, if not you?” Rhoswen frowned, planting her feet and refusing to budge another step. His hand trailed down her arm until it reached her fingers, capturing them and tugging imperatively.

“It weren’t right.” Carvallain stared at her, his face impassive. “It weren’t right, to use me—to use my name like that, n’ not say nothin’. Ye owe me that much.”

“It wasn’t right,” he relented. “But I never claimed that it was. Besides,” he added coolly, “I did say that my intention was for him to disown me, did I not? I chose to scrape the bottom of the barrel, and he called my bluff. From where I stand, I owe you nothing more than I have already offered.”

“Then let go of me hand, if that’s how ye feel.” She wiggled her fingers, trying desperately to ignore the pang in her breast. Carvallain’s mouth twisted, lacing his fingers through her own.

“I dare not.” He turned his head, beckoning her forward with another little tug. “Come. We can discuss it later, when there aren’t appearances to keep.” She followed blindly, still fuming as she turned over his words in her head. Bottom of the barrel— Oh, that hurt in a way she didn’t like to admit. How dare he say that, when she was the one doing him a favor! It was all his fault, no matter which way you turned it!

“Pompous arsehole,” she hissed through her teeth, kicking at his ankle and stumbling when she missed.

“Callous corsair,” he answered in turn, offering her hand a squeeze.

Had she not known better, she might have mistaken it for affection.

#ffxiv #final fantasy xiv #final fantasy 14 #carvrhos #carvallain de gorgagne #rhoswen leach #captain rhoswen #fanfiction #my writing #fake marriage au #daytime reblog

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