The distortion ringing in her horns only grew louder with each passing second; echoes of memories long past, lost to the void of darkness and ash.
She knew this as soon as she picked up the scythe. She wasn’t going into this blindly. She anticipated such echoes to ring in her mind before the being’s essence was made flesh. A woman with long, jet black hair, unshakingly stark irises that dripped red, gazed at her with an expression made of absolute stone. Alabaster skin shimmered, a clear sign of the manifestation was not fully corporeal.
“So you’ve managed to summon me, haven’t you?” The voice was distorted, plagued with unstable elements of light and darkness. “I’m surprised you would want to.”
The Xaela’s expression was also one of stone, even though her heart hammered ruthlessly within the confines of her chest. “We are the same, you and I. I would have been surprised if you were not the one to manifest,” she replied, slender fingers gripping the handle tightly, knuckles turning white.
One owlish blink before ruby lips curved into a faint smile, the woman gliding toward the Xaela. She circled around the smaller being, the existing piece of her that remained in the world unmoving. The woman could perceive the faint trembling of her shard. She still does not know how to handle this power.
And how could she? She had fought so hard and futilely, their shards not merging despite being the same person. The raven-haired woman had sundered with grief and a light-tainted heart, only for the remnant of her former self manifesting in this Xaela. And even now, she could sense some resistance in her.
Ceasing the circling for the moment, the ravenette drew close, her hands sliding over the silver-haired woman’s eyes. The Xaela visibly tensed, her breathing becoming shorter, labored. The stench of fear could overwhelm even a rotting corpse, and the woman’s aura was thick with it. “So why did you channel me, Shuri?”
Shuri exhaled shakily. “Because you are the strongest person I know. Will you lend me your power, Lilith?”
The avatar scoffed, leaning close to the Xaela’s horn. “You ask for my power when we are one in the same, as you say,” she murmured, one hand sliding over to the one gripping the scythe. “This power is in you, Shuri. You will need to let go of your fear of being corrupted by my presence in order to tap into it. Are you willing to do this?”
It was a risk. To let the aether of her former self, corrupted and all, to feed into her own for her to protect everything dear to her. She knew this was what would be asked of her. She couldn’t back down now.
characters: original characters, douceline de dansereau, archombadin de dzemael
summary: in which douceline reveals a secret.
tags: painfully ishgardian man finds out his gf has scales, acceptance
wordcount: 658
warnings: mentions of past self harm.
.“...This one.” His first and second finger trace the edge of a patch, the pure white scales slightly charred at the edges.
“What happened here?” His eyes, gentle for her and a select few, turn a touch sharper at the implications of what and who could have done this.
Douceline’s mouth opens, but the words still before they leave her tongue. Her brows knit, and she swallows--she has to do this, or else all those words she promised him will be as empty as she fears them to be.
“...I--tried,” It’s a start, though the way his eyes widen down at her doesn’t help her one bit.
“to...get rid of them.” Archombadin grimaces when the meaning of her words seeps in deep, and deeper. There was a reason he tried so fervently not to think of all she had experienced in the time they all thought her dead.
“As you can see,” She breathes a laugh, bitter and cold.
“it didn’t work.” In fact, it made it worse, she wanted to say, but held back for his sake more than her own--she had made him uncomfortable enough, not only bearing witness to but feeling what had been deemed sin by scripture, and false doctrine as some of it may be, there are things that simply don’t go away.
“...Whatever it may be. You’ve done more than enough to prove you’re still--” He stops, hesitant with his next choice of words, hesitant to let her go.
“...am I?” Instead, she fills up the few seconds he leaves lingering in the air between them, her hovering hand falling back to her side, and to keep herself from suddenly shivering she uses her free hand to brace it. One would think that, given all that had happened--all that she had risked life and limb to see through to the very end, such doubts would fall away like the snow in spring.
But still, they remained—in the way Lebrassoir never turned back to look at them while being led away, in the way Cyr vowed never to set foot in the city as long as he lived, in the way her mother could only bear to look at her for a mere few seconds before hastily turning away.
If these few things so near and dear to her heart were left broken, unfixed—had it all been for nothing at all?
“You are.”
It’s his voice that breaks her out of her reverie, and she blinks once, twice, turning her eyes from the floor at their feet to look up at him, returning his gaze. He looks so much stronger than usual—in their debates, and all the others through which he had looked down on their peers in his false entitlement, Douceline realized how much he really had been mimicking a certain breed of their elders, the staunch Fundamentalists, set in their ways of superiority. Had it not been for the discovery of Lebrassoir’s plot—and the unraveling of everything that all of them had known to be true—that the look in his eyes began to change, chiseled into a strength all his own.
“You are still Douceline. You can change, as I and so many others have, and still remain who you are.” Usually he would flush at such sentimentality, especially if it was coming from his own tongue—but for now, there was a truth that needed to be said, a comfort that he had a good feeling she was desperately in need of.
“...Sometimes it is as necessary as you say. Painful, but necessary.” Not unlike the Halonic discipline in which he’d taken years to fervently know and abide by.
“But in the end, much good came out of it.” He gives her a smile--kind but knowing. Knowing that it was something she couldn’t argue her way out of.
“And if it’s the Inquisition you fear--”
“Not them. No longer,” She laughs, shaking her head.
characters: original characters, aymeric de borel, euphemie de dansereau
tags: post-heavensward, euphie is a firm believer and enabler in the aymeric staycation initiative, childhood friends to lovers is the name of the game, euphie is NOT wol
summary: the lord commander gets an overdue respite.
wordcount: 1289
“I just wish you’d walk out once. Just once.”
He sighed as she took a seat on one of the velvet-blue chairs in his home office. Here, where the air was less stuffy and the distant clatter of greaves and armor were replaced by the gentle footfalls of the few servants under his family’s employ, though he viewed them more as family than anything else.
Elegant as Borel Manor was, it still held an air of modesty that Euphemie found refreshing. Of course, nothing compared to her family’s own manor where she was born and raised, and wreaked havoc on her elders and household alike—she could only imagine Aymeric to be quite the contrary as a boy, as meek and considerate so much so that it followed him into adulthood.
Not that those were purely positive qualities, for she and a select few could tell both the physical and emotional toll it took, and how little he’d allowed himself to rest in the recent days. There was an undercurrent of uncertainty that trembled just under the stained-glass surface of peace that they had fought for, and as the Lord Speaker the burden weighed heavier to none other.
“You know I can’t.” He sent her a dry smile and a brow quirked in amusement. She got that look from him quite often, it seemed. Some things never changed.
“You can. You just don’t want to.” She leaned back against the chair, hoisting her rain-soaked hair up over her head, falling like pearls onto the dark wood floor. He was quick to pass her a towel, which she took with a grateful nod and smile.
“...I don’t want to.” His shoulders sink as he echoes her, defeated. He can only run from the truth so far, and at the very least his pride took a step downwards in the privacy of his own home.
“Everyone would understand if you took a respite.” With the towel draped over her hair, she crossed her arms, head tilted and eyes ever searching his own–regardless of how they strayed elsewhere. Her hues of silver were bright, so bright they cut like the sharp edge of a crescent moon—he’d noticed it since their early days as knights, and was silently grateful that they remained the same as ever in spite of everything that had happened in the years in-between.
Neither Aymeric nor Euphemie were willing to admit that they sought in one another a sort of muted, distant dependency, the way one expected there to be a rainfall to quell the summer heat, the way one expected the night to surely follow the day. Though the space between them had grown further and further apart as their paths diverged, both took comfort in knowing that the other was simply there—granted, no longer shoulder to shoulder or walking astride—but the simple act of knowing was enough.
Or so they thought.
“This is respite enough,” The dark-haired Elezen rolled back his shoulders and settled onto a nearby chaise, with a plum-colored throw tossed over the tufted back. The dragoon drew closer, still rinsing her hair free from the rainwater. Her visit hadn’t been entirely on a whim, having overheard some of the sentries outside the Vault that the Lord Commander would be retiring earlier than usual, and for that she wanted to ensure his well-being in person, and far from the frenzied crowd.
“Then I suppose I shouldn’t overstay my welcome.” A small smile danced across her sweet mouth as she hesitated from taking her assumed seat beside him, to which he breathed a laugh and shook his head.
“Not at all. In fact, it’s been too long since…” His words trailed off in realization of the implications as to what he planned on saying next. His tongue stilled and a heat rose to his cheeks—she had been far more versed in the topic of more intimate encounters, whether with friends or lovers and all the complexities between—and yet he didn’t want to put either of them in a situation neither were comfortable with.
Thankfully, Euphemie laughed, the silvers of her eyes aglow with mirth.
“Since I bothered you?” It was his turn to laugh, soft and merrier than it had been in a very long time.
“...Visited.” His word of choice was neutral, tame, and dull—three things that could certainly be never attributed to her. The knit of her brow and the hard press of her upper lip urged him to try again, and so he did, the smile now never leaving his lips.
“Alright then, bothered.”
“Thank the Fury! I thought I needed to try harder. And once I start to make an effort I tend to crack.” She giggled and he laughed again, unconsciously inching closer to where she sat.
“I must admit, I’ve yet to see you falter in your talents.” Euphemie feigned a gasp, and raised a hand to her chest.
“What’s this? Praise from the Lord Commander himself?”
“Rather, from an old friend.” Daring as it was, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the shape of her mouth, small, plump, and tipped with a cupid’s bow. Even while helmed he could always tell her apart from the other dragoons because of it.
“Mm, an old friend, then.” Shivers pricked up his skin as her voice fell to a whisper, and he freezes at the realization that they’re mere ilms apart, and her hand finds its way to the side of his finely-carved jaw.
“Then tell me.” Their eyes lock, azure on silver.
“Would an old friend do this?”
What he gets isn’t the crash of her lips against his—what he waited for far longer than he wants to admit—but rather the cold, damp towel wrapped around the back of his head, and her fingers kneading the heavy fabric into his dark curls, the surprised gasps that tumble from his lips turned to broken, hearty laughter, louder than they’ve ever been, as if all the pressure amounted on his chest, on his body, on his very being suddenly lifts like a cloud.
Aymeric shoves her shoulders down against the plush of the chaise, and he can hear her bubbly laughter over his own, and she finally ceases, the wrinkled towel crumpling around his neck and shoulders.
With smiles imprinted as they catch their breath, she finally takes his face in his hands, and this time he doesn’t hesitate to kiss her first.
“...An old friend would.” He adds once they parted for air, his thumb at the base of her lower lip while he admired her heaven-sent features from mere breaths away. She grinned and bent her knee against his hip, for even if he was directly on top of her there was still plenty more that could be done.
She brings her arms up and around his neck, hoisting herself closer in the process, and by natural instinct he draws his forearm down beneath her back, mouth set in a rare smirk as her nose touches his.
“And an old friend would do more.” She breathes the remnant of a laugh, fingers weaving their way into his hair, and he’s quick to move one leg, then the other, off the chaise’s edge, all while providing support for her smaller frame around his own.
“An old friend has no right to that,” He continued for her, nose against her loose, ash blonde curls sent wayward and tousled by the thunderous storm she braved for this timely rendezvous, and the two of them knew he would do the same and more if it ever came to it.
After all, tonight she had managed to do what he thought he was beyond accepting, what he believed he hadn’t earned.
characters: original characters, douceline de dansereau, jannequinard de durendaire
summary: jannequinard is tired of wishing.
tags: sappy janne, post-shb, pre-ew
wordcount: 913
“you’re beautiful, darling—don’t you know how beautiful you are?”
in a tender touch he took her chin between thumb and forefinger, tilting it ever so slightly so that she looked up at him. fury, how he’d missed that face—the loveliest doe eyes and the sweetest blossom-colored mouth, the gold in her hair shining brighter than ever before in the midst of the light copper-rose.
and that isn’t a good thing, he knows—but she is beautiful nonetheless, and even more beautiful because of it.
“that hardly matters—“ the way she smiles awkwardly and tries to steer her gaze elsewhere tells him her mind is somewhere beyond the realm of romanticism (sincere romanticism, mind you) and mired again in a pit of her ever present, ever-growing worries.
and this was, in fact, a problem—by his standard, of course. others were quick to lose interest in whatever topic of conversation he’d attempted, but she was not one of them. dou was attentive to a fault, and he knew for a fact how she lost herself so easily in the things she truly burned for. and he—whether by lackadaisical words or skilled hands—was one of those things.
yet things were beginning to cloud her mind more often as of late. of course she confided in him, but surely there must be more or else she surely would have been less fixated on those and more fixated on him. a labor of love, truly…but he could never find himself growing frustrated with her. no, if anything, her worries were compounded onto his own failures—and he had seen them reflected, time and time again, in the tremor of her lips, in the weary dullness of her eyes.
“…let it matter.” with the pad of his thumb he drew a line from her chin to the tip of her heart-shaped face—and she exhaled, soft but deep, relishing in his touch so near.
“i…am aware it may hold less importance than…er, the other things—“ her lips quirked in a smile as he failed to recall said things—heroic things, he assumed? saving the day? ah, well to his advantage, she probably didn’t want to hear them repeated as much as they already were.
“...at the behest of a man as selfish as i. please.” what he wanted more as a neutral utter came out as more of the helpless, desperate lilt—and he prays she doesn’t see him as anything less.
(she doesn’t. she never does.)
“alright.” her answer surprises him, though it wouldn’t be the first—and from above where her head rested against a fluffed pillow she grins wide, a smile she reserves for him and daresay no one else—for who else made her feel as comfortable with showing the petit fangs of her so-called transformation?
“if only for you, i will.” well—he’s flattered, deeply so—and though it isn’t the answer he wanted, expected to hear, it will have to do. it was simply that douceline knew him beyond the neverending monologues and pathetic charms he had at display, and for all the compliments he received from many a former fling this one had a gravity he found intimidating to accept.
but douceline, darling douceline—for her, he would try, and try again.
“you will think of me, then?” he smiles warmer, wider, when she sinks down further from the pillow and by natural instinct he follows suit, hovering a bit above her with his forearms on the mattress and her head in-between.
“when you wake in the morning and look in the mirror. or after you’ve bathed, and dressing…”
“i think of you then and more.” she giggles when he brings his lips to the pearls of her throat scales, white and shimmering by the morning light. they’d gone to bed so hastily the night prior, the curtains were left undrawn and the servants were surely not to enter his chambers in the wee hours of the morning—but all was well, for his haste and their courtesy brought him such a sight to behold.
“indulge me, then.” he mumbles from a smirk, and with a soft exhale and the subtle length of her finger-claw trailing down his chest, she does.
“well…i think of you whenever i look at the sky. whenever i see a star. whenever i feel alone–and don’t want to be, of course,” of course, for she was a private creature out of habit, and preferred to keep her distance from the company of too many people.
“whenever i go to bed without you at my side, i pretend you’re there.” his kisses cease when he senses her voice grow smaller, smaller—like she’s become afraid again, all of a sudden, and he’s left waiting with his cheek at the bottom-border of her ribcage, nose against the lower curve of her breast.
“...there are nights i can’t sleep, but pretending you’re with me still helps.” there’s a quiet insistence in the small of her voice, as if she’s trying to prove something to him. when it dawns on him what that something is, his heart swells and his eyes burn, all at once—because it’s one of the many ways she’s professing her love for him.
“...should i indulge you further?” she whispers, and even without looking he can feel the smile in her voice. at this his rears over her once again, before bringing his lips to hers in a sugary, velvet-smooth kiss that even he finds it difficult to part.
“it’s high time i did the indulging, don’t you think?”
summary: part of her wants to believe she’s not the reason why they’re coming along in the first place. the other part of her wishes for nothing more.
wordcount: 2920
And so it’s come to this.
Douceline, the Warrior of Light, the Savior of Ishgard, the Pillars’ own prodigal daughter—was to be accompanied by not only one, but two scholars of Ishgard: one, a son of the High Houses and current prefect of Saint Endalim’s Scholasticate, Archombadin de Dzemael—and the other, another (thankfully) lesser heir, belonging to House Durendaire, Jannequinard of the Athenaeum Astrologicum.
Neither took no for an answer in spite of her attempts at rebuffing them, and so she eventually conceded, while her fellow scions looked on with varying levels of amusement and exasperation (the latter notably belonging to a certain snow-haired dragoon, arms crossed and back pressed to a pillar while trying to keep the two lalafells at bay with their pestering questions as to what he knew of these two men).
Of course neither man intended to be a hindrance to their cause. Both were fervent in what they could bring to the table. Jannequinard’s was perhaps the most obvious, given his years spent studying (regardless of how productively he’d spent them) in Old Sharlayan, he would be a boon to their group in the know-hows and social etiquette of their destination.
Archombadin sought to have a more diplomatic role, as one of the best minds the Scholasticate had to offer, and while his role was more subtle in contributing to their efforts, he—and a few vocal individuals in the House of Lords—wished for diplomatic relations between the two nations. Archombadin knew it would be a daunting task, for the Sharlayans chose to be removed from the world stage by policy, if their motto wasn’t enough proof of their stance. But clearly, it was the outsiders that needed to act first in their case—at the very least, some sort of trade or recognition could be had, and no matter how miniscule of a success they would achieve, he was adamant on being there to see it happen.
(Such a speech was one he’d given on three different occasions: one, to himself in his bedroom—two, to his elders at the dinner table—and three, to Douceline and the scions, under the Fortemps gazebo).
And how did she feel about all of this? Douceline divided her time between the Rising Stones and her home city, assisting in whatever ways she could (which were many, and for that her spare time suffered) while fulfilling whatever obligations she had promised on the way back and forth. Who would’ve known that in the approximate week she’d spent away at the Source could leave so much unattended business, so many requests-bordering-on-demands, all awaiting her attention.
The people that knew her, loved her best, saw her less and less, and whatever chances she had to spend time with them were never enough.
So she supposed that having them with her could be a blessing in disguise. Douceline had revealed to them both the extent of the light’s damage on her body: the way her formerly pure-white scales were now veined in gold, and how that gold crept all the way through to the under-layer of her rose-gold hair. Bared under direct sunlight, Douceline shimmered and she hated it. As if the dragon blood that had been forced upon her years ago, bringing with it the scales and sharp canines had been a foretaste compared to what agony the light’s corruption had been to her.
And of course they still took her in with open arms (or in Archombadin’s case, a tight squeeze of his gloved hand around her own) and asked of her safety, her well being. For even though she had been home at the moment, both men were smart enough to know not to depend merely on what they saw. After all, she had only been gone for a relatively short amount of time, only to return physically and mentally changed.
And she answered them, elaborated for them, about the things she couldn’t say abroad, alone, or even amongst her other companions. About how she didn’t know whether or not she was doing the right thing. About whether or not she could do anything to help.
About how she was actually very, very afraid.
(Part of her wants to believe she’s not the reason why they’re coming along in the first place. The other part of her wishes for nothing more.)
Douceline raised her head, blinking as the doors of the Scholasticate library were thrown open.
Jannequinard, with his feet at a hurried pace under his alb, bore a widespread grin as he approached the two at the long table.
“I say, if we’re to work amongst one another, we ought to all meet together in one place.” Dou offered him a soft smile over an open book, while her pale-haired companion grumbled something that most certainly wasn’t on the page he was facing.
“Sorry, Janne—I was just helping Chomby with something.”
“As is your wont, dearest!” The so-called astrologian’s praise caused Archombadin to clench his jaw, irritation spiking another notch higher. He could never comprehend what she saw in him. Insufferable, incompetent and incessantly talkative—at the most, he could only respect the fact that she cared for him. And unfortunately, her feelings were requited in full.
It takes all the restraint he has not to slam the book shut.
“If you need her for something—”
“As a matter of fact, I’ll be needing you both.” The Durendaire’s lithe fingers are on the edge of her seat from behind, aiding her to rise from the chair.
The prefect quirked an eyebrow in suspicion.
“Both.” He echoed, feeling the little strength in him seep away as he faced the man in full, grim scowl meeting a widening grin, with Douceline standing befuddled in the middle.
“Both. No time like the present for tea and collaboration.”
“I said I’d teach you both a thing or two,” Janne lowered his teacup, meeting the matching plate with a delicate clink.
“because you are both ever so dear to me—and with your well-being comes the well-being of our fellow countrymen!” He took a deep sigh, elated in the apparent righteousness of this odd arrangement all three of them found themselves in. Archombadin tried to focus on his reflection in the tea while Douceline nibbled on a checkerboard cookie, while the bespectacled astrologian continued his monologue:
“And to have you both at my side on my glorious return to the city, is a privilege I wouldn’t dare deny!”
“I’m glad you’ll be there too, Janne.” Dou parted from the lip of her cup with a tender smile, the tenderness evident all the way up to her eyes.
“I was talking to Alisaie, actually. About what it’s like…”
“Ask away, dearest! As your escort it’s only my bounden duty to be of service in whatever way I can.” And they carried on, while the fair-haired Dzemael attempted to fill his mind with other things. A handwritten list he was in the middle of finishing for Theomocent and the other prefects to use as a guide in his absence. A mental note to remember what items to forward to his servant to have brought as part of his necessities for their upcoming trip. And of course, whatever there was left to tell Lebrassoir next he visited, even if the door was closed and his former friend’s still turned the opposite direction...
“...but that is mere speculation. Archombadin, my friend, what say you?”
The man in question blinked back into reality at the mention of his name.
“We were talking about whether or not claw jewelry could be weaponized.” Douceline, the savior, elaborates before Jannequinard can guess that he wasn’t paying attention.
“...I suppose.” His brow knit in quiet contemplation, thumb and forefinger once again around the teacup handle.
“Though it would depend how much of a claw it would resemble...there is a difference between aesthetic and functionality.” Being the son of a heritage credited with the foremost skill and resources in developing their city’s architecture, he should know.
“Oh, there’s no need to consider whether or not they're pleasing to the eye!” Jannequinard blinked, as if perplexed at his companion’s assumption.
“They wind the fingers intricately. Like lacework. But with metals--gold and silver, I should imagine. Bronze is much too heavy for something on the fingers, no?”
“But Janne, you can use it as a weapon if they’re sharp enough, right?” Knowing all too well that her lover was prone to wandering off topic, Dou leaned in closer to bring him back to the matter at hand.
“Like the Ixali! Or the Amalj’aa. Or the dragons, even!”
“Yes, of course! And we all know what damage they--” A screech of wrought iron against stone pavement, and Archombadin’s gaze shifts from the tea to the table in an instant. His eyes widened when he saw Douceline slumped from her chair, hand shielding her face and knees failing, sinking into a circle of rose-red fabric on the cold stone beneath her. Jannequinard stooped to her level first, hand on her back in both a protective and comforting hold, the merriment of his voice falling to a hushed, gentler tone.
Bending to his knee, Archombadin cursed between clenched teeth--she’d complained of these sudden headaches happening more often, and absurdly requested for him not to worry. He could only guess how worse they had become since her return from that realm, where she claimed that a week in Eorzea felt like months in the place she’d been to.
“H-here, darling--don’t worry, we’ll take care of you--” Jannequinard hoisted her up, one arm against her back and the other beneath her legs, where her skirts bunched thick and crumpled as he rose to his feet, sending Archombadin a look of what the silver-eyed seminarian could only perceive as badly-masked fear. In any other situation, he would’ve taken it for a sign of weakness--something he could dwell on with smug delight once alone. But now the Dzemael son wouldn’t dare, for he felt that same fear mirrored in the way he shuddered, lips parted in quivering breaths as he followed him back to the Belfry.
He sent a linkpearl message home explaining that he would be delayed.
Now, he and Jannequinard remained in the sitting alcove, not far from the guest room where a house chirurgeon examined the sleeping Douceline. Archombadin couldn’t find it in him to simply sit, though he stood perfectly still compared to the maddening pace at which the other man strode to, back and forth as far as the walls would allow him.
“Fine, fine, she’ll be perfectly fine.” He uttered under a shaky breath, earning him a scowl from his sharp-eyed guest, who remained cross-armed and back to the wall adjacent to the window.
“We have the finest chirurgeons under our employ!” As Janne ran a hand through his slicked red hair, Archombadin knew he could have been arguing with no one but himself. Not that he expected anything else of how Janne would react under pressure.
“...But, who am I to talk?” Jannequinard’s silver hues suddenly weighed with something he hadn’t seen in them before. Remorse? Regret? The Archombadin of the past would be reeling in ill-gained joy at seeing the black sheep of the Durendaires so beaten, so dejected. But now he was genuinely concerned for whatever it could be that ailed him. Not that he was no longer irritated with the man--but seeing Douceline collapse and being able to do nothing but wait behind a closed door for the chirurgeons to do their work left him a tad unsettled, for the lack of a better word.
“...All I can offer is what I’ve seen and done. Nothing by the lectures, or the texts I was given. Astrology is an art that can heal, and yet all I could do was hurry her inside and have someone else do it for me.” Jannequinard’s head felt heavier by burdens of his past failures coming back to haunt him once again, the words of his elders and numerous detractors rearing their ugly heads and bringing back a sting to a wound he long believed was on the mend.
“What if--no, no I can’t--” He stops himself, stumbling into a cold and bitter laughter, his hand finding its way to his forehead.
“...I can’t allow myself to--” Archombadin can do nothing but listen, blinking in confusion and interest at what could be going through the astrologian’s mind at this very moment.
“It’s...the next time. We won’t be here. You know,” Jannequinard licked his lips and swallowed hard, facing the carpet of the floor at their feet.
“...we’ll be in Sharlayan soon. We’ll have our friends, yes--but we’ll have our fair share of enemies, too. Heavens, maybe more of a share than we can chew--not again, no, I can’t-”
“It’s perfectly understandable to have doubts.” Archombadin tries his best to reassure the man, who looked on edge of a breakdown. And he wasn’t looking forward to carrying him, especially when the man was in his own house.
“We’ll be going somewhere unfamiliar. Maybe to you it is, but we have reason to believe that much has changed since then. Or have you not paid heed to what the scions were discussing the other day?” He couldn’t help himself from falling back onto sarcasm once again, though this time it seemed to work a small bit, as Jannequinard nodded--though it seemed more to reassure himself back into a relatively healthier mindset than it was an answer to Archombadin’s question.
“Yes...yes, you’re right.” A trembling sigh, and though no smile appeared, the light in his eyes was a tad less dimmed than before when he turned to look at his companion.
“I just--I must become stronger. Though I’ve wasted years, it was thanks to the efforts of Douceline and Leveva, along with others that I’ve begun to truly learn and practice to my benefit--and more importantly, to that of others.”
(With every word he seems to encourage himself, and perhaps that non stop tongue of his can be good for something, Archombadin thinks.)
“The stakes we faced were high. But because we overcame them, we are braver--stronger, because of it. And we’ll need to do even more of those things--and others--in order to face what awaits us in Sharlayan.”
“I plan to do the same. Am in the middle of it, actually.” Could they really have found a rare plane of common ground? Wonders never cease.
“You use...the tomes, yes?” Janne blinked.
“Yes--amongst other things. But primarily the tomes. Grimoires…”
“I heard something about summoning soulkin. Is that the sort you do?” Archombadin cleared his throat, shoulders relaxing. At least they were on a less emotionally taxing topic...and one he could better contribute to.
And so he did well to explain the main points, starting broad and painfully narrowing to the finer details, enough for the other man to remain on track without going off on a tangent. Both had lost track of time when the door finally opened, and the chirurgeon reassured them of her state. To their relief, Douceline would only need rest and sleep, water and food.
And of course, someone to make sure she was recovering just fine, though Jannequinard was generous to allow him to stay for the night.
Late into the night, she was yet to awaken.
Changed into sleep clothes, both men lay as borders to her sides: Archombadin on her left and closer to the wall, Jannequinard on the right facing the door. The three flames on the candlelabra flickered feebly as the still-conscious houseguest flipped idly through a borrowed book he’d found on the shelf, though the contents of the text itself dulled with Douceline’s sleeping face ever in his peripheral vision. Archombadin was ever wary of any subtle changes in her condition, and refused to act as the second pair of eyes while Janne had one arm lazily draped atop her waist, eyes half-lidded not from fatigue, but of an odd comfort. Archombadin knew that he must have been awaiting her all this time, as well--before, her visits to Ishgard had been few and far-between, and now they all had the extraordinary chance to finally come along with her.
Though not from the best of circumstances, this was time he valued. All three of them, having found mutual agreement and definition of what exactly was between them, could find a source of comfort in one another. Before all this happened, Archombadin could have never imagined himself in such an arrangement, but he was beginning to see what good could come of it, and what good he could do beyond the roles he’d defined for himself.
When her mouth twitched at the corner, both men’s hearts practically stopped.
One, two, five and ten seconds later, her eyes failed to open; but her mouth opened in a wide, wide ‘o’, breathing a content yawn as she tucked her head back into the pillow, fingers loosely bent against the fabric, the rise and fall of her chest at a steady rate.
Janne gave him a knowing, quiet smile as he shifted closer up against her, but much to the pale-haired heir’s surprise he nudged her closer to where he lay.
“‘Tis not every day.”
Short and sweet, for both knew the implication far too well than they’d like to.
With the candles snuffed out, Archombadin allowed his fingers to brush ever so slightly against her own, for sleeping mere ilms away from her face was already more than he could ask for.
characters: prince haldrath, alaimbert of the spiked butt, original characters, euphemie de dansereau
tags: falcon’s nest, post-hw, taking my not-so-dead boyfriend to patrol, ser spiked butt makes a cameo
summary: the highlands are a very different place since last he came.
wordcount: 480.
He hardly deserves a statue.
Especially not one still standing, still holding a spear with the blade up and piercing the sunlight of the Coerthan sky.
He inhales sharply, forcing himself to look elsewhere, anywhere—and the air is so cold and sharp that he cannot fathom how this can be every day of the year. He practically awoke to a whole new world, a Coerthas blanketed in white, with not a remnant of its verdant hills left behind..
She had been adamant on showing him around. And in spite of their circumstances, she insisted there was no better time: the borders were finally opening and the tight grip that the Inquisition held over the masses was loosening. Not that she didn’t keep herself in check—but he supposed that hopeless optimism could have its benefits, especially for how hesitant he had initially been.
Fortunate he was to have her by his side, always just a hand’s breadth away. This was the first time he’d seen her in her Drachen Mail, her long ash blonde hair wound in a loose braid, helm in hand, clad in silver from greaves to gauntlets. He accompanied her to Falcon’s Nest, in the Western Highlands, as she was due to meet a fellow dragoon concerning their sweep of the border for any trace of Garleans—the name is still new to him, and according to her, it was one he would need to get used to.
The other dragoon flashes him a grin—wide and bright, even in the baleful wind, and spreads his arms in welcome.
“A new recruit! You’ve come in momentous ti—”
“Not exactly new.” Euphemie is quick to interject, and the knight named Alaimbert blinks, looking at him, and back to her once more.
“Oh—mine apologies! I just haven’t seen you at the Congregation before,” His grin returns in full.
Hal—Tristan returns it, as best as he can.
“It’s...been a while.”
“I can imagine! To think we’ve lost—” And the man gasps, eyes widening in Euphemie’s direction, as if requesting permission for something. Instead, she does something different.
“Yes, well—we’ve already briefed him on that.”
“—Good, jolly good!” Alaimbert laughs, running a gauntleted hand through his spiked hair, seeming relieved she’d been there to confirm it—classified information, as it was.
Unhelmed out of courtesy, Tristan can’t hide how his teeth clatter at the hissing gale, cutting like knives against his exposed skin. The distant howling in the distance hovers closer, and closer, and the merchants, knights, and civilians alike began to seek shelter.
“...It seems our visit might be prolonged,” Euphemie sent him an apologetic smile, tilting her head towards the inn. Alaimbert nods, squinting in the snowdust, saying something muffled by another howl of wind, before turning to follow suit with the rest.
He doesn’t see her take Tristan’s hand into her own, bendable steel over steel, as they enter the inn.
characters: original characters, douceline de dansereau, archombadin de dzemael
tags: scholasticate, post-hw, first times, leading up to it but doesn’t go into it (yet)
summary: this is what comes from being used to getting things done right the first time.
wordcount: 749
“i–i’m sorry–”
moon-colored eyes were wide with growing terror as they both caught their breaths, milliseconds after parting from a kiss—long, desperate, and fury help him, wet to the touch—
but she shakes her head, despite the blossoming color of her cheeks, despite the deep heave of her chest. something hard sticks in his throat the longer he looks at her there, the rise and fall and the outline of her chest more prominent in the light fabric of her nightgown. something else compels him to uncover more—scandalously, salaciously so.
“...don’t be. i—we want this, right?” she asks for a reaffirmation, words somehow careful yet sturdy at the same time. middle, index and fourth finger trail the exposure of his neck, down the collarbones and halting at the peek of exposed skin where the ruffles of his nightshirt bordered, and he’s certain she can feel the tremble of his chest in inhales, exhales—but their eyes, even after they shut at the start of their kiss (which both hoped would be the first of many for the night, though neither said it aloud) never once strayed from the other pair.
“yes,” finding his grasp around her wrist, his response falls to more of a sigh than something spoken, further proof of how utterly transfixed he was to be right here, right now, completely unpresentable and yet in the company of someone whose attention he had grown to cherish perhaps more than anyone else’s.
“i want this. i want you, dou.” he pressed his lips, not out of shame or what was necessarily a deep and thorough concentration, but out of fervor—and by some fortune, she understood it. somehow she always does; for if she hadn’t, he believed they wouldn’t’ve gotten this far.
she brings her head in closer, and the way her gaze raises in a wordless question, to ask for unneeded permission, only drives him to start the kiss sooner than he had before.
he goes from the press of his fingers to the spread of his palms up and down the the loose fabric of her nightgown, until he grasped the edges and threw them upwards, onto her thighs, the feel of cool fabric and patches of white scales on smooth skin goading him to feel her on further, until he was met with the fever pitch wanting for nothing more than leaving no surface of her untouched, leaving no page of her mind unread, unraveled.
the kiss they hold ventures off the path of however chaste they had initiated it to be, tumbling down a slope that seemed to grow steeper by the second—what had started as kisses that felt akin to savoring a small, sweet berry became open-mouthed, hot and hasty and hungry for more of an ever-growing feast. archombadin couldn’t even recall a time he was this desperate to taste more of something—for not even the most savory gratin nor the most delectable tart had left him feeling this wanting for more—not seconds, thirds or fourths—but the thought of putting a hard limit as to how much he could have was simply out of the question. and knowing that she was more than happy to give (and take) made his heart soar.
even as he leans in towards her, with the feel of her forearm-scales cool like smoothed jewels against the length of his neck, while his hands continue to venture further until the edge of her nightgown curled in clumsy folds above her navel, they’re still locked in a kiss, the column of her neck raised all the way back to keep up with it until she’s forced to breathe once again. douceline did her best not to stray far from where his lips hovered above her, his half-lidded gaze mirroring hers, filled with a yearning that neither imagined could possibly grow—and yet, it still did, with the heat of breath and skin and scale to the touch—
“i trust you, chomby.” unexpectedly, a chuckle cracks the irregular cadence of his breathing, and tilted his head ever so slightly to bring a kiss to a patch of scales that crept into the crevice of her inner elbow, for her hands were still tangled in his hair.
“and i trust you—to tell me,” his gaze turns serious, for a moment, as if to exemplify the sincerity of his request.
“if i need to stop.”
douceline can barely nod in her state, but thankfully a quivering bob of her chin is all he needs to know.
characters: original characters, douceline de dansereau, archombadin de dzemael
tags: fluffity fluff fluff fluff, takes place after hw main story, chomby goes to vylbrand, not limsa but mist, it’s a start
summary: a conversation in her old apartment.
wordcount: 801
“...confiscated.”
douceline says, as a matter of factly, while he stared at her in horror.
“you just let them? take all your things?”
“it was that or risk certain death.”
“you wouldn’t let them kill you,” tongue hit his teeth as he spoke, narrowing his brow in an attempt to focus on what her reasons could have been.
“of course, chomby. i didn’t mean me.” her words sank in and he flinched—she meant the others—slain as collateral damage. he wishes he looked stronger in front of her when such things were mentioned, for said things were truly far more common in her everyday happenings than his own.
“...i honestly didn’t think you’d react like this.” she turned away from the bookshelf to face him.
“i thought you’d say something about how these things are easily replaceable–”
“no I–was thinking about the part before that.” he shakes his head with a sigh, silently grateful for the fan breathing cool air overhead. less than ten summers since the eternal winter struck coerthas and he still found himself struggling to acclimate to the warmer weather in vylbrand. she’d invited him for a brief weekend with the intention of gathering her belongings that the grand companies had taken to investigate for where she could have run off to. while archombadin idly considered the idea of her being accused by the inquisition even before she went missing, he could have never imagined the three city states of eorzea coming after her head.
he supposed it was part of the great irony there was in her being cornered in the very place she’d fled from the beginning.
“...what part?” douceline beckoned for him to sit on a chair beside her own. tufted and a rich red, he guessed she had made quite a name for herself to acquire such a comfort, though still a far cry from the quality held as the standard in the pillars.
“the part about you almost dying.”
“...oh!” her ears perked and she nodded, perhaps a bit too casually than he would’ve wanted.
“well. that’s in the past.” he frowns, as her words do nothing to quell the ugly taste in his mouth, that falls as a weight at the pit of his stomach.
“chomby, are you worried about me?”
“...you were the one who wanted me to practice consideration.” frantically he gathers his points to present his argument. from his discomfort he found the familiar in this method, especially with someone like douceline with whom he had conversed in such a way in their years at the seminary before her untimely disappearance.
“and so it would be remiss of me not to show concern for someone who’s gone through as much as yourself.” douceline nodded, hands folded neatly atop her lap.
“...i see. but the point still stands.” he stiffens at the smile that peeks from the corners of her sweet, light mouth.
“you’re worried about me, aren’t you?”
cornered.
“i—appreciate it, you know…” what could have been a victorious smirk–one that doesn’t follow through to the tone of her voice, ever soft and even, tender and gentle–instead comes as something softer, shy. while douceline was never a difficult code to decipher, she still confused him with something else entirely: sincerity. though he did single her out for her talent in debate, he hadn’t thought of her as an exception in anything else; not in halonic scripture, choral rehearsals, or healing prowess. not only that, but she was no stranger to his harsh ways, as was the majority of the student body.
and yet he never could pinpoint what it was she truly wanted from him.
but the very least he can give her is the truth.
“...i could never pretend to fully understand what it is you went through,” absent-mindedly his gloved hand lurched forward, and without the slightest hesitation she was quick to take it in her own, along with one step forward.
“but i intend to do my utmost as a support—” fury, not too long ago he would’ve thought this sort of work beneath himself.
“--and as a listening ear, if you would ever need it.” palms against palms and fingers intertwined, she drew even closer so that his chest and hers were but a hair’s breadth from touching. a closeness that would have flustered him, regardless of how fitting it was for the moment, felt as natural as breathing, as speaking, as answering to a quiet, poignant question.
“...i’m telling you this only in confidence.” douceline leaned in to rest her cheek on the fur-lined lapel of his coat, arguably ill-fitting given the fairer weather in vylbrand but he had been insistent to the end, and now lived not to regret his decision.
