Of course I had to go with a rock lecture. But I wanted to be clear that Rowan generally can follow what Lysander's talking about (and Lysander very much acknowledges and appreciates that!). And don't mind me kinda bs-ing fantasy geology again.
...
Accompanying Lysander, Rowan has begun to realize, is not the usual escort job.
Since striking out as an adventurer, Rowan has encountered no shortage of hapless scholars, each bringing unique challenges to the seemingly simple task of conveying them from one point to another across Eorzea’s wilds. He has been treated to numerous lectures and dragged on uncountable ill-advised detours, and he is no longer surprised when he finds himself lugging ponzes of specialized equipment across malms of uneven terrain when his charge finds themselves unable to carry on another step.
Lysander is, in many ways, a considerably more tolerable traveling companion. His insistence that he doesn’t actually need an escort is not entirely without merit, as he carries his own pack easily and without complaint, and he generally seems able to route himself instinctively away from the dens of wild beasts and bandit camps. But sometimes…
…he will simply stop.
The first time it happened, Rowan walked nearly a quarter of a malm before he realized that he was entirely alone in the scrubby Thanalan wilderness. Lysander’s steps are quiet, and as both of them are comfortable in silence, they generally can pass long portions of their journeys without speaking…which means that if Rowan is walking ahead, and Lysander pauses at some outcrop of rock that looks the same to Rowan as all the rest, it can be a disturbing length of time before Rowan notices.
Retracing his steps at a jog, he expresses this lament as Lysander comes into view, sitting cross-legged on the ground with a compass resting on a boulder beside him. At least his carbuncle is perched nearby, nose twitching as it stands guard. “Once more,” Rowan sighs, “can you please say something when you want to stop?”
“Hm?” Lysander looks up as though surprised by his presence—or perhaps by his return, because perhaps he never noticed Rowan walking off without him. “I thought I did…anyway, this is important. Perhaps more important than the Burning Wall.”
“Oh?” Rowan now knows a great deal about the localized metamorphism of the native rock at the site where the shard of Dalamud crashed into the cliffside, thanks to the lecture he received when he and Lysander first reunited there, after he nearly watched his old friend get ripped to pieces by Allagan monstrosities.
“Yes. As much as the textures of the rocks directly adjacent to crystallization events must be studied, it is occurring to me that the effects of such impacts must be considerably more far-reaching. There were quakes across Eorzea, after all, when the moon fell, and therefore…slippages along faults that might have remained long-dormant, since the processes that first caused them have settled. And such displacements, if measured, could indicate the proximity of such events, even after the direct evidence has faded…”
Rowan tilts his head. “Would that not simply be a consequence of the impact, though? Not the crystallization, per se.”
“Ye-es…” Lysander muses. “Good point. It is likely a compound process, and as abrupt crystalline eruptions of this source are often a consequence of major impacts—Dalamud, or the Agrius, for example—perhaps there is no way to tease them apart.” He crosses his arms and gazes with a frown at what still looks, to Rowan’s eye, like a featureless block of sandstone.
“I suppose the question will be…” Lysander begins slowly, “…if fault zones like this, reactivated due to the impact, possess any distinct characteristics closer to the eruption of aether…”
He lifts his gaze to look back in the direction from which they have just come, and Rowan feels his heart sink.
“Lysander…”
Lysander glances up petulantly. “I know exactly where there is a suitable fault to examine—”
“And it is not going anywhere.”
Lysander purses his lips. “Well. Not without another moon falling to earth, I suppose.”
An eventuality Rowan would rather not speak into existence, but Lysander looks rather tempted by the thought, or at least by the prospect of fresh data. But at length, he sighs, plucking up his compass and notebook, and rising to his feet.
“No, you are right. It can wait until after a copy of these notes has been sent safely back to Sharlayan. Thank you for humoring me.”
“Work out your theory as we walk?” Rowan suggests, as they fall into step again. “At least that way, I’ll know if you vanish on me again.”
“Well,” Lysander replies, with a sudden smile, “if you insist.”
Prompt was... "I don't think that will work" or something to that effect. A little unhealthy coping after Ifrit that doesn't go anywhere. No additional lore, though, it's...not that complicated.
*not making any broad statements on Thancred's preferences but I think in this case, he had a certain expectation lol
---
It is not how he usually prefers to do this, alcohol tangling his senses, distraction compounded upon distraction, but these seem extenuating circumstances. He can imagine the burn of the drink they shared still lingering on Thancred's tongue as their mouths collide—a biting liquor as fiery as the brands of Ifrit that had left Lysander unscathed in the Bowl of Embers, insult to nonexistent injury. They are sharing blame more than pleasure, diversion only a premise, and as they shed their clothes, Lysander doubts Thancred has discarded the memory of those doomed soldiers any more than he has, the lot of them haunting this dingy inn room like a ghastly squadron of voyeurs.
And Lysander is willing, in this moment, to accept the perversion of indulgence, to an extent. But Thancred shifts in his lap, and something in the way he moves, in the needy gasp that escapes his lips, cuts abruptly through the slurry of drink and arousal and guilt sloshing in Lysander’s head, and he catches the Scion by the shoulder before they can fall into another blurry kiss.
“Thancred,” Lysander manages unsteadily, taking in the sight of the man straddling him and becoming increasingly certain in his suspicion, “I don't think this will work.”
I didn't forget!! This has been mostly done for a while I just...didn't have time to finish it in time and once there was no tiny amount of pressure, I had to wait til my brain worked back around to it.
Here's a little about non-WoL Lysander finishing his thesis. It gets a little sappy.
.....
It had been some moons since Rowan had heard from Lysander, though the circumstances were such that he wasn’t worried. After their jaunt across Tural had concluded amidst somewhat more crisis than Lysander was comfortable to find in his proximity, the geologist had returned to peaceful Sharlayan, to dedicate his focus to his thesis. The completion of his thesis, he claimed, and he would cloister himself in Sharlayan with his surplus of relevant data until a proper book was made of the work, and a proper Archon was made of himself, because, in his words, “one can no longer be certain when such processes will be suspended without warning as a consequence of secret machinations concealed from the populace at large.”
Rowan was still in Tuliyollal when Lysander’s voice crackled across his linkpearl, inviting him back to the Scholar’s isle. It was sooner than he expected, though perhaps he should not have underestimated his friend; Lysander had been gathering data for years, and the process of the thesis itself, he had assured Rowan, would largely be one of compilation and organization. But he returns to Sharlayan without delay—only to find himself alone at the Last Stand at the decided hour, sipping at an herbal tea and watching the sun drift towards the sea, lengthening Thaliak’s shadow.
At last, he spots Lysander striding across the harbor plaza, a harried expression apparent on his features as he approaches.
“Apologies,” he sighs as he stops beside the table, brushing a strand of hair out of his face with a huff. “The printer was being…well, not unreasonable, I suppose, but I told them I would need one copy in advance, and—” He draws a deep breath, exhales, and continues a little less frantically. “…at any rate, I have it. Here you are. This one is yours.”
He places a brown paper wrapped parcel on the table—distinctly book-shaped—and Rowan picks it up with no small amount of awe. After years of hearing Lysander’s lectures, accompanying him on field ventures, and occasionally collecting samples himself to send back to his friend, it is almost disconcerting to think that this particular project might be finished…though of course, Lysander will only move on to the next research question.
“But how are things across the salt?” Lysander says as he sits and readily pours himself a glass from the bottle of wine waiting on the table. “I hope—oh, you need not read it now—” he adds, as Rowan starts unwrapping the twine from the parcel.
But there is an odd urgency in his voice that makes Rowan more inclined to simply arch an eyebrow as he frees the book from its wrappings and flips to the title page, which reads, Metamorphic Deformation Fabrics in Crystal-Adjacent Bedrock.
And then to the following page, which reads:
For Rowan, without whom there would be no star to study and no geologist to study it. Your patience, interest, and well-timed lance have made all the difference, and I could not ask for a better field assistant, protector, or friend.
The tears do not even come gradually—Rowan just finds his eyes suddenly wet, one tear dropping to make a little lake on the stiff new parchment.
There is a sigh from across the table. “This is why—” Lysander starts to say, then breaks off with a damp-sounding huff. “Now I am going to be a mess, too. I told you already that this would not exist without you, so—”
“But still,” Rowan manages. “You dedicated it to me?”
“Who else?” Lysander replies, with no small amount of exasperation. “You—well. It is all right there, is it not? I have nothing else to add. Except perhaps ‘thank you.’”
His tone has acquired a familiar stiffness that arises when he finds himself compelled to put his sentiments into words, and Rowan decides to spare him the uncharacteristic awkwardness that seems to find him in such moments, and places the book down so he can stand up and hug him.
With Lysander still seated (and barely managing to avoid spilling his wine) he is in the somewhat uncommon position of being able to rest his head on Rowan’s chest, which he does with a resigned little sigh.
“Dramatic scene at the Last Stand,” he intones. “Warrior of Light seen embracing an unknown Elezen—”
“Quiet, you,” Rowan replies, squeezing him tighter. “If you did not want me to make a scene, you should have just mailed the thing.”
Lysander grumbles something, but submits to the embrace, lifting on hand to return it as much as he is able from his position.
“I would like to state that I do not expect you to read the entire thing,” he says after a moment. “The introduction and conclusions, perhaps, but the rest is largely just procedures and theories and diagrams—hardly beachside fare.”
“Of course I’m reading it,” Rowan says, releasing him with a frown and casting a protective glance back at the book, as though daring Lysander to take it back from him.
Lysander shrugs as if he expected this response. “Well, I have warned you.” His gaze rests on the tome for a moment, and then he abruptly slumps, dropping his head into his hands. “Oh, gods. I hope it’s enough.”
Even in the thick of the Final Days, Rowan has never known him to sound so despondent.
“Come, by now you should realize that the judgement of Sharlayans is hardly the measure of one’s worth? And if they do reject it…”
There must be something in his tone, because Lysander lifts his head with a somewhat alarmed expression.
“I feel I should emphasize that despite what I said about your lance, I would strongly request that you refrain from employing it in this case.”
“I’m joking. Mostly,” Rowan assures him as he takes his seat again. “So, where will you put your mark?”
Lysander cringes. “I feel there must be some superstition about making such decisions before anything is final.”
“Superstitions? In Sharlayan?” Rowan gasps with mock horror.
“Well, fair enough. With Thaliak as my witness, I will not allow such illogical practices to influence my behavior.” He pauses. “Just my neck, I think. I still do not understand what possessed Urianger to apply it to his face."
“That sounds like the right choice. As momentous as this achievement is…I feel like it is not very “you” to proclaim your status as an Archon of Sharlayan quite so blatantly.”
“If only because I wish for my father to be able to behold me without burning jealousy, yes,” Lysander laughs. “They are coming next week. After everything is…settled, one way or another.”
“Unexpectedly patient of them,” Rowan observes.
“Yes…my father, I believe, understands the state I am in.” He pauses. “…I have not even told Aymeric or Hien that the date is decided.”
Rowan blinks. “Wait, so…”
“You, my parents, and my advisor—and my chosen adjudicators, I suppose—are the only people who know.” He grimaces a little, as if expecting protest. “Please do not try to change my mind. It will be enough to bear if I must disappoint the four of you.”
Rowan tilts his head. “You will not disappoint us. No matter what happens.”
For a long moment, Lysander is silent—unwilling to agree, but equally unwilling to argue. Eventually, he bites his lip, glances at the book on the table, and seems to go slightly pale again before saying, “Might we speak of something else for a while?”
They do; Rowan has no shortage of tales from Tural, and Lysander listens with mixed horror and fascination as he speaks of developments in Solution Nine. Quietly, Rowan tucks his copy of Lysander’s work into his bag—Lysander seems to falter every time he glances it—and with the help of a little wine, he soon seems back to his usual self again, so when they part, Rowan is reasonably confident that his friend is going home to sleep, and not to his laboratory to pore over his data for the hundredth time.
For his part, he makes use of the rooms at the Baldesion Annex again, being sure to place Lysander’s book carefully aside so it doesn’t get mixed up with the general clutter. Once he has washed up and changed, he settles into bed with it, but when he turns to the first page of the introduction, an envelope slips out from the back of the book.
He opens it to find a letter in Lysander’s neat script.
Rowan,
I am certain I told you that the dedication speaks for itself, and I have naught else to add. But I am a lecturer, not a poet, and I feel that the three lines permitted by the publisher were far from sufficient to express my feelings completely. (And indeed, the dedication is not unique to your copy, and I admit some aversion to committing the words in my heart eternally to Sharlayan’s records.) Though I would like to believe that you already understand the depth of my gratitude and appreciation for your presence in my life, I must acknowledge that you and the star have come far too close to destruction, far too many times, for me to permit such things to remain unsaid. It is not only that you have preserved my life and that of the star to which I have dedicated my life towards studying, nor your interest in and support for my academic endeavor which frankly pales in comparison to your own feats, but in the course of knowing you, your presence has been a force that has formed me, as inexorably as those described in this volume’s pages, into a version of myself that I could not have attained on my own.
Your compassion, your willingness to choose love despite the risks, your courage, your conviction—even when you falter, even when you doubt your own strength…have no doubt that these things have changed me for the better, just as they have changed the star. Perhaps more importantly, however, your steadfast companionship has been just that: a constant and a comfort, one that I would have never realized I was missing had you not stumbled upon me in Thanalan all those years ago.
If I can claim some small measure of positive influence on you in return, it will be as precious an accomplishment as the marks which may or may not exist on my neck by the time you find this. I would beg that you refrain from acknowledging that you have seen this letter, else I will have no choice but to commit myself to its destruction immediately, and I am far too busy to suffer such a distraction.
Yours Sincerely,
Lysander Fels
----
[insert Rowan reaction here, I did sort of run out of steam....]
Rescuing foolhardy travelers is part and parcel of the adventurer life, but there are surprises to be found in even the most commonplace of encounters.
[Another piece of lore with @rowanul-tyr 's WoL that I'm finally getting around to posting.]
~ ~ ~
“Hey, are you alright? Can you hear me?”
The Elezen lying in the grass offers Rowan no response. He is breathing shallowly, but the blood oozing from a gash in his forehead is bright against his frighteningly pale skin, and there are a few scratches on his arms where he must have tried to protect himself from the claws and teeth of the mirrorknights that had been swarming him when Rowan arrived.
Rowan had scared off most of the fiends and slain the ones too stubborn to leave, but not before the Elezen lost his footing and fell. He must have hit a rock when he landed, resulting in the wound that seems to have dazed him, though Rowan doesn't think he has lost consciousness.
Rowan's healing magic is still only rudimentary, but even if he thought it wise to move the injured man, he doubts he would be able to carry him all the way back up the Burning Wall, harried by mirrorknights along the way, without causing further harm. So he will have to do what he can. He holds a hand over the Elezen's brow and concentrates on the flow of aether.
So focused is he on his spell that he fails to notice a pair of dark green eyes staring up at him until the man coughs weakly. Rowan starts, which interrupts his casting, but as he gathers himself to resume the spell, the Elezen reaches up to weakly push his hand away.
“Don’t exhaust yourself,” he says faintly. “Otherwise we will both be stuck down here.” His eyes fall closed again, and with a jolt of alarm, Rowan almost begins casting again despite the man's warning, but then the Elezen winces, and lifts a hand to gingerly touch his forehead. “Gods. I heard there were monsters drawn by the corrupted crystals. I had no idea it was this bad.” He cracks open his eyes again, and Rowan is relieved to see that his gaze seems a little sharper. “You seem to have stopped the bleeding, at least. Do you have—”
He breaks off, then sits up so abruptly that it is only thanks to Rowan’s quick reflexes that they do not end up with two more head injuries between them. Seemingly oblivious to this, the man pats himself all over, before twisting to either side to run his fingers frantically through the grass.
“A notebook,” he gasps. “Do you see a notebook—” And as suddenly as he started, he stops, freezing for a moment before slumping all at once, dropping his head into his hands.
“No. I remember. I dropped it when I was…forced to flee. And the samples too, I imagine. And where—” He clicks his tongue irritably, and to Rowan’s immense surprise, there is a burst of light as a swirl of aether coalesces in the man’s lap, leaving a bright, pale blue carbuncle in its wake.
“Some lot of good you did,” the Elezen grumbles as the construct plants its forepaws on his chest and noses at the partially healed wound. “Look, this stranger had to rescue us.”
“You’re an arcanist?” Rowan asks, though as he does so, he recalls seeing a few flashes of magic amidst the flock of mirrorknights, though they had not seemed particularly effective.
“I would not say so,” the Elezen replies, and doesn’t elaborate. The carbuncle curls cryptically on his lap, then squeaks in protest as the Elezen moves to shoo it to the side. Rowan realizes that he means to try to stand and quickly puts a hand on his shoulder before he can do so.
“Wait, you shouldn’t—”
“We can hardly expect those fiends to stay away forever. If I am to recover my notes—”
“Hold on, surely you don’t mean to go looking for them in this state.”
This earns him a cold glare. “I appreciate your help, er…”
“Rowan,” Rowan supplies.
“Lysander,” the Elezen offers in return. “A pleasure. Anyway, I appreciate your help, Rowan, but this…incident…cannot be allowed to set me back an entire moon. I need that notebook.”
Despite Rowan’s efforts, he staggers to his feet, his carbuncle curling anxiously around his ankles as he does so. Rowan grabs his elbow to steady him.
Upright, Lysander of course looms over his Miqo’te rescuer. In the orange glow of the crystals studding the rocks around them, he looks hardly any less pallid than he did a few minutes ago, so Rowan can only assume that this is his natural state. There are sticks and feathers stuck in his shoulder-length black hair, and his torn jacket has a splatter of what is probably mirrorknight viscera across the lapel. Rowan grimaces: that was certainly his own doing.
Lysander looks down at himself, no doubt drawing similar conclusions, then sighs and shrugs out of the jacket, tying it loosely around his waist with the shredded sleeves. One of the scratches on his arm is still trickling blood—he eyes it with a frown, then murmurs a few words, at which the skin partially knits itself back together.
“Not my forte, either,” he admits with a sigh. “But it will suffice.”
Then he places his hands on his hips and surveys his surroundings for a moment, before taking a few steps closer to the edge of the outcrop on which they stand to peer into the depths of the canyon; Rowan just barely restrains an impulse to grab his sleeve again as he leans over the precipice.
“They chased me further than I thought,” he murmurs. Then he turns around and blinks at Rowan, as though surprised he is still standing there.
“If you’re going back down, let me come with you,” Rowan says, in a tone he hopes brooks no arguments.
Lysander looks him over as though for the first time, taking in the lance strapped to his back, the lightweight leather armor.
“Are you some sort of adventurer? What are you doing here?”
In all honestly, Rowan's original errand is the furthest thing from his mind. “Some merchant at Drybone—well, it doesn’t matter. I’m not letting you go back down there alone.”
Lysander gazes at him for a beat, then sighs. “Suit yourself. But be warned that I am not leaving until I have that journal back.”
Seemingly resigned to Rowan's presence, Lysander turns and starts down the incline towards the bottom of the canyon. He lopes across the uneven ground with ease, descending the steeper sections with surprising gracefulness, where even Rowan must take care with his footing.
His carbuncle scampers along behind him. Rowan is tempted to ask about it again—it has not been too long since he began his own training in arcanima, after all—but given Lysander’s peculiar answer earlier, he decides to voice the other question on his lips instead.
“Are you studying something down here?”
And that, it seems, is the right thing to say.
Lysander, he quickly learns, is a scholar of Sharlayan. More specifically, he is a geologist, and he is working on a thesis involving the crystal formations that appeared during the Calamity, or rather the rocks from which they sprung. If he hadn’t been quite as busy watching his feet and scanning their surroundings for more monsters, Rowan thinks he probably would have found it all rather interesting.
And as Lysander talks, his veneer of irritability seems to evaporate. Rowan supposes that it must have just been his fall that put him in a sour mood. His manner is dry but personable, and though he slips into the tone of a lecturer as he describes his work, his explanations are clear and incisive.
Finally, they arrive at the bottom of the canyon. Rowan looks around at the trickling streams and stagnant pools and wonders with sudden apprehension if their endeavor is going to end with a sodden journal and a despondent scholar, but then Lysander makes a gleeful sound and drops to his knees, standing up again with a battered notebook clutched triumphantly in his hand.
Rowan turns to begin their long ascent—but Lysander has only come a few paces before he falls into a crouch beside a rock formation bristling with corrupted crystals.
Does he mean to stay?
After a few minutes, Rowan can only determine that that must be the case and resigns himself to waiting—though he does wonder, idly, if Lysander has forgotten he is there.
Lysander’s carbuncle prances around the clearing in the meantime, so Rowan falls to watching it, thinking about his own forays into arcanima. He has become somewhat sidetracked since picking up the lance, but the magic still fascinates him as it always has. Seeming to sense his attention, the carbuncle scampers over to him, circling his ankles and wiggling its tails when he smiles at it.
“Tourmaline. Stop bothering him. Come.” With a squeak, the carbuncle pounces over to Lysander, settling on his shoulder. He tilts his head slightly to accommodate it, and at a murmured word from him, it begins to glow a little brighter, and Rowan realizes he's using it for light.
Rowan chews on the question for a moment, then his curiosity gets the better of him “Is there an advantage to using tourmaline?”
Lysander does not look up from his work. “Hm? Oh. Most likely not. I can summon one from most any gem, and I had been under the impression that this one had a particular alertness to danger, though I may need to revise that conclusion after today.”
Tourmaline squeaks in a disgruntled sort of fashion, and its light dims slightly. Lysander nudges it with the side of his head, and it brightens again.
“But it is not an ordinary skill to be able to summon so many different carbuncles,” Rowan says, then second-guesses himself a little. “…is it?”
“You know some arcanima?” Lysander does not sound interested so much as he sounds resigned to the conversation, but he has asked.
He hasn’t, however, answered the question, Rowan notes. But it seems rude to pry, so he answers himself, instead.
“Er, a little. I’ve been training with the guild in Limsa. Before that…I spent a little time in the Sharlayan colony. But my best lesson were probably when I was kid, with this traveling scholar I ran into.”
Lysander huffs a laugh as he taps at the rock formation with a small hammer, prying off a piece of stone from beneath the orange crystal. “Maybe you met my father.”
“Well, he was an Elez—”
It is a strange feeling, almost like the bouts of dizziness he’s become accustomed to with the Echo, except now it is his own memory snapping into focus.
“It was your father,” he says faintly.
Lysander shakes his head. “I have no idea how you can be so certain, but it does sound like him—”
“No. Lysander.”
His tone prompts the Elezen to look up. “What is it? Are you alright?”
Tourmaline winds itself around Rowan’s ankles with a concerned mrrp.
“I’m fine,” Rowan assures both of them. “I only…” He shakes his head, trying to make sense of the returning memories and this bizarre coincidence both. “Thavnair,” he says at last.
If anything, Lysander looks more worried. “What about Thavnair?”
“That’s where I met your father,” Rowan replies. “And you.”
He recalls peeping over the stone wall where Lysander usually met him in the mornings before they set off on their daily adventures, wondering what was keeping his new friend. He found him that morning standing across from a tall Elezen with very long black hair and a severe expression. They both held books, though Lysander had his cradled lazily in the crook of his arm while the other balanced his deftly at the tips of his fingers. Two small glowing creatures scampered fluidly around the courtyard with them, one pale blue, the other deep, almost purplish, red.
“Now remember,” the elder Elezen was saying, “it is your intention that gives the carbuncle form, and thus it will be affected a great deal by your state of mind. It is important to cultivate mental discipline such that—”
Just as he broke off, Rowan noticed that the red carbuncle was perched on the wall directly next to his head.
He flinched and cried out, but the creature’s only reaction was to wiggle its nose. Rowan stared at it, momentarily captivated, until a stern voice recalled his attention.
“If you are going to watch…” Rowan looked up with great trepidation, but the expression on the Elezen’s face was unexpectedly kind. “…you may as well do so from over here.”
Though Rowan had met Lysander by chance in Radz-at-Han a few days previously and they had become fast friends, Lysander’s fathers were, at the time, still a mystery. Lysander spoke more of Saunder, the adventurer, than Valerien, the scholar, perhaps because he had more stories to relay from Saunder’s more colorful past. Most of what Rowan learned of Valerien had come later, from arcanists in the Dravanian colony who had studied under him—though none of them had heard from him in over a decade, and they had known naught of a young Elezen he had adopted.
But here Lysander stands, older, taller, a Sharlayan scholar himself. His strange attitude towards arcanima now makes perfect sense; he had invariably complained about his father’s lessons, despite his obvious aptitude in the subject. He had been profoundly dismayed when Rowan joined them that day, as Valerien had begun his lecture over again from the start.
“Rowan,” Lysander is saying, with new recognition in his tone, as Rowan pulls himself back to the present. “Gods, what are the chances?”
Slimmer than you might think, Rowan reflects grimly—then pushes aside the knot of darker memories that accompany the thought. Instead, he shrugs. “I could ask the same. What happened to you?”
Lysander blinks at him uncomprehendingly. “What…oh. My dad and that Hingan merchant. We left practically overnight...” He shakes his head. “But this is no place for such a conversation. I have what I need here; let’s get a drink, something.”
“…are you sure?” Rowan had been preparing himself to stand guard another hour, at least.
“This is not going anywhere,” Lysander says with a vague gesture at the canyon around them. “Does Drybone have a tavern?”
…
It soon becomes clear to Rowan that Lysander is lonely.
He doesn’t think Lysander would admit it—in fact, he suspects he hasn’t noticed. But as he tells Rowan what became of him after his fathers departed Thavnair, it is as though he hasn’t spoken at length with another person in moons—and given what he has said about his solitary travels around Eorzea, Rowan would not be surprised if that was the case. He doesn’t seem unhappy, but it is clear he is relishing this unexpected encounter with a familiar face.
And Rowan enjoys listening to him. He seems to have been nearly everywhere—Hingashi, the Azim Steppe, Old Sharlayan—and as a newcomer to Eorzea, the way he speaks of it is novel, even to Rowan.
And the longer he talks, the longer Rowan can go without saying much about himself. Though he has been able to tolerate being the center of attention a little more frequently these days, he certainly does not prefer it.
But eventually, Lysander’s stories come to an end. Rowan feels a prickle of dread just as Lysander asks, “And what about you?”
As Rowan shrugs a little, Lysander tilts his head. “Thinking on it now, I am surprised we never encountered each other in Sharlayan. Was your father not a scholar?”
Rowan swallows. “He was.”
Lysander’s expression sobers; it seems that Rowan’s slight emphasis on the second word was enough. “…I am so sorry. And…your mother?”
Rowan manages a minute shake of his head, and Lysander sighs. “I see.”
The ensuing silence is not exactly uncomfortable, but Rowan finds himself not wanting it to stretch too long. “I’ve been in Eorzea since…then. Survived the Calamity. It’s mostly just been odd jobs, favors here and there, finding my way. And lately I joined this…organization. The Scions of the Seventh Dawn.”
Lysander, wandering in the wilderness, hasn’t heard of them, which makes it easier for Rowan to skirt the matter of slaying Ifrit in his brief explanation. He has no particular reason not to tell Lysander about it, but he isn’t entirely sure how to segue from errands and escort jobs to the matter of Hydaelyn’s voice in his head.
The conversation drifts to their memories of Thavnair, but eventually they settle into a companionable silence. Or rather, it is companionable for a time, but eventually Rowan notices Lysander seems to be fidgeting slightly, and eyeing him sideways.
Before he can ask, Lysander speaks up.
“Is everything…alright?”
Rowan blinks. “I’m sorry?”
Lysander shakes his head quickly, almost like a chocobo trying to dislodge a fly. “I know we have only just met, and I have no wish to pry, but…if there is something you are not telling me because you do not wish to burden me, please recall that you almost certainly saved my life today, and the least I could do would be to listen.” He pauses, but before Rowan can respond, he winces and meets Rowan’s eyes. “I apologize. I just had the strongest sense that you did not wish to trouble me, and given the circumstances…I hoped to assure you it would be no trouble, if there was anything at all I could do for you.”
Rowan stares back at him. “Oh, er—honestly, just…this? Was really nice?” he stammers. The offer has thoroughly caught him off guard—though he feels a little guilty for being so surprised by Lysander’s concern.
Lysander smiles. “Then we must do this again sometime.”
He kindly does not acknowledge that Rowan ignored his original question, and they drift to lighter topics again, though now it is Rowan who finds himself with a nagging question in the back of his mind.
“What you said earlier,” he asks at last, when the conversation lulls, “maybe you just meant it as a figure of speech, but could you actually sense something?"
Lysander raises an eyebrow, but he only looks surprised, not confused, which in some ways seems to confirm Rowan’s vague suspicions. "Ah. Yes, I would say so. It seems to be happening more and more frequently of late...something like an itch, which nags somewhat more stubbornly than intuition. I often ignore it with strangers, unless to do so would be to my disadvantage.”
“I see…” Rowan cannot be certain, but the more Lysander describes it, the more Rowan is reminded of some of the possible manifestations of the Echo that Y’shtola has mentioned to him. But he knows not how Lysander would react to his theory, so he listens to his friend recount an experience he had with a dishonest merchant and allows the conversation to carry on.
After all, that is enough coincidences for one day, and surely Hydaelyn, in her weakened state, has better things to do than to weave together the fates of two long-lost childhood friends by granting some measure of Her blessing to them both. Even so…perhaps he will make some inquiries with Minfilia and Y’shtola when he returns to the Waking Sands. Though he doubts that Lysander would have much interest in the Scions, he might benefit from being aware of the phenomenon, should his potential gifts develop further.
In the meantime…Rowan decides he will do his best to ensure he does not next meet his friend lying unconscious and at the mercy of a swarm of beasts, though there is little he can do save attune their linkpearls and bid him be more careful.
More Scion Rowan in the First--he gets most of his character development there, I think, so it's easiest to write about him during that period?
...
As Rowan opens the door to his room in the Pendants, Lysander lingers on the threshold, glancing around him with slowly widening eyes.
Turning back towards him, Rowan tilts his head, puzzled. “…what is it?”
Lysander shakes himself a little. “It is occurring to me that, in all the years we have known one another, I have spent very little time in any of your living quarters.”
“Oh! Hm. That’s true, I suppose. No need to feel awkward, though?”
“Right, just…what is all of this?”
Rowan follows his gaze to the shelves that line one wall of the room, stuffed with a widely-varied but organized assortment of crafting supplies. Some of it spills over to a desk in the corner, where there is a bright lamp and a work mat scattered with tools, and a nearby armchair is occupied by a bag filled with spools of brightly-colored thread and the embroidery project Rowan had left off working on earlier that day.
“Materials, mostly. I’ve been working on embroidering that satchel for Katliss, to thank her for all her help.” Rowan nods at his embroidery frame on the chair as he says so, and Lysander seems to see it for the first time amidst the stacks of fabric and spools of thread, and his eyes widen somehow further as he steps closer to examine it.
“You made this?”
“Um. Yes?”
“Rowan, it’s beautiful.”
“Well it isn’t done, but I am happy with how it’s coming together—but did you…not know that I do needlepoint?”
Lysander shakes his head speechlessly, still gazing at the half-finished project.
“I suppose I have seen you…mending things, but never…” His fingers trail over the stitches. “It is so intricate. How do you even…”
Rowan scratches his head; the praise is entirely unexpected, though he can tell Lysander’s awe is genuine—though it is rare to see him quite so animated, which only makes Rowan feel more self-conscious. “Well…my mom taught me a little when I was young. Not much, since I wasn’t very old…but when I picked it back up again, I realized it was…soothing? And then I just found myself doing it more and more, and taking on other crafts…sometimes to make a little coin, but mostly just to keep my hands busy. Especially here. It's...grounding.”
Focusing on his hands, his movements, the feeling of thread or wood or stone in his fingers, all serves to distract from that ever-present unmoored feeling, the inescapable awareness that his “body” here is little more than an especially dense clump of aether. It allows him to relax without drifting, tethered by each stitch and rewarded at the end by a product of unmistakable tangibility, irrefutable evidence of his existence and agency.
And even if the reason he threw himself so wholeheartedly into handcrafts on the First is a discomfiting one, he has no complaints about the consequences. Maybe more than his guard work, it has helped him feel a part of the Crystarium, united with her people not just against the sin eaters, but in the creation of something to stand firm in this blighted world.
“Would you make me something?”
Rowan blinks, surfacing from his thoughts, but before he can answer, Lysander goes on in a rush.
“That is—I did not mean it as a demand, I only…I realized I do not have anything of yours. A…” He motions vaguely with his hand, the one that is rarely unadorned by a certain sapphire ring and a certain woven bracelet. “A…charm, of sorts? So I can…carry your support with me, as I do…the rest.” Fiddling with one earring now, he grows increasingly quiet. “If you have time, that is…I suppose it is rather rude to make such demands…”
Rowan shakes himself out of his surprise; it is always startling to see Lysander become shy, and he never much likes it. “Lysander, I’d love to. I…do not know how I managed to go so long without doing so, really.”
“Well, you are so frequently by my side yourself, that I suppose it escaped our notice?”
“I suppose so.” And perhaps, Rowan admits to himself, it had felt presumptuous to offer, even as he took notice of the comfort Lysander took in such tokens—or it had, once, but that concern feels stale now. He had told himself for so long that he was content to be a shadow, unseen and unacknowledged, but since his arrival here, Lysander has made a point to impress more than once that such unobtrusiveness was never something he demanded of his friend.
“So, what shall it be?” Rowan wonders. “Another piece of jewelry? Or something like I’m making for Katliss? Or…”
Lysander lets out a weak laugh, looking faintly bewildered by his sudden enthusiasm. “I…believe that should be your decision? Unless you want me to…”
Rowan frowns thoughtfully. “No…no, I think I have an idea.” He presses his fist to his palm. “I will get right on it!”
“Well there is no need to drop everything…”
“There is if you will be returning to the Source soon,” Rowan counters. “Oh, right, here’s that book you wanted. Now get out of here, I need to think.”
Lysander allows himself to be herded out of the room, book in hand, though he catches himself on the doorway before Rowan can close it after him. “Would you still like to have dinner later? Or will you be busy?”
Rowan narrows his eyes, giving the question proper consideration. He can already feel the gears churning in his head, latching on to his idea for this next piece, so in the end, he smiles a little abashedly and admits, “…I might be busy.”
Lysander smiles. “Tea tomorrow, then. I mean to stay a few days. Er…make sure you sleep, alright?”
Went for the literal version of healing here, with wol Lysander and Scion Rowan in ARR. (And then I still didn't really know where to go with it, but eh.)
...
“Just stay still.”
It is a little extraneous to say—after Lysander’s last spell sent Titan crumbling into rock and aether, he had collapsed to the ground himself, his carbuncle vanishing in a flash of bluish light, and Rowan had been frantically preparing a raise spell as he dashed across the chamber until he saw his friend’s chest rising and falling with labored breaths.
Y’shtola teleported them out of danger, and now Lysander lies in the grass in Zelma’s Run, looked bruised and drained. One of his arms had been hanging limply by his side before he fell, but examining him now, Rowan is relieved to see it appears dislocated, not broken.
Rowan’s confidence in his healing capabilities has been growing quickly of late, not least because he finds himself more often in situations like this, tending to the realm’s new hero. Though Lysander is quick to take defensive maneuvers and limit the harm that comes to him, sometimes, his less-than-developed battle instincts catch up to him, and in those moments, Rowan is determined to be there.
“I knew this one would be trouble for you,” he says lightly, trying to keep Lysander’s attention away from his arm. He elects not to try to replace the joint just yet, but he can soothe some of the bruises and distract Lysander from the pain.
Lysander manages a bare smile. “Indeed…I thought I saw some interesting phenocrysts…I apologize.”
“Don’t,” Rowan says. “That’s why I’m here. Can you teleport?”
Lysander seems to consider the question, then lets out a heavy sigh. “…probably not.”
Rowan nods, and they just sit for a moment, Rowan quietly channeling aether to help Lysander compensate more quickly for his own deficit. And soon the glassy haze fades from his eyes, and he shifts slightly, as though meaning to sit up—then hisses, when the movement makes pain blossom in his shoulder.
Rowan sighs. “Alright. You might not like this, but the easiest way to fix that isn’t with conjury.”
Lysander turns a faintly horrified expression in his direction, and Rowan grimaces apologetically. “The healers at Bronze Lake might be better for this, but if we're walking back, it might be best if you can hold your grimoire…”
Lysander’s mouth presses to a thin line, but he nods, grimly.
Rowan elects not to ask him if he's ready. It’s a quick thing, relocating a joint, and as with many such things, anticipation of the process only makes it worse. A spell he had already cast should dull the pain to manageable levels, even if a proper anesthetic would have been preferable…
Lysander yelps as the bone slots back into place, but he exhales with relief afterwards, both shoulders moving naturally with the motion.
Briefly, he glances at the aetheryte glinting in the underbrush, with an expression that almost seems wistful, before turning to Rowan.
“Alright,” he says, his carbuncle sparkling into existence again as he clambers to his feet, “let’s get out of here.”
---
In some small way, Lysander supposes he should appreciate this opportunity to experience Camp Bronze Lake’s healing pools for himself, but after barely half a bell soaking in the fragrant waters, he finds himself growing dreadfully bored. Idleness makes his thoughts drift, and it is not long before they sink back to that cave deep in the mountain and the battle with Titan.
He remembers it largely as a blur, as usual. A desperate struggle that could have lasted anywhere from mere moments to almost a bell. It had been a failure in a split-second decision—move, or shield—that had led to his shoulder injury, though the evidence has already disappeared; he stretches the arm out above the water, but there is no pain, or even a bruise.
“Thanks, Rowan,” he murmurs, letting his head fall back against the rim of the pool. Again.
Despite the hazy nature of his memories, he still remembers snatches of Rowan, wielding his staff as elegantly and efficiently as he does a lance. Focused and quick, attacking and healing, never a motion or a breath wasted—save when he was forced to interrupt his patterns, to account for Lysander’s errors. There is the realm’s hero, Lysander wants to tell the Scions, you already had him. What need for the fool who freezes at the crucial moment?
“You’re welcome,” answers a voice, and as a shadow falls across his face, Lysander opens his eyes to see the Miqo’te in question standing over him. “Feeling better?”
“…I am not in any pain,” Lysander decides on.
“Then it must be working,” Rowan says, squatting at the lip of the pool and nodding at the water. “I was thinking I would return to the Waking Sands ahead of you. Might save you from giving Minfilia the whole report yourself.”
“That is…kind of you, but…”
“Take a little time,” Rowan insists. “You deserve it. And, here. This might help.”
He places something down on the edge of the pool, and Lysander turns to see a chunk of black basalt, sparkling with glints of yellow topaz. His eyes widen, and he glances from the rock, to Rowan, and back at the rock.
“Interesting phenocrysts, right?” Rowan says with a smile. “Tell me about them when you get back. I’ll see you in Vesper Bay.”
[I haven't entirely decided what happens to Rowan when the Waking Sands is attacked....but I feel like Lysander probably doesn't have him during the Coerthas adventure. So kidnapped with the others, or laying low. So a little bit of foreboding, here...]
Estinien almost does not recognize the voice, thick with emotion, though no one but Lysander stands with him on the dark bluff, and it is Lysander who steps forward to grasp his arm, gripping into the chain mail with unexpected strength. Even by naught but the light of the distant stars, Estinien can see how his eyes glisten—and blinks at the sight, for Thancred had earned only that blank expression, the Warrior of Light’s supposed stoicism, when the truth of his sacrifice had been revealed.
“You know I must,” he says, firmly, though not ungently. Lysander’s fingers tighten.
“What am I to tell Aymeric?” he rasps.
“That I did my duty and guided you onwards to your goal. Our goal.” He lets out a breath before adding softly, “You’d best be glad it is not he who is here.”
Lysander’s expression twists, jaw clenching, tears trembling at the corners of his eyes—but then he drops his gaze, unable to deny his own relief.
They stand like that for a moment, Lysander still clutching his arm, Estinien not quite having the heart to shake him off. In the stagnant silence of this place, their breathing is the only sound; Lysander’s hitching and unsteady, while Estinien feels oddly placid.
“You know how I hate this,” Lysander accuses at last, and there is no question of what he means—comrades charging off to heroic sacrifices, leaving him with fewer by his side. The Warrior of Light loathes to fight alone.
“Aye,” Estinien agrees. “Hold fast to that feeling; it may well be what brings us back.”
Lysander lifts his head, but now the glint in his eyes has hardened as he meets Estinien’s gaze—tears crystalized to adamant resolve.
“It will be,” he vows, with far more certainty than Estinien himself can truly muster. But he has seen Lysander carry out impossible deeds before, and if he is demanding his friend’s faith, there is little Estinien can do but offer his own in return.
Wolmeric week day 3: Alternate Universe (modern AU)
You... have to be understanding with me about this one, modern AU is like the most self-indulgent romcom nonsense I've written and it says way more about Lysander's lore than it says anything about Aymeric. But....the quick rundown: Lysander's a grad student, he and Haurchefant were undergrads together and now they're roommates; Aymeric and Haurchefant are high school friends but Aymeric went to college elsewhere; Aymeric is moving to the city to start a graduate program.
And Lysander...has a big storm coming.
(First meetings...TWO, modern version ⬇️)
Haurchefant finishes washing the dishes, then looks out across to the living room where Lysander sits on the couch, chewing his lip as he types something on his phone. Too absorbed in his conversation to even glance up under Haurchefant’s attention—Haurchefant dries his hands, then pulls out his own phone and opens his message thread with Aymeric.
[Haurchefant]
just to be clear, he wants to sleep with you
It is only a moment before the response returns.
[Aymeric]
Fury, that was uncanny.
[Haurchefant]
i might know him a little too well
Honestly, though, he hadn’t known what he expected to happen when he introduced Aymeric to Lysander at their board game night a few days prior. Of course, with Aymeric moving to the city, it was inevitable that he finally meet the friend and roommate he had heard so much about over the past several years since university had taken the Ishgard Prep graduates their separate ways, but Haurchefant had suspected that no matter how much Aymeric might be his type, Lysander would draw a line when it came to getting involved with one of Haurchefant’s close friends. It would break all of his unwritten rules, all the habits that kept even a whiff of romantic attachment at arm’s length for the past six years, and so it was to be avoided at all costs. Haurchefant had wondered, in the back of his mind, if Lysander might even be a little standoffish; he had few friends, by choice, and found Haurchefant’s sociability generally baffling.
But instead, Haurchefant had watched Lysander drift, almost magnetically, to Aymeric, and hang off of him nearly the entire evening. As though he couldn’t help himself–but that wasn’t quite right. Lysander’s self-restraint could be impressive when he chose to exercise it, as he had with people as loosely connected to Haurchefant as coworkers and classmates. With Haurchefant, Lysander claimed, he could never tell when an acquaintance might suddenly become a friend, and he preferred to avoid any awkwardness. By which logic Aymeric should have been entirely ignored, and yet there was Lysander, making small talk about graduate programs while he let the dip in their worn-out couch press him closer to Aymeric’s side, his dark green gaze heavy with unmistakable intent.
And Aymeric was so clearly enamored with him. Haurchefant had kept an eye on them all night, as Lysander used each subsequent drink consumed as further excuse to unabashedly drape himself upon Aymeric at every opportunity, and Aymeric had obliged him easily every time. While Lysander lounged against his shoulder, Aymeric had murmured their team strategy to him with his lips nearly brushing Lysander’s temple, and by the end of the evening, Lysander’s head was in his lap, and Aymeric was idly looping strands of his dark hair around his finger, his expression openly fond. Haurchefant isn’t sure about love at first sight, but the attraction, at least, was undeniable.
Haurchefant can’t help but feel a little hopeful, though he knows he’ll have to do his best to hide it. Lysander is strict about nothing so much as the casual aspect of his relationships. Dates were out of the question, even if they’d met over drinks or at a gathering like this one. Hookups were all he wanted, he told Haurchefant, and Haurchefant would have absolutely no problem with it–if he believed that to be true.
Another notification pops up on his phone.
[Aymeric]
I want to ask him to dinner.
[Haurchefant]
i haven’t completely given up hope, but i doubt he’ll go for that
There is a longer pause this time, then:
[Aymeric]
You do, in fact, know him well
Haurchefant peeks up at Lysander, who has the slightest of creases growing between his brows. But as he waits, one eye on his phone and the other on his friend, he watches Lysander’s eyes brighten, and he’s biting back a smile again, though Haurchefant isn’t sure who he’s trying to hide it from.
[Haurchefant]
oh, that made him happy
Aymeric seems to type and delete a message once, then eventually:
[Aymeric]
I wish I could see his face…
[Haurchefant]
you’ll need to hide that huge crush if you don’t want to scare him off
Realistic advice, even if he feels conflicted about giving it. There is another pause where Aymeric types and rethinks his words.
[Aymeric]
[…]
[Aymeric]
[…]
[Aymeric]
I will do my best.
So Haurchefant isn’t surprised when Lysander slips out that evening—really, it’s unusual only for the fact that he knows, for once, where he’s going—but he keeps an eye on his phone when he settles in for the night, though for what, he isn’t entirely sure. A delighted text from Aymeric, announcing the start of a new relationship? He may be a romantic, but he knows Lysander too well to expect anything of the sort. If Lysander wants to sleep with someone, and nothing else, then anyone who hopes otherwise would be smart to keep his mouth shut.
But Aymeric has his own sort of stubbornness. Haurchefant only wonders how long it will take Lysander to notice.
Haurchefant isn’t exactly waiting up for him, but when he hears the front door open later, he looks up from his tablet, waits a moment, then drifts out to the kitchen.
Lysander is rummaging in the cabinet for some herbal tea. When he finds what he’s looking for, he sets the kettle to boil and stretches languidly, then leans sideways against the counter with a quiet sigh.
“You seem pleased,” Haurchefant observes with a smile.
Lysander glances over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “Mm. Do you want details, or would that be weird?”
They’re close enough that they have shared plenty of similar stories in the past, though there hasn’t been a case exactly like this before, and the disastrous encounters are usually the ones worthy of gossip.
“A little,” Haurchefant agrees. “But I always assumed he was the type to wait a few dates before he even went for a kiss, so I’m a bit curious. I don’t even know if he dated much in college.”
“Well, I didn’t ask,” Lysander says, “but experienced or not, he was very…”—he purses his lips as he searches for the right word–“...thorough.”
Haurchefant chuckles. “That sounds like him.” He hesitates a moment, then adds, lightly, “am I not to invite him over anymore, then?”
Lysander, who had seemed for a moment to be thinking back over his night, looks up again. “I wouldn’t ask that. I probably just won’t be here when you do.”
“Right.”
Lysander’s eyes narrow. “If this is going to bother you, I’ll end it.”
Just like that. Haurchefant usually appreciates how readily Lysander is willing to draw boundaries, but it feels a little sour this time.
“It’s not that, just…don’t string him along too much.”
Lysander’s gaze darkens. “You know that isn’t what I do.”
Not on purpose. Haurchefant offers an apologetic smile. “I know.”
“Haurchefant.” The edge in his voice is unmistakable.
Haurchefant takes a breath. “He’s a good guy, Lysander. And he likes you.”
Lysander has gone even paler than usual, his dark eyes almost black in contrast. “Are you really going to lecture me about this?”
Haurchefant feels the weight of that “you.” Lysander can brush off nearly any judgmental comment or piece of advice from other people, but Haurchefant was there. Haurchefant picked up the pieces, and maybe Lysander is right to look so betrayed.
“No,” he sighs, though Lysander doesn’t relax quite yet. “Just make sure you’re clear with him, alright?”
The kettle reaches a boil, so Lysander has an excuse to turn away from him as he pours the water. “I always am. So it would help if someone wasn’t letting him get his hopes up.”
