⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀HOW OFTEN A GENTLE CHUCKLE FALLS SMOOTH FROM LIPS, punctuated by humour ⸻ he plays along, maintains her mischief. Come now, beloved. He permits her this playful edge, just as embraced in youth. Said lips find their comfort at her knuckles, a fleeting visit to their surface, lingering just so. It's all too brief .
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❛ How considerate. ❜
A week ⸻ the stretch was usual. Her absence was not. Lacking the companionship, casual banter, and hushed communication weighed on him so. Their wordless gestures, acknowledged and understood, drove confusion in others. Too reliant, too keen of routine , her leave is conspicuous. She'd round a sentence to completion. He'd honour a preference recalled. They'd orchestrate a macabre dance on the field with blades at the ready, bring about a cohesion just a touch too harmonized. She is his second-in-command, a foil to quell his step, his rationale, a curio to his heart. Where one went, the other oft did, too.
During her convalesce their duties had been altered, puzzled into unbalanced categories of wanted and unwanted, of action and passivity, and she'd been drawn the most undesired sort. She'd been tasked with administrative work. Less active, more sedentary to heed her curse, wounds, and flesh marred and tested. It's contrary to her nature. He hates restricting her so. But Tarja's word is law.
A shift in routine irked and confused not only he, but the Cursebreakers, who yearn for their captain, a steadying pillar among mercurial forces ( as she oft was paired with Clive, too ). But it was necessary until her strength returned ⸻ her wit, however, was honed as ever. And he smirks at that. Her sweet, silvered tongue : always primed with a dry responsiveness, one he could never muster nor replicate himself.
His Lady : she works too hard. Far too hard.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❛ Fancy a trip to Dalimil ? I’ve heard the springs cure all manner of ills. Or perhaps we could visit the markets. How long has it been since you’ve bought something for yourself that wasn’t a blade or a gift for someone else ? ❜
Perhaps it'll be the flight of terraces which heal, carved of ancient erosion, bleached in their substance among rolling sands. Nature is quite the architect, opting for organic beauty among Fallen relics of old, the latter's artificial, over-corrected perfection roused a certain disconnect from natural charm. Luminous blue awaits, as do the palms, towering well heavenward. Verdant. Contrasting. Lofty and remote to blackened earth and these troubled waters. He'd permit the opportunistic encroach of laziness, the swaddling of comfortable heat which sought to melt away what ailed their bones in these desolate, stagnant times. Home at present was a far-cry from spectacle.
immersed in the constraints of his office, where the demands of paperwork, signatures, and the weight of obligations and political quandaries pressed upon him, he found solace in the occasional foray outdoors. these brief walks became a respite from the bureaucratic entanglements that defined his daily existence. although the vastness of ishgard's guarded walls concealed countless faces and stories, those rare excursions outside revealed a keen ability to discern the distinctive garb and countenance of individuals who stood out conspicuously. a spike in intrigue became the harbinger of curiosity, compelling him to stray from the vigilant presence of his bodyguard. his path led him toward a woman who, despite the veiled nature of her identity, stood as a palpable anomaly. “greetings, ” a fragment of a smile adorned his countenance. “ might i seek enlightenment on your name and the origins whence you hail? ”
Aerith mantains her pleasant expression as the other woman inspects the bundle of flowers — she always loved when people really appreciated what she did, how much joy a little bit of colour could bring. Aerith shakes her head to refuse full payment, as nothing brought her more joy than providing sweet people with sweet things.
"I don't usually make garlands, I sell them." She tilted her head, as though pondering the idea. "I suppose I could. Do you think people would buy those? I have a lot more where this came from. I could make a lot."
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀It's a change, this life ⸻ a newfound reality awaits and all its adjustments. Simplicity is novel, so foreign to hands and a mind too fond of work and process and the critical edge of whatever he endeavours to pursue. It'd been the norm to acclimate to chaos, to the prating of peers along with their demands, to voices sailing throughout the hideaway well into forenoon. Beyond the Twins, along lands unseen, illimitable, untouched by the burdens of a cataclysm forestalled, a silence carries with it a clarity he cannot quite come to terms with. Above, it's the stars which lack their typical judgement of the lives below in their incalculable number. Refulgence cruising along a sweep of unbroken darkness, they exist unburdened, natural and prismatic in their constellations. Through the window he can only hope to imagine how many stipple those skies, and the histories surrounding them.
Her words do not fall upon deaf ears, and he turns ever slow on a heel, eyes scanning her general direction but not quite locking, as if forlorn. The floorboards protest beneath him, lips press thin, and a twist at the cusp of lips signify his concern. He wonders how brilliant she'd become at reading him, at detecting a disturbance nesting within, subtle upon features who've come to be much less harsh since forgoing their usual dose of stressors. In the warmth of ambience and climate of their home ( still in the course of its development ) his sentimentalism was much more palpable.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❛ In a moment. ❜
His mind falls to the lake within walking distance from their home, sprinkled by wildflowers and paths untrodden. A medley of colour ⸻ undisturbed and unflinching ⸻ carries on as though the Blight never existed within these shores. It's truly a detachment from the perdition a world away, a past so remote he feels as though he'd been plucked from purgatory, ordained to make sense of harmony. It rattles him, finding some unhealthy attachment to the chaotic nature that comprised his years afore ⸻ as a Shield, as an assassin, as a leader . . . and as Cid. He has since shed the moniker as their cause is fulfilled, and navigates the challenge of discovering what made his own heart tick.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❛ Will you walk with me ? ❜ His hand yearns for hers, outstretched. If Jill tired too quickly, he had no qualms carrying her and their precious cargo back. Still budding, still small. ❛ Perhaps a clear head will convince me to rest, and the skies have given way to the moon tonight. ❜
Even so far from the Twins, it was still the same moon above.
At his heels lie beds of near every hue ( pampered, thriving ), though their floral collection is limited. It's not for lack of ambition, or a lack of labour. Nay ⸻ the Blight has robbed the land of much. In that quiet morning, his only company is the babble of rills throughout the backyard's nursery, an echo of a lifestream in all sense. Not too long ago, this sight was consigned to fantasy. During their nascent years, they had naught ⸻ no seeds, no preparations were salvaged since Kupka's assault. All which remained would serve as monuments, mementos, proof of an existence lost to time and dust. He bristles at that. They need not desecrate memory with a want so trivial as a sample of a wildflower. Would he have thought the same of this passing request, some moons ago, regarding the harvesting of Snow Daisies and their seed ? Their temperamental needs were attributed and tailored to their environment. To mimic these conditions would normally be considered a trivial use of resources already strained thin. Once vernal lands choke on hibernal corruption, half-buried dreams, and an unprecedented scarcity both flora and humans alike must face. Yet their gardeners had achieved the impossible. Despite the odds, despite the difficulty. In secret, they'd mottled what they could. A modest patch, tended and nurtured. And now, their patience is rewarded, with the added boon of resilience.
Daisies aren't a common choice, but they embody a particular beauty. Refined, reticent in their presence, yet deadly. As is one Jill Warrick. Horticulture wasn't his forte, though he'd been informed of their toxicity. A fitting comparison perhaps, considering her skill with a blade. Roses, while cliché, deliver messages of affection effective and clear. Though, he gathers them this day not for the uniqueness of the arrangement, rather for a union of loyalty unwritten. Both flowers serve as vestiges of home, bundled in delicate parchment, suspend the glory and essence of nations beloved and bold. Rosaria and the Northern Territories, respectfully. Now they rest as bitter shells of yesteryear.
It’s a small, meaningful lull to days of activity and no pause. He’d even gone as far as inscribing words of appreciation onto paper ⸻ far from a letter of love ( and uncharacteristic ), he’d never been the sort to find himself fanciful with language. But she needed to know her importance to him : her contributions, his pride in seeing her grow and heal, and her ascension to personhood ⸻ unfettered, she climbs closer to the fruits of freedom.
The quill pauses then.
In youth, following her arrival, she held a predictable reticence. Yet, she also lacked a certain regality about her ⸻ no pretension or haughtiness embittered her words. The Princess of the North graced them all : a sharp interruption within the walls of Rosalith. So different. So stark. Blue to red. Red to blue. The Rosfield heirs welcomed her as any other, lacking prejudice and honouring her origins. It wasn’t long before she established roots for herself, now warmly settled despite her apprehension. And as they grew close, he’d learned much from her. With her, she'd brought wise perspectives, intentional words. Emotion guided her, true, as it did all youth ( before logic and maturity stunted their wonder of the world ), but she enlightened him with what many would consider an ancient wisdom. Perhaps the conflict had acquainted her with worldly knowledge, of lessons seldom taught so early. But war was not courteous enough to spare anyone. She’d protected him, cured him of indiscretion and lapsing confidence, remained realistic. She'd kept his expectations within the realm of man, constrained and attainable, promoted his success. Even at an age so tender, she carries words so wise. A song honed through generations, as though the Queen of Rime sung them within her ear, imbued through slumber. She’d done much for him ( down to catering to his own hound ! ) and in return, he’d incurred naught but debt ⸻ debts she futilely reminded he need not pay.
He’d insist.
During one of his father's annual tours, he'd reciprocate. Once they'd broken from the procession, exploring field and wood unseen, he'd aimed to surprise her with sights wild and wonderful. It would not be. The heavens wept, drowned his hopes, and earned her a nasty cold. Yet, she laughed nonetheless. Laughed lovely and sweet. He apologized post-haste. Bashful. Ashamed. Still, she forgave him. In retrospect, that’d been the day he’d come to love her much more than a friend. But fate is not so forgiving, and their separation stung deep and malignant as a wound ⸻ perhaps more so. Physical wounds mended with time and patience. The brunt of emotional wounds had a lifetime to foster their potential. And it’s precisely what he’d feared would happen. Once reconciled some thirteen years later, she forgave him. And again, he requests a pardon. It’s naught but apologies which he gifts her, or torment, or eves marked by worry. She gives unconditionally. He wishes to do the same. It took their reunion to rend him from a myopic, transactional relationship to war and destruction and a devilish temper.
To him, love is not overt. It’s intentionally unassuming, expressed through touch. The sweep of a strand too keen upon her brow, or a reassuring stroke to the small of her back. It's delivered through questions regarding her well-being, through attentiveness, through notes of her preferences. It's expressed through a protective glance in battle, or an assist ( akin to a dance. Poetic, albeit macabre, but harmonious nonetheless ). It's through the way he trusted her wholly with his affairs, both personal and professional. While she supports, she also challenges his ire, grounds him, reminds him of the alternatives. He needn’t be so headstrong, and throughout the years, she has reinforced his empathy, strengthened and nourished his soul.
The letter is completed, with melted wax to seal. It's melded with the pigments of woad and rouge leaning stains, not quite overtaking the default alabaster in its bleed. Two fingers press to lips, fall downward, impress atop parchment. Unseen, as an incantation, yet present. It’s the gesture which mattered most. He'd likely find her hovering about the map table of their shared chambers ⸻ her routine was predictable. She’d sift through newly delivered missives and glean any urgent matter. If she hadn’t dealt with them then he would upon his return. In that time, he hopes she will appreciate the gift in full, in the peaceful hum of shared company and thought. And, as predicted, as he emerges from those oaken doors, he is greeted by his beloved and a silken hello. She is usually the first to initiate, but he’d done so first, sinking into her approach, leaning, pressing lips flush and wanting into her own. It’s comforting. It’s sanctuary. The flutter of lashes tickle cheeks, as does her giggle ; in times like these he doesn’t feel so scorn. As they retreat to their short distance, fingers entwine with the bouquet and foreheads press. They fall into step naturally, recalling bygone days and the countless lessons for galas they never wholly got to appreciate. It’s only the creak and whispers of the Hideaway which serve as their tune. He didn’t mind. It’s a comfortable silence, a comfortable appreciation of the company they kept. He needn’t honour a day to show his gratitude, but at times he needs an arresting realization to slow down. He didn’t just live for himself anymore.
Tales of might, of valour, of gods, and of men. Page upon page rewards with poetic inscriptions. Prose steals youthful curiosity from the world, allows duty and boy to be divided just this once. An orb of flames flanks his left, suspended above, born of aether to illuminate his nook. There's a gentle curl of lips, a contented hum, the culmination of this hero's fable only swells to thrill. Then ⸻ shadows leap and twist beneath the oaken door ; there's a sudden bout of shuffling just beyond his chambers. A peep : Quiet. Meek. A rattle soon follows. Another peep, louder now. With fingers deft, the tome is shut and the embers extinguished. Soon, all succumbs to the dark, melting to naught but moonlit silhouettes. His first guess : Torgal. The pup, however, sleeps soundly at the base of the bed ( if the steady rise and bristle of fur was any indication. Cue the accompanying stir of breath into tiny lungs. ). The rap at the door sounds again, and he debates feigning exhaustion to grant him mercy should it be Lord Murdoch. Chastising was guaranteed should he find his protégé still cognizant, disrespecting his schedule. A shield is of no use should he find himself overtired. A chuckle ; even now does Clive entertain the thought, mimics the voice of his mentor, adopts a mocking, guttural tone. Whomever resides at the door is persistent, and summons more might into their knock. Again. Thrice.
❛ Enter. ❜ Retreating back to his bed, his apprehension becomes palpable as knees are pulled to his chest. The broadness near devours him in the sprawl of sheets, so vast compared to his form. A creak at the door and his company is revealed to be contrary to his original assumption. ❛ Jill ⸻ ! ❜ A sharp breath, then an immediate softening to his voice. Relaxed. Less measured. Fingers curl about the spine of the book as if protective ⸻ an instinctive action, though she is no assailant. ❛ Forgive me. Are you searching for Torgal ? He deigned to keep me company tonight. I always believed he preferred the comforts of your chambers compared to mine. You have far more pillows. ❜
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐕𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬, 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲𝐬 ⸻ 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐥. Rosalith's Shields posit themselves as pseudo-family. He doesn't complain. Still, it's a nascent comfort, one only recently earned. Past snickers, haughty banter, at times they continue to rend their barbs, affix judgement upon a tender heart influenced and untamed. The armour has not set just yet ⸻ a deterrent to such drivel, a bolster to ego. There's much to learn still beneath Lord Murdoch tutelage ; the knowledge of peers does not conqueror the boy's wisdom nor his ascent, he'd been appointed First Shield for a reason. But the disparity between ages quashed what influence wasn't granted to him by the privilege of the crown.
On the field, he bled just as others did, vaunted lineage be damned. And as with others, duty invites the inevitable : exhaustion. An unavoidable reality, a reminder of human limitation. Resilience crumbles to somatic need ; an adolescent fruitlessly deems himself invincible. He is oft reminded he is not. Rest was deserved and desired, and he'd seek it. It's a gift only afforded when in the presence of those who knew him best.
A saddlebag bumps at his flank, first fastened to his steed. It brims with a medley of blossoms : pastels and further vibrance, though it is dominated by the warmer spectrum. Their petals remain intact, he'd regarded them well. A smile tugs. His stride carries him throughout the castle halls, to the chambers of a certain esteemed companion.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Now, the gentlest of knocks.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀It's a particular melody ; one she'd recognize.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❛ Is . . . the Princess willing to spare a moment of her time ? ❜
