For @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast's FFXIVWrite 2022.
[AO3 mirror]
References to adult situations/NSFW content. Not explicit.
She wakes with a start to unfamiliar environs.
This is not her ceiling—not the canopy of canvas hung over the bed in her cliffside waystop; not the stone facade that rises above Mor Dhona, giving a name to the likeliest place for her to lay her head. This is certainly not the gilt-tracery mosaic of some Amaurot apartment.
It’s warm.
She hears the rise and fall of breathing far too steady to be her own, and Shasi slowly turns her head.
The spill of his blonde hair is lank and damp from the shower—bells must have passed since then, and in Thanalan the desert air would have wrung them both out long since, but … she strains to listen past Eros’s breathing, and yes; there is the distant rush of waves.
La Noscea, then. With him—neither should be a surprise. How often had she returned to Limsa Lominsa simply for him? Her head hurts and her throat is dry. His arms are heavy, still wound around her.
One touches the small of her back, fingers splayed loosely over the branching, fern-like scar, twin to the one on her front.
His other hand is between her legs, thick fingers not quite reaching inside her. Shasi shifts her weight and finds herself sore; his fingertips spark that sensation anew.
Not a surprise that she’d come here. An inevitability. She had found him dancing for money, stole him away for a drink, and turned his head by refraining to follow up with the usual proposition. In return he had poured out a measure of trust; had laid before her a banquet of secrets and suffering, speaking of things too long unspoken. This she was used to.
Then Eros van Aventis—no, Eros yae Galvus—had asked her to unburden herself before him in turn.
This was strange.
So too the fact that she had fallen asleep in this rented bed—she had meant to linger only so long as it took him to fall asleep, but perhaps she had succumbed first. It will take some doing to extricate herself from his grasp, and yet she must. With war-callused hands she grasps his wrists, marveling at the black and red whorls of ink that decorate his skin. Slowly—ever so slowly—she unwinds them from about her.
He stirs, and she freezes, ears trained forward to catch any hitch in his breathing. Her attention lingers upon his face; the fringe of his pale lashes hides those golden eyes, and with his face slack in sleep the resemblance to his kin is more obvious than ever. Awake, he is rather too animated—not given to Zenos’s apathetic anomie nor Varis’s dour mien, the relative he most resembles, she finds, is his grandsire Solus.
But Eros’s smiles are more expressive than wry, and that dimple in his cheek is not of the Galvus canon. Something of his mother’s, she supposes.
He does not rouse as she lays his arms loosely atop his chest. Shasi finds the room far colder once she’s slipped from the bed; she gathers her discarded clothing, clutching it to herself. There comes the oddest impulse to stay—after all, he had invited her to, less with words than deeds when he had turned on its face the chronometer meant to keep the time she was allotted with him. No less so when they had washed in the wake of their coupling and he had not handed her those garments she now holds against her body, but tugged her back into the bed that still smelled of them both. But she had been lucky to wake silent once and would not be so again. His face is so peaceful in repose, she thinks. She will not be the one to steal the ease from that countenance.
If she does not go now, she will never make it out. Shasi creeps across the floor, and quiet as she can, puts a door between them, standing naked in the silent halls of the bawdyhouse that—however impossibly—hosts a prodigal prince of the Empire. The sky is pre-dawn grey outside the distant windows, and she hastens to dress, confident now that the sound of her footfalls should not give her away.
Knowing not what she flees, X’shasi Kilntreader steals away into the last of the night.
Then, perchance, a star fell, with a trail of red.
— Aleksandr Blok
She is not but a week gone from Eulmore when she returns to it. She comes by airship from the Crystarium, and finds the City of Final Pleasures little changed since her last visit. But for its new resident. He is much changed—anyone else might not notice the tension in his jaw or the bruise-like shadows beneath his eyes; most of her companions may not care to.
She is hardly one for easy embrace, but when she takes his arm she cannot help but note the way his hands shake. X’shasi says nothing, only descends with him into the Canopy and the villa she has let there.
Zenos yae Galvus has not come to the First for leisure; there is little in his nature that would allow it. But after their return from Garlemald and the occasion of a note from Ryne about matters out in the Empty, she has brought him there. No one will be looking for the Crown Prince here, even if they know to. There have been many theories put about as to who is responsible for the death of Varis zos Galvus, some of them even more outlandish than the truth.
He is at ease with the ostentation of Eulmore’s gilded halls, though she can tell the sights bore him. “If you’re uncomfortable here,” she finds herself saying, “we could go elsewhere. Twine, perhaps. It’s nearer to the Empty, after all.” Even the Crystarium would be better. Few enough she might weather that place for, but he is on that short list. Not least because she’s certain he would gladly place himself between the Exarch and her, even without her asking. In this she is a spiteful creature, perhaps, but he has pledged his acceptance to all of her, even and perhaps especially the parts too ugly for her to bare before others.
After a moment, he says, “No. This is the place you’ve chosen; that is more than enough for me.”
Now that she looks, she can see Emet-Selch’s hand upon it—more lightly than in Garlemald, to be sure, but she has seen the city of his heart and now the city of his hands, which he molded to his needs and from which he ran his empire. Eulmore is neither Emet-Selch’s residence nor, in such a way, his tool, but Vauthry’s influence, she is finding, is really his influence, and there are parts of this place that do remind her of the Imperial Palace. “It doesn’t look like Garlemald to you? All the snow aside?”
“Ah,” he says. “A bit.”
“Is that why you’re not sleeping well?”
He seems surprised by the question, lifting a hand to his face as though he might feel the evidence against his fingers. They slide over his cheek and brush his long blonde hair back over his shoulder, but his expression never changes.
“No,” Zenos says. His throat is dry, his voice cracking as in those early days in a far different cage from this.
Shasi waves him to sit and fetches a glass of water. “Zenos,” she says a moment later, “what’s going on?”
He glances away, dark eyes fixed on something beyond this plane. Memory, she supposes, or dream. “Am I so obvious,” he murmurs, not quite a question. The next words are: “So weak?”
“Looking upon you I cannot help but recall how you were when first you awoke in the conservatory,” she tells him. “I have hardly known you to tire since.”
He smiles, crooked and sharp. “I don’t,” he says. Then, “How did you look upon me in my sickbed and not long to crush me?”
“I am not so cruel a creature as to save your life so I might end it at my leisure,” X’shasi says. “All executions notwithstanding.”
He shakes his head, dismissing the notion. “Yes,” he says, “I suppose that’s rather unbecoming in a hero. I hadn’t counted on that.”
“You accused me once of casting you in a role,” Shasi reminds him.
Zenos nods. “I did. You were. And so was I,” he admits. “I still believe that in the tales concerning us you would be described thus, but it is my own role I was mistaken about.”
“What do you mean?” she asks. His hands rest on the table before him. One of them cradles the glass of water, but the other simply sits idle. She studies the calluses upon it.
“My great-grandsire was fond of the arts,” Zenos says.
“I’m aware,” Shasi replies. She has not spoken much of her dealings with Emet-Selch to his descendant, and for a moment wonders if this might be the moment to disclose. She dismisses the notion a moment later—this is Zenos’s story, and ostensibly about why he looks so tired.
“Early in my life I took it upon myself to study all I could. His favorite epics and works of theatre, among other things. The Empire—and all of the Spoken races, in truth—has ever favored songs of war and tales of great battles and the greater people who fought and won them.”
“I suppose I’ve known enough bards to take that for the truth it is,” X’shasi agrees.
Zenos seeks her eyes, and, a moment later, finds them. “It became clear to me early on that the bards were liars,” he says. “That there was no bliss to be found in battle; no excitement. Not on the training ground, nor as I was made ready to enter the army, nor thereafter. When I crossed blades with Lord Kaien, something in me awoke for all too brief a time. But in that moment it lasted, I was granted clarity: that I would never make a hero, never know that euphoria that was their province in the arena of combat. That left one role for me to occupy, if I hoped to share that grandest of stages.”
“The villain,” Shasi says, voice hushed.
“Just so,” Zenos replies, taking a sip of his water. “Few enough were the nights I slept well in my youth,” he continues. “The night I defeated my tutor, my victory was ashes in my mouth and I found myself moved to dream instead of a worthy foe; of the stuff of songs. And not again until Kaien, when I understood my role. It never lasted,” he says.
The midday sun is not so harsh as the tyrannical light that had once scourged this place, but he looks sallow in it just the same. The shadows it carves into Zenos’s face only make worse the pallor and dullness of his skin, and for a moment, speaking of his past, he looks almost haunted. Fragile. Shasi stretches out her arm, her fingers brushing his knuckles a moment.
He looks down at her hand, and his unfurls like a galleon’s sails. It dwarfs hers, the whole of her hand resting in his palm. Zenos says, “When we came to Rhalgr’s Reach I expected to find nothing of interest to me there. I thought I should dream the same dream as ever. And when I left I had no reason to believe otherwise. And yet … I slept soundly, and dreamed of nothing. And at Doma, when we met there … the dream left me and did not return. Not until I came upon you, broken upon the ground, and the Emissary in my skin standing over you.”
Shasi cannot help but shudder at the memory, her free hand skating over her chest as though to assuage some ghostly ache. “Then the Hunt was,” she says, but finds she has not the words to finish.
“An attempt—horrific and misguided—to win some measure of peace for myself,” he says, bowing his head briefly. “To seize back command of my unconscious mind from that which has encroached all my life.”
“It went away,” she says, “when we fought that second time. When you named me your equal.”
Zenos nods again. “I believed I had found peace because I finally knew what role I would play and which tale I was in,” he says.
“But you were wrong,” X’shasi says.
“I was,” he agrees. “I did not think the hero of my tale would see my throat exposed and do anything but sink her teeth into my neck.” There is some retort she could make to that, but it is ill suited to this moment. “That you would see my weakness and do anything but destroy me. I had never imagined I could be in such a song where a place might be made at the hero’s side for one such as me.”
“What is your role now, do you believe?”
He looks at her. “A hero may have any number of allies or friends. Or lovers. I am glad to be counted among them at all.”
“I liked it better,” Shasi says, “when you named us equals.”
Then she asks, “Is it always the same dream?”
“All my life,” Zenos says.
“Tell me,” she says, in those soft words a plea.
“The heavens fall,” he says. “A city burns. A people flee.”
“Bozja?” she wonders.
He shakes his head. “No city I know,” he says, “though Bozja was gone long before I ever came that way.”
“I used to dream of Carteneau,” Shasi tells him. “Of the flares falling to earth; of the lamentations.”
“Yes,” he says. “More like that.”
She looks at him and, belatedly, understands. There’s no need to say it out loud, so she stands from her place at the table, and crosses to take him in her arms. Even with him sitting, he can envelop her easily, strong arms holding her head to his chest. In the warm darkness of his embrace she can still feel him shake.
“I wish I could do this for you,” she murmurs against his shirt.
“Hold me?” he wonders, shrugging to shift her arms around him.
“Make you feel safe,” she replies.
“Weren’t you listening, Shasi?” he says. “They go away when you’re around.”
Ishgard was much as Odette remembered it. If the opinion of Haurchefant Greystone de Fortemps was to be believed, Odette was much as Ishgard remembered her, too—in the rare cases that she was remembered at all.
Not but a sennight before she had sat in the Camp Dragonhead Intercessory, trying to divine whether or not Aymeric was one of those that recalled her. He had given no sign as he and Alphinaud debated back and forth, and although she had done her best to pay attention to their sophistry, it had proved an impossibility.
Much as it had proved an impossibility in the days after to think of anything else. The Scions’ business should have taken her to and fro, but Colette had all but shoved her twin across the Steps of Faith and bade her take care of her personal business lest it distract her in some crucial moment.
If they did not recognize her, neither did they stop her as she strode toward the seat of the Lord Commander. There was a surety in her step—certainly he would see her. He always had. Still, she paused to knock, and after a moment the door opened.
Aymeric was resplendent in blue. She always had liked it on him—it was a lucky coincidence that his house’s colors so suited him. The crimson of House Dzemael did not wear half so well on Odette, and she had envied him when they had attended formal occasions. There was a look of surprise upon his face, and then it softened.
“Odette,” he said, and then he cleared his throat. “Is aught amiss? I had been told all was well in Mor Dhona.”“It is,” she told him. “May I come in?”He nodded, stepping back from the door. “Of course. It’s wonderful to see you again.”
That was exactly what he had said a sennight before. He had kissed her hand and then left thereafter, and although Odette had gotten used to the idea that most of her old friends didn’t remember her at all after the Calamity, it had been harder to countenance the thought that his recall had been incomplete.
Odette closed the door behind herself, and searched his face for any trace of expression that might give him away one way or the other. She found none. “Do you recall,” she said after a moment, “the midwinter masque just before my grandfather abdicated his counthood?”Aymeric nodded. “We all dressed as saints that year,” he said. “Well, the four of us.”“What else do you recall from that evening?” Odette prompted.He glanced aside, clearing his throat. Though Aymeric’s expression never lost its composure, she could not help but note the tips of his ears had tinged pink.“Ah,” Odette said. “So you do remember.”“How could I forget?” he asked, voice low and throaty.Odette pursed her lips. “The world entire had forgotten me, and you seemed not to recall our shared history.”He fixed his blue, blue eyes upon her. “Forgive me,” he said. “I had not meant to give you such a poor impression.”She said nothing, only looked at him, and hoped her face did not give her away. It would never do, Maman had taught her, to allow a man to see how much she longed for him.
“Of course I remember, Odette,” he said. “With my last breath I will remember, I do not doubt.”“But you gave no sign.”He laughed, and there was a desperate edge to it. “I warred with myself over it,” he admitted. “But what sign could I have given that would not have led me to find myself in a compromising position in Lord Haurchefant’s office?”Odette grinned. “I do not think you know Lord Haurchefant very well,” she told him. “Regardless, we are in your office now. Do you trust this lock as well as your old one?”
It was not just his ears that were flushed then, she had the pleasure of noting in the scant few seconds it took him to close the gap between them. He took his face in her hands and lifted her mouth to his. The kiss was gentle—he always was—but urgent, and in the meeting of their lips Odette felt not just the years that had passed for her since she left Ishgard, but the five more he had endured that she did not recall. If she was guarded about her longing, he did not care to be so, for she felt it in the heat of him and saw it in his eyes when he drew back at last.“Yes,” he murmured, and leaned down to kiss her again.
He was close enough to the real thing that when Patience stroked his cheek, she could hardly feel the discrepancy between what eyes and fingers told her.
He was not the real thing, of course, though he had consented to be for the night. The real thing, the real Gideon, was entombed as ever in his chair somewhere just out of sight. But telepathy was not merely the ability to read thoughts, but form them as well, so when she looked at this man, she did not see a stranger in ware. She just saw Gideon.
He lifted his hand to her own, tender fingers brushing the back of her palm and interlacing with her own. Then he pulled her hand from his cheek and turned his face away. She could still see the way his brow knit above his dark eyes, but before she could ask what was wrong, he spoke.
“This is untenable,” Gideon said.It was Patience’s turn to frown. “What do you mean?”“All of this.”“If the psyk is too much effort, you don’t need to do both things at once; I can--”“All of this,” he said, letting go of her hand at last. He turned his gaze upon her once more. “We will leave this place, and we can’t take him with us.”
Him, of course, being the person erased even as he stood before her. She wanted to protest--he was an Inquisitor, after all; nothing was beyond his ability to command. The man took ware well; that alone should have made him asset enough to keep. Or perhaps that was merely her selfish desire speaking.
“Rather,” he said, “I will not take him with us. You are right about waring him, but there are others that take it just as well and have other skills besides. It seems perverse to upend a young man’s life for my own follies.”“What you must think of me,” Patience said, “for wanting that very same thing.”“I think the world of you,” Gideon told her. He smiled, despite himself. “All the worlds. That’s part of my reasoning. I am an Imperial Inquisitor, and with all the rights that grants I am also afforded certain responsibilities, which I derelict every time we do this.”She could not see Gideon at all then, nor the man underneath whose body he borrowed; her vision blurred with tears. Patience blinked hastily, trying to clear them, as though she could push them back down before they fell. She had half a hundred counterarguments--was it that Arianhrod’s death had come so soon before the Atrocity that he thought that had broken him? Was it that Bequin’s loss had broken his mentor? She was not Arianhrod; he was not Gregor Eisenhorn.
“No,” he said softly, “we aren’t.”“We’re not going to become them!”He smiled sadly. Then he said again, “No, we aren’t.”“Damn it, Gideon,” she said. “At least have the decency to kiss me goodbye.”
His expression softened. She could feel his sorrow, or perhaps her own was so strong she had to attribute it to someone else. His hands were gentle, almost reverent, as he brushed back her dark hair. Gideon cradled her cheeks in his hands, touching her as though she were fragile as ash and a thousand times more precious. He bent his mouth to hers and kissed her, soft and sad. Patience threw her arms around his shoulders, surging upward, not ready for him to withdraw, and kissed him in return. Then again, and again, as though if she never stopped this would never end.
But it would. It already had. She sunk back from the balls of her feet, and let her arms fall back to her sides. There was no point in saying goodbye; he knew all of her thoughts. Or he had.
He was gone, then, and standing in front of her was a stranger who looked a little like someone she loved.
I’m not saying this is canon but I wouldn’t mind if it were. It’s probably best summed up by this meme Sars made:
I hope this is some comfort (or torment?) to those I shipwrecked.
It hadn’t been an easy sell. For most people, a road trip across America sounded like a dream summer vacation—or at least the plot of a decent movie—but, because it was her, Vaughn had taken some convincing. He hadn’t come at all at first, actually, and Jacinth had taken Malcolm to see Cape Cod and up to the Maritime Museum in Maine alone. By the time they were headed to New York City, he had repented of the idea, and she had picked him up at the airport.
Vaughn’s luggage was full of books. That had made her laugh—it really seemed far more like an Alfred thing—but eventually he explained that he had intended to spend the summer reading through the Griffin’s library in the hopes of figuring out the planeswalking that Acacia had mentioned.
That had stung a bit—echoes of the same old regret that had pricked her when Vaughn had asked why she couldn’t have broken her news while the portal to Naribran was still open—but if he had wanted to stay well clear of her, he had had that opportunity.
And given it up. Had left New Hampshire so that he could join them on this road trip. Jacinth hadn’t been entirely sure what to make of it; she had no idea what any of it meant except, perhaps, that she was selfish.
When she had mentioned it at confession—at the cathedral in Philadelpha—she had been quickly absolved. It was not a sin to desire the companionship of others, the priest told her, nor to delight in their company. When she told him she was tempted to seek a second opinion, he had laughed gently and told her that Saint Liguori directed the faithful to trust in their confessor, for to accept his judgment was to follow the direction of God.
She had left Philadelphia gladder for it, and for Vaughn’s companionship, even on long, landmarkless days where he stretched across the back seat, reading from the Griffin’s notebooks aloud. Malcolm would provide context and commentary from time to time, teaching them more about his world even as they introduced him to Earth.
It was hot in Flagstaff, though not nearly so much as one might have expected in the Arizona summertime. It was the elevation, she supposed, and the cloudless night. From Mars Hill she could look down on the city below and see only a few lamps illuminating crosswalks and service stations. Most of the rest had been extinguished around 9, when they had left the bar where they’d eaten a late dinner.
Tomorrow, the Grand Canyon waited. For now, there was the quiet forest of Mars Hill and the Lowell Observatory atop. Even without the aid of the telescope they had come to see in the after-hours, the night sky was brilliant overhead. Malcolm’s hand rested in her own, and they both gazed upwards. His awe was naked on his face—and more so still when the attendants had directed his view toward Pluto—discovered at this very observatory all those years before. He had asked a thousand questions, and although the astronomers seemed amused by the enthusiasm he showed, they had gamely answered each.
And now they stood in the dark night, watching the moon peek through the treetops. Vaughn was a little ways away, his gaze turned upward too, hands thrust into the pouch pocket of his maroon sweatshirt.He cleared his throat. “I’ll get the car,” he offered. “Jay?” He held out an expectant hand, waiting for her to toss him the keys.Malcolm nudged her ribs with his elbow, and she glanced over to find him smiling. She smiled back, raking a hand through her hair—grown a bit shaggy on the road, tickling at her neck now.“Actually,” she said, letting go of Malcolm’s hand, “I’ll go with you.”“You sure?” Vaughn asked.“I’m cold,” Jacinth told him, drawing abreast of him.Vaughn looked at her, shoulders bare in her tank top, and then over at Malcolm, who was little better off in a tee. His runic tattoos peeked out beneath the short sleeves. Vaughn sighed, peeling out of his sweatshirt and thrusting it at her. “Here,” he said.
Jacinth murmured her thanks, shrugging into it. It smelled like him—not just hotel soap or the splash of cologne he wore, but like him in a way that nothing else ever would, and the fabric was soft and warm against her bare arms. He watched her as she lifted the hood and let it fall, toying with the drawstrings, and there was a private war going on behind his eyes she could see only in the set of his lips—as though he was trying too hard not to smile.“I’ll meet you out front in a minute,” Malcolm said.“Come on,” Jay urged. She wanted to reach out and take him by the arm, but that seemed like a transgression.
When it was Vaughn’s turn to drive, sometimes it was Jacinth in the back seat, stretched out and dead to the world. Acacia came and went as she pleased, but wherever she was, Jay could reach out and speak to her. It was kind of nice to have a faerie godmother, if a bit surreal, and since Wyoming, she had relied on her guidance more and more.
“So,” Vaughn said. “Where to next?”“The Grand Canyon tomorrow,” she said. “After that, I guess I was thinking Vegas? We have about a month left of summer before we should get back east.”“Don’t they card you in Vegas?” Vaughn wondered. “My roommate was going to go sophomore year, but they wouldn’t let him play. Be a problem for Malcolm.”Jacinth flinched. “Maybe not, then.”“Well,” Vaughn said, “unless you think we could pass him off as Alfred.”She laughed, and it echoed off the stone path underfoot. “Sure,” she said, “just some light identity theft. It should be fine.” She sighed. “Honestly, I haven’t figured out what to do about that. Sooner or later it’s going to be a problem.”Vaughn shrugged.
Soon they passed the rotunda and were headed back toward the visitors’ center. The parking lot waited just beyond, and that hardly seemed an appropriate place. “Hey,” Jacinth said, stopping short.Vaughn stopped too, turning back to look at her. “Yeah?” he said.“I’m glad you’re here.”He gave her a funny sort of look. “I’m glad I came, too, in the end.” It wasn’t an unalloyed happiness.She took a deep breath. Mars Hill was covered with pine trees, and she could smell them on the night air. “Do you still like me?”He seemed dumbfounded by the question. “Of course I still like you. You’re still a good person,” he was quick to say.Jay laughed, nervously, and felt her smile dimple her cheeks. “No, not … this is awkward,” she said after a moment. “I don’t think there’s a way around that. Just … since Yellowstone, Malcolm and I have been talking. I think he brought it up back in Chicago, but … Anyway, so, the thing is …”“Jacinth,” he said, in that firm, grounding way that he always had when her thoughts ran away with her in Naribran.“Are you still in love with me?” she asked instead.Vaughn looked pained, and then turned his face up toward the heavens, as though the Milky Way contained the truth of the matter in its smear of stars. It was a long moment before he said, “Yeah.”“That’s what I thought,” she said. She reached out to take his hand, but he tugged it away.“Things with Malcolm not working out?” he wondered. There was no bitterness in his tone that she could detect.“Things with Malcolm are fine,” she said, feeling her cheeks grow hot. “It’s just …”“Just what,” he said.
Jacinth sighed, trying to tuck her hair back behind her ears. It didn’t work—how often had she forgotten she didn’t have long hair in this body? “I never felt nothing for you,” she said. “I just wasn’t in love with you. I didn’t really have time to figure that out before you died, and I couldn’t really figure it out after. But now you’re alive, and you’re here. It’s still really confusing, but I’ve started to figure some things out.”He regarded her warily. She knew that look—had worn it a few times herself, guarding against hope in the assumption that would protect against disappointment later.“Do you remember,” she said, “when we were negotiating with the Nordics and Volkepf was explaining how things worked in their band?”Vaughn’s brow furrowed. “Yeah,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d want to. Wait, are you trying to set me up with Malcolm?”Jacinth laughed. “No,” she told him. Then she cleared her throat and said, “This isn’t about you two, uh, sharing honor or whatever their euphemism was. It’s more about the part where I said that in my homeland, men couldn’t marry men, and he said that where I came from sounded really … not oppressive, that wasn’t the word, but what he meant was that people should be free to just be whoever they are and pursue who they like?”Vaughn nodded, but he didn’t relax. “Where are you going with this, Jacinth?”
She glanced skyward a moment, then turned her gaze on Vaughn once more. “I wanted to walk back with you because I wanted to ask you a question.”“So this is just, what?” he teased. “Opening arguments?”“Sort of,” she admitted. “Malcolm knows about my feelings, and he supports them, so I wanted to ask …”He waited. There was no impatience in his body language.“We’re not breaking up,” Jacinth hastened to add. “Malcolm and I, we’re still going to be together, but if that’s alright, I wanted to ask: would it be alright if I kissed you?”
Vaughn looked at her a long moment, dumbstruck. She couldn’t help but feel exposed—not to the night air, but to him. His examination of her and her feelings; his judgment. It was only a moment or two, but it felt like a thousand stars rose and died overhead in that instant. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah.”
This was not something she could just throw herself into, so she reached for him, cradling his face in her hands. She could feel the day’s growth of stubble against her palms, and she smiled. He wrapped his arms around her in turn, and Jacinth leaned in, tipping her head to one side.
His lips were warm and soft against her own, and although this was not a deep kiss she lingered over it, breathing in the scent of his skin, and the warmth of him; the safety she had always felt in his presence.
When she drew back, she couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her. “I’m really glad you’re here,” she said.“Yeah,” Vaughn said, smiling. “Me too.”
Anyway! Now’s as good a time as any to mention a few things.
One: I am among the winners of this contest!
Two: You can read my entry here.
Three: This entry, as my OOC postscript makes clear, is about someone specific.
Four: I was absolutely terrified to write this piece because I guess I felt like my happiness was so fragile that I didn’t dare look at it directly lest it crumble beneath the force of my gaze. Those of you who have been around a while (and maybe read an essay I wrote last year) know that I went through some shit that led to the end of my tenure in WOW. Since then, I wasn’t really interested in meeting new people for roleplay--or that interested in roleplay generally, having satisfied that need writing for myself.
I keep waiting for the shoe to drop, because that’s the nature of things after experiences like mine. Not even the other shoe, the first one. It hasn’t. I’m happy. I have looked directly into the face of my happiness and it has not flinched. Acknowledging that happiness has brought me more of the same, and accomplishment besides.
And maybe I deserve it? I’m still working on feeling that particular feeling. But maybe. Anyway, my entry means a lot to me, so it would also mean a lot if you would read it. Thanks.
[Iimagine this as the cold open to Part Two of the CompletelyNormal Christmas OVA. Also this ran away with me a little.]
Herphone had buzzed almost non-stop since she exited the train station,sprinting down city blocks and across zebra striped crosswalks. Shehadn’t even stopped to check it; Miyumi could guess already who themessages were from and what they were likely to be saying.
Shewas not a very good runner. Miyumi was sure that her hair was allwindblown and her cheeks were red by the time she came to the cafe.She might have stopped to check her reflection in the glass front ofthe shop, but what if someone saw?
Worsestill, what if no one did? The cafe seemed pretty empty. Shepushed open the door, trying to smooth her hair back into place withher fingers as she wandered between the seats. A few people looked upat her as she passed, but they were all strangers to her. Her stepsgrew heavy as she approached the counter.
Herphone had been silent the last few blocks, and she kept waiting forit to jolt in her pocket, but it remained still. The girl behind thecounter—maybe a couple of years older than Miyumi, probably astudent at the nearby university—smiled at her.
“MayI help you?” she asked.“Um,” Miyumi said. “Did you seea boy come in? About my age, his hair is dyed red, and he wears darkclothes.”She nodded. “Yes, he came in an hourago—”“Great!” Miyumi said, a bit more shrilly than shemeant to, enthusiasm running away with her. “Do you know where he’ssitting?”“… But he left,” she finished.“Oh,”Miyumi said. “How … how long ago?”The girl shrugged. “Idon’t know. Not very long. He seemed unhappy.”“Isee. Thank you.”
Sheleft without buying anything, and although she had expected theDecember cold, an unexpectedchill took her as she stepped back out onto the city streets alone.She thought for a moment about where he might have gone, and then shewas off again, rushing through Tokyo.
Theywere already setting up light displays, she noted vaguely as shepassed. Her first thought was that it might have been nice to go, buther second was that it seemed unlikely. She caught a train and rodeit all the way out to the end of the line, where it exchanged withbullet trains heading out of the city. But Shoji didn’t take thetrain, she knew. He parked, and she hustled up to the garage.
Thewet concrete had a particular scent that mingled with the fumes thatseemed to permeate the air, sickly-sweet, and Miyumi tried not tosniffle as she walked the spiral that led from ground to the toplevel. Shoji’s car was very distinctive—a vintage Americanimport, and not really very practical for the long drives between thecity and Hitachinaka. It was comfortable, though, or perhaps she hadalways found a particular comfort in the passenger seat, Shojidriving one-handed, the other resting on her knee.
Therewas no sign of him. Miyumi sat down on the hood of his car, hunchingher shoulders up against the cold, and fished her phone out of herpocket at last. A handful of her notifications were from the StudyGroup’s mass text, and one from Reika, but the bulk of them werefrom Shoji. It was a foregone conclusion what they said, but sheopened LINE anyway and scrolled through them.
Asever, there were cheery updates letting her know about his arrival inthe city, his campus tours, and so on. Then a snap from the coffeeshop of him reclining on one of the leather couches, pointing up atthe painting overhead so that she’d have a landmark. And then, overthe hour since his arrival, messages that went from curious toworried to resigned.
Thelast one simply read, Whatever.
Miyumiclosed her phone and shoved it back into her pocket. She spent a fewminutes trying to convince herself to stand up and walk away, becausesurely Shoji wouldn’t want to find her waiting anyway, but when shelifted her head and let her feet slip from the chrome bumper, sheheard footsteps. She couldn’t see the person’s face over theroofs of the nearby cars, but the fadedred dye in his hair caught the light in a particular way.
Beforethey had broken up the first time, Shoji wore his hair in its naturalfashion—all dark; a little tousled but not too shaggy. The usualcustom was to cut one’s hair, of course, but his had been too shortto do much with, and she never had done it herself because …Well,because she hadn’t wanted to.When he had showed up to KatsutaHigh with those blood-red streaks in his hair, the message had comethrough loud and clear just the same. She hated the look of it onhim, despite how cute it was, and hoped someday it would all justgrow out.
“Miyumi?”he said, standing in front of her, looking down at her where shestill sat atop his car. “You didn’t answer my texts.”“Iwas stuck with my sister,” she said. “Reika was really insistentthat she take me to the bookstore and show me what’s what, and Icouldn’t leave.”Shoji sighed. “You could have.”“Notwithout making her suspicious,” Miyumi said.“Suspicious ofwhat?” he asked. “I don’t understand what’s supposed to be asecret. Are you embarrassed of me or something? Because we can solvethat really easily, Miyumi.”“No!” she protested, and whenshe sniffled it wasn’t all to do with the cold. “I’m notembarrassed of you. You’re the smartest guy in the whole school,and you’re really cute, and I really like you—”“Sowhat’s the problem?” Shoji asked, his impatience growing.
Miyumiclosed her eyes, pressing them tighter for a moment. “My familydoesn’t know we’re dating again,” she said. “Before … lasttime …”“When we broke up, you mean,” Shoji said,crossing his arms over his chest.Miyumimurmured an affirmative. “It wasn’t because I was bored,” shesaid. “I was really happy with you, actually. The whole time. And Iwas really sad about what I had to do!”“You never hadto break up with me!” Shojiprotested.“Yes I did!” Miyumi shouted back, her voiceechoing over the asphalt. “My parents told me I had to, so I hadto!”Shoji glanced away, brows furrowed above his blue eyes.“Then why are we even dating again?” he asked. “If we evenreally are.”“We are,” Miyumi said quickly.“You’reso flaky about it and you always invite other people on ourdates.”Miyumi huffed out a sigh, breath visible in theDecember cold. “Only because if it just looks like I’m going outwith friends, then it’s fine! That’s what I had to do so I couldkeep seeing you like I wanted. And there’s a really good reason forwhy I’m late all the time or have to cancel so much.”Hewaited. Somewhere further down in the garage, an engine turnedover.“I just … can’t tell you what it is,” she saidlamely after a moment. “But it’s also the reason why I wasconfident enough to even ask you to get back together. Please try tobelieve it’s a good thing.” Maybe then she could believe thatmore often as well.
Momentspassed in silence, and then Miyumi slipped to the ground to stand onher own two feet. “If you want to break up with me, I’llunderstand,” she said.“Miyumi,”he said, and then he sighed. “Can you at least just text me whenyou know you’re going to be late? I’m not asking that much.”Sheshivered, though she tried to hide it. “I’ll do my best,” shepledged.“Are you cold?” he asked, but he didn’t wait foran answer, just unzipped his jacket and pulled her into him for ahug. She slipped her arms around him, between jacket and shirt, andfelt the warmth and steadiness of him as he held her to hischest.“Reika says she’s moving to Hitachinaka,” Miyumitold him.“So she’s going to be around even more?”“Atleast half the week. The other half she’ll be here for class. Ifigured I should tell you now, since …”Shoji held hertighter, kissing at the crown of her hair. She pressed her lips tothe sliver of skin visible above the v-neck of his shirt. “We’lljust have to be really smart,” he said. “It shouldn’t be toohard.”
For @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast’s FFXIVWrite 2019.
[Title]
[AO3 mirror]
She could at least walk to the tea room under her own power. That was a mercy, though Odette still favored the ankle she had twisted some few days before. Still, she dared not wear white as she was accustomed to, dressed instead in a wine-red gown that might not show so obviously if her wounds reopened. As was their wont.
Perhaps instead it was her wont to reopen them.
The servant who announced her was too obsequious for her liking—but then everyone in the house was either unctuous or callous, sometimes by turns. Maman’s influence, she did not doubt. Besides, there was no need to bow and scrape; Odette knew who her caller was. She had only had the one visitor throughout all of her convalescence. Guillaume had written, and a few had sent flowers, but none of them came in person, though she had briefly allowed herself to entertain such hopes about Rielle.
Aymeric de Borel stood, hands clasped gently behind his back, always attentive but somehow more alive when he looked upon her. “Odette,” he said, with such warmth that it could have melted the frost from windowpanes even in Halone’s own moon.
“Lord Speaker,” she greeted him in turn, and if he was stung by her formality he did not show it.
Instead he merely crossed to pull out her chair, offering a hand she refused to take as she settled into it. Odette dismissed the servant with a wave. Winter sunlight streamed in through the windows, glittering on his earring and the pin in his cravat. For a moment she was abashed; the fullness of her splendor was too much to endure getting on with while she was yet recovering, but he had seen her with sweat upon her brow and poppy’s milk in her veins. The thought was less comfort than she hoped, reflecting on it.
“I am pleased to see your recovery progressing,” he said.
“Not as swiftly as I’d hoped,” she admitted. “Nor the rest of the world, I imagine.”
His smile was pained, and for a moment Odette thought he would ask her to come and stay with him again. She had considered the offer—not the first time he made it, but the second or third, when she remembered what troubled her in this house. She even had the sense that in some fevered state she had said yes, but perhaps that was only a dream. If she had, he had waited for her to acknowledge it first, and it bore no mention for her. He spoke not, in the end. Instead his fingers brushed a small box on the table, wrapped in glossy blue paper.
The maid came then with the tea service, and laid saucer, cup, and spoon before them. Aymeric smiled gently at her. “I’ll pour,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” she said, her tone syrupy. She curtsied to him, and then to Odette. “My lady.” Then she withdrew, never turning away, and Odette found herself annoyed all over again.
“Why do they do that?” she wondered. Aymeric chuckled a little to himself, and it was only then she realized the thought had escaped her lips.
He took the teapot in his hands, and tipped it to pour a measure into her cup. As he poured for himself, he said, “You are a hero a hundred times over, and nearly gave your life in the defense of Ishgard and her allies. Why would they not?”
“It’s not as though they’re sincere,” Odette noted with dismay, stirring a lump of sugar into her tea.
“Why wouldn’t they be?” he asked, drizzling birch syrup into his cup.
Odette rolled her eyes. “Maman is not happy,” she said. “She’s concerned about the scar, of course.”
“So she would rather a picturesque daughter than a valiant one?”
She could not help but laugh at that. “Always. Don’t you recall how unhappy she was when I chose to pursue service with the Temple Knights?”
“I had hoped that might have changed, given everything else that has.” Aymeric frowned.
“Estellise de Dzemael does not change,” Odette said; “she merely waits for the world to conform to her expectations.”
She could feel his concern, and the resignation that challenged it, though it would not yield. That was her gift, and her curse; she wanted to flee the room rather than abide one moment more in his pity. But she swallowed the impulse with her next sip of tea, and with it went her own reactions. It was unseemly for her to be afraid. She could not be angry instead, nor cold—it would never be winter in her heart for him, whatsoever she might wish—and so she elected instead to be greedy.
“But what’s this you’ve brought me?” she prompted, gesturing to the package beside his hand.
“Ah,” he said. “A gift.” He offered it up to her, and she set her cup and saucer aside a moment to set it before her. She picked open the white ribbons and carefully unfolded the blue paper, laying it aside—whole but creased—to look upon his gift.
In one small box she found a lacquered wooden pen and a half-dozen replacement nibs; another held a triad of small bottles of ink and a block of sealing wax. The last wooden box was large enough to hold letters, and it nearly did—envelopes and stationary folded to nest neatly. Letters in waiting. Atop them was a small silver charm. It looked like an envelope, and would fit neatly on her chatelaine. She opened it to find stamps, printed with etchings of flora from the Churning Mists. She laid them out in front of her. There she espied the Seventh Heaven blossom, and there a kupo nut, and a cloud mallow. Iceheart’s Tears, too, and for a moment Odette longed to stand once more in the shadow of Zenith. Anywhere but here.
“What is this?” she asked, looking from it to him, then back down again as she folded the stamps back up into their accordion and tucked them away in the envelope charm once more.
“It seems to me,” Aymeric said, “that your convalescence is drawing toward its end and you will soon resume your adventures. When I consulted your sister on the matter, she told me that you possessed no implements to write letters on your journeys, and it was my hope that in providing that which is needful, you might be encouraged to send word now and then.”
Her sister. Of course. Her younger twin had said this to him. It was not a shortage of paper that had stayed her hand; she kept a logbook, after all. But it seemed far too cruel to tell him outright that she did not write because she simply did not wish to. Not when he had made his yearnings plain with this gift. Odette considered what she might say in reply, taking up her tea to sip it. She looked across the table and found Aymeric’s blue eyes intent upon her own. She came to no conclusion even as she stretched out her arm once more, teacup delicately in hand.
She dropped it. The sound of porcelain shattering echoed in the room. She never looked away from Aymeric’s face.
Footsteps out the door presaged someone’s coming, and only then did she remember to dread her mother’s displeasure. Surely she would not be happy to find the family china in shards, and Odette knew a pang of fearful regret.
Aymeric reached across the table, setting his cup on her vacant saucer, and knelt beside the table. He was there when the maid came in, looking concerned.
“What happened?” she asked. “Is everything alright?”
“Merely an accident,” Aymeric said, in that even way of his. “Please forgive my clumsiness.”
They knelt there on the floor, picking white shards from grey stone, and Odette looked on dispassionately. Aymeric glanced at her once or twice, but she gave him nothing. She had nothing to give. He had secured her escape from consequences with his lie, perhaps, and yet something still ached in her heart. She dared say nothing, lest she confess her crimes.
Soon the mess was gone, and the maid too, and the rest of the tea service. They sat there at an empty table, his wishes laid out between them.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. It was barely a question, a gentle entreaty to unburden herself. “What could have possessed you to do that?”
She had an answer, but could not give it—certainly not while she looked into his eyes. “What would you do,” she wondered, “if you returned to Saint Finnea’s cloisters and set all the swans free, but one swan insisted upon remaining? She would eat of your table, should you offer, and shelter beneath the eaves there, and swim in the lake, but she would always peck at you every time you came near?” She stacked the wooden boxes in front of her, looking down at her hands as she worked. “She doesn’t know why, and you have done nothing wrong, but whenever you see her, she pecks you. Wouldn’t you give up, eventually?”
Aymeric said nothing for a long time. Then he said, “Well—does she love me?”
“Her love for you is an agony.”
His brow knit; his face crumpled. “Why should love ever be agony?”
It seemed a naive question coming from him—had he never suffered for love of her? “Do you love me still?”
“Yes,” he said at once.
She shook her head. “It is torment enough that you love me, and torment twice over that I love you. I wish I did not; these feelings are unwelcome to me. But it is not because you are not a good man—rather you are the best of all men, and should be free to choose someone better suited to your happiness.”
He looked upon her then with perplexity, though beneath it she could feel his joy. “You have not spoken of this before,” he said. “What moves you to speak now?”
“I have been reminded much of late of my own deficiencies,” she said.
“In what way?”
Odette considered a long moment. When she spoke, it was bluntly: “Fray and I chanced to meet again. And Gaius van Baelsar is in love with my twin sister.”
Aymeric pressed his lips into a thin line. “I knew that the Black Wolf lived, having been briefed on the subject, but I remain uncertain what connects these two matters.”
“It was not a happy reunion,” Odette said. “Neither of them were happy reunions. Knowing me seems to have done Fray Myste more harm than good, and I cannot see how it would be otherwise for you. And the legatus of the XIVth—though he claims to have shed that mantle; as soon part a wolf from his pelt, I think; it would go more easily.” She cleared her throat. “Van Baelsar is in love with my twin sister. We shared him once, more than gladly. Did you know this? Did I ever deign to tell you? Well, see me now for what I am.” She shook her head. Aymeric seemed on the verge of speech, but she could brook no forebearance lest she lose her nerve. So she continued, “I no longer feel comfortable with that. When last he was made to endure my affections, it felt like an intrusion where I am no longer invited. It is, though I wish it not, an affront to me. But in truth it is only the most natural consequence. Colette is a far more comforting person than I. So far as I know she has left no wounds in her wake like the ones I dealt Fray Myste, who loved me once and no longer.
“But on due reflection,” Odette continued, “what would I do, really, if he were in love with me? If either of them were in love with me? Would it be welcome to me in the least? I was forced to admit that it would not, and my envy of the love they bore others was simplest foolishness. After all, was I not tormented enough by the knowledge of the love you bore me—that you bear for me still? Why should I compound that unhappiness, or wish it upon any other person?” She turned her gaze from his face; from those blue eyes and his moue of concern. Outside the window she watched the sleet drive from the heavens into the city, and longed to feel its sting against her skin. “It gave me no great joy to consider it, and I decided that my feelings, unwholesome and unwelcome as they are, should be conveyed to you nevertheless.”
His hand brushed hers; covered it. She stared out the window. “Of course,” he said. “That all sounds very much like nothing.”
“Oh, do not comfort me now!” Her gaze snapped back toward him. “This is nothing; you have agreed, and it is beneath you to debase yourself by taking my hand!”
Aymeric winced, and lowered his eyes. He lifted his hand and instantly she missed its weight and warmth. “’Twas a poorly considered jest,” he said, but did not reach for her again. “I do not think it is nothing, for nothing you feel is insignificant to me. Least of all this. If my attentions are a torment to you, I will at your word withdraw and never mention my feelings again.” His throat bobbed, as though he too sought to swallow his sorrows as she had done so often. Aymeric looked upon her face once more, and said, “It has been my greatest hope that I might one day prove worthy of your love, but if that love does you harm, then I cannot wish for it. Your happiness and comfort are much more dear to me.”
Odette looked down at their hands, ilms and an entire world apart. “The swan will not leave the monastery of her own will,” she said. “It falls to you to turn her out.”
Aymeric said, “If your affections are elsewhere laid, of course I shall not interfere. My greatest wish for you then would be that you might be recognized for the extraordinary woman you are.”
“I don’t love him!” Odette said, balling her hand into a fist. “I have never loved Gaius van Baelsar, and I am not certain I ever loved Fray Myste! Gaius is in love with my sister—and there is no part of me that wishes for his love, even were I worthy of it.”
Aymeric began, “I see—”
“She is a better match for him,” Odette said. “And Sidurgu a better match for Fray, and Lucia a better match for you. Even Estinien—I sought so tirelessly to save Estinien not simply for my sister’s sake but for yours. Meager though his comforts are, they would certainly serve you better than mine.”
“Lucia is a fine woman,” Aymeric said. “And Estinien is a dear friend. Still, I do not love them as I love you.”
Odette let her hand fall to the table, disarmed of her anger. Of every shield she could conjure to mask her true feelings. What was left? Sorrow, and longing, and uncertainty—none of them becoming on a lady. “Why not?” she said. Her voice was plaintive. “It has been two years since we said goodbye, and since I revealed to you the unworthiness of my heart. Of my behavior. Why not lay your affections elsewhere? I had thought perhaps you would … stop, someday. I still think you will.”
He looked upon her with naked wonder, innocent as a child’s, and as all-enduring. “What could ever persuade me to stop?”
“Your peers will not be kind to you,” Odette said. It was the first of the old arguments. “I know my own reputation.”
“You are a hero of the realm, and people love you more than you can know.” Aymeric lowered his gaze to their hands once more. “And those that do not make no difference to me. I was a bastard adopted by a dowager, and now I am as much a patricide as a hero. But shame has never come to live under my roof.”
It seemed inconceivable to her, an alien world to her own. What came next? “I would not make a good wife to you.”
“We need not marry,” he said, “if that is not your wish. I would gladly forego that honor for the greater one of having you by my side.” That was what he always said, but as with the last answer he had more to add that was new to her: “What makes a good wife?”
She looked at him, frowning as she considered the question. “Composure,” she said; a lady could never be allowed to be as angry nor as sad as she had proven herself before him. “And deference, and all those qualities I lack.”
He smiled a little, though the expression was rueful. “Composure you have,” he told her. “You have shown it in far greater trials than Ishgardian society can conceive of, much less offer. And I do not want your deference anyway; I never have. What I have admired all my life in you is how unafraid you are to speak for your convictions. To knock me back when I am being foolish.”
“You are never foolish,” Odette said.
“I am more a fool than you imagine,” he said. “But I want you for an equal.”
“Even if we were to wed, I am far too old and much too busy to give you children,” Odette told him, the last of all her arguments—and the one she never won.
He laughed. The sound was gentle, warm, as though it was a comfort to him to return at last to the end of this road. “Should you want them, we can adopt. How could I ever object to such a thing?”
He looked at her then, and turned his hand over to offer it up to her. “Do you know why the swan always wants to peck me?”
It was such a sudden change of topics that it took her a moment to recall her own earlier metaphor. “No,” she said.
“It is because she’s afraid,” Aymeric said. “And there is much to fear, especially in a life as perilous as yours. But I want you to feel—and to know—that you are safe with me.”
She looked at that gentle hand, waiting for her to take it. “Why?” she asked. “Why not put the swan out of the monastery? If you would but chase her away, she would never trouble you with her presence again.”
He shook his head, the motion just barely visible in the periphery of her vision. “I faced once the reality of a world bereft of you,” he said. “I would never choose it.”
There was so much being offered to her with that waiting hand. It seemed impossible, thinking on it. And yet … as much as it would betray her innermost feelings—a cardinal sin, her mother had taught her at a young age—didn’t she want to take it?
Odette laid her hand across his palm. “I can’t stay in Ishgard all the time,” she said. “I can’t put this life before my duties.”
“I know. And I would never ask,” Aymeric said. “But if you can spare a moment, you are always welcome.” He folded his fingers over hers, and sat there, hand-in-hand with her.
