A wistful chilly morning (Post-6.2, WoL!Jordan)
Jordan sighed as she felt the last bit of warmth from her teacup fade. She had taken the last sip but a moment before, looking as the sun had lifted up past the horizon. The morning had begun in earnest here at the small cottage by the sea off the east coast of Vylbrand.
Ever since she returned from the edge of the universe, the brink of death, an entire year ago, Jordan had taken to having morning tea out on the veranda on every clear morning she could. Sometimes a neighbor would stop by, sometimes her oldest friend Emmeline, sometimes some important somebody or other representative of the Admiral or Alliance or whatnot. Mostly, it was just herself and her animals.
This morning, she spied her chocobo Pipa, dozing against her friend Cuddles, the brown bear. It was getting a bit chilly after all Jordan thought May’aps I need to bring in the stable cover n’ one of ‘em Garlean-style ceruleum heaters. Jordan let a soft chuckle out, despite herself.
The months after The Final Days were a blur. The first month, she visited her family in Ul’dah for a while, crying despite herself when her adoptive granddaughter bent down and gave her a hug upon their first meeting. Despite what she said to Sami, it wasn’t really from the chronic pain in her shoulder.
The next months were, to be frank, debauched. She had abstained from drink, but not from her other vices. She had coin enough saved up and a sizeable discount for the one who help stop the bloody end of th’ world, after all. Then she chartered a boat off to the South Seas. Tataru had some cockamamie scheme of settling an island, but settling wasn’t the point.
Years ago, she had made a pledge. She promised herself when it was over, when she knew her grandchildren would grow up in a time without war, like she had, she would go out to sea alone and end her life. She had done it. Committed to that future. And here she was, as she had panned, placing the proverbial blade to her throat.
But she couldn’t do it. She knew as she alighted from Oschon’s Torch that she didn’t need to martyr herself anymore. She had prepared to slough off and wipe away the people who had killed so many she knew growing up. She had hated that standard of locked chains. She has wanted to murder Quintus van Cinna the moment she had laid upon the bastard. Learning he had died by his own hand, seeing the spatter of red, she could only spit and call him a coward.
By the time the final conflict had flared, not between her and the union of all despair, but between a tired old woman and a spoiled princeling turned rabid dog, she was sick of hating. Sick of herself. But no longer sick of living.
When she returned, she spared few trips from home. She was glad to be in her own bed, tend to her garden, drink her tea and soothe her wounds. She knew she wouldn’t heft an axe without some pain again, but the biting ache kept her anger going. Swords and Gunblades just weren’t the same, handy though they were. She got to know her neighbors, who were lovely once they got past the suspiciousness of the empty house suddenly bursting with life and chores and famous dignitaries and the like coming to visit.
Thankfully, the few trips she had undertaken were to someplace warm, by the sea, and, most importantly, valued good tea. Old Sharlayan had been a disappointment, sharing some of the worst aspects of Ishgard (the occasional drifts of snow, even in summer) and Gridania (the lack of actual flavors 99% of the time). Thavnair, in contrast, had spice and sea salt in the air, warm and cordial faces, and tea that rivaled Doma in complexity and presentation. True, the whole “voidsent” thing was a pressing issue, but she could leave the details to the others. Y’shtola is looking to travel to the First, Vrtra wants his sister who practically raised him like a mother. ‘n Estinien Varlineau Jordan mused, a smirk growing on her face is too obvious. Makes jest at Alphy’s savior complex, but ‘e’s just as much the same sort of boy protecting friends. Must be an Elezen thing may’aps. Zero was a new wrinkle, but Cylva’s words had helped put her at ease and she was able to let it fall to more capable hands until there were answers.
It was enough to be in a space of quiet, though it was beginning to get on with the day as Jordan’s thoughts again turned to the now cold teacup.
She stood and felt a presence in the pocket of her tunic. She reached in and felt the warmth and smoothness of the top as it came to points on the side. Azem’s stone. Mind of its own Jordan thought Always ‘appy to just be around until summat thing needs doin’ or it wants me to galavant off somewhere…
She entered her house and placed the cup in the sink. She looked out the kitchen window, noting the small ceramic plaque, which hung nearby. It was decorated with a crook, the symbol of her own patron God.
Jordan shook her head as she felt an old twinge and itch at her feet. “All right, all right! Can’t let an old woman rest in ‘er home fer five minutes can’t ye?” She announced out old, as though addressing the books and knick knacks in the room.
Jordan Rosalind Kennedy, having lived as such for 57 years on Ethierys, knew better than to counter provenance. She went downstairs to see her pack and her adventuring gear was ready.
As an old friend once told her, “the call to adventure never takes no for an answer.” She needed to make sure her affairs were in order.
