#this was meant to be so much shorter and then aymeric happened

[flamepoem]

06. avatar

contains spoilers for 5.3. includes wolmeric.

noun - an incarnation in human form; an embodiment (as of a concept or philosophy) often in a person.

*

“Do you think I’m a monster?”

The question took Aymeric by surprise, and he looked up from the papers he had been reading to find Amira wearing an expression that could best be described as conflicted. It was one he rarely expected to see on her, for she was often particular about making sure most of her emotions were kept hidden underneath a mask of neutrality, and yet the woman standing before him now looked as though she was on her way to a breakdown. Her hands, which she had clasped together as if in some semblance of holding control, were shaking, and she couldn’t even look him in the eye.

“Of course not,” Aymeric said, putting his papers down and standing up from the couch so he could walk over to her. Up close, he could see now that Amira was trembling ever so slightly, and that only made him more concerned than he already was. “You are everything but a monster, my dear. Pray tell me, what brought this on?”

“I…” Her expression turned pained, then, as if she was trying to suppress an upsetting memory, and almost immediately Aymeric wanted to hit himself on the head for even asking. He should have realized right away that it wasn’t something she could easily talk about, that he should’ve waited for a better time to ask. Still, Amira shook her head, as if she could tell what he was thinking; knowing her, she probably did. “A-another time. I promise to tell you another time. I just…”

Her head throbbed then, and in her mind flashed, in quick succession, images that she would much rather forget, images of countless bodies, splatters of blood, and death, death, death all around her. In her ears rang faceless voices - voices that cheered for her, that called her ‘hero’, and yet they paled in comparison to the much louder cries of ‘monster’, ‘sinner’, ‘killer’, and the distorted screams of pain and agony that accompanied them.

And then above them all, Elidibus’ voice, as clear as though he was speaking right into her ear, as he wore the face of her dearest friend.

“I see you for what you are. You are death, and only in death shall you serve any purpose.”

Visions, again - of her friends, her allies, her loved ones, falling by her hand. Even Aymeric was among them, eyes cold and distant and lifeless as he swung his sword at her. And then there was Elidibus, again, his voice mocking.

“Even a monster could be someone’s beloved. That is what I wished to impress upon you.”

Amira squeezed her eyes shut, as if doing so would make the thoughts go away. The mere act of keeping herself together while trying to put what she felt into words looked like it was taking a heavy toll on her, and it didn’t take long for Aymeric to figure it out. With a soft sigh, he put his arms around her, holding her petite frame gently against his, and almost immediately she clung to him as if for dear life. Though she was considered rather tall among her people, and though she always seemed larger than life when she was on the battlefield, it was during times like these when he held her in his arms that she felt so small, so fragile. It made him feel more than ever as though he had to protect her and keep her safe, even though he knew better than most that she was more than capable of taking care of herself, that it was she who took it upon herself to protect those around her. He raised a hand to stroke her hair, which seemed to work in helping to soothe her; though she still seemed somewhat shaky, she seemed to have regained some semblance of composure, and she took a few deep breaths before she managed to speak once more.

“Thank you,” she murmured, in a voice so soft it was barely audible, and yet he heard it clearly in the silence of the room. Aymeric allowed himself a small smile as he gave her head a gentle pat.

“Is there aught you need?” he asked. “I could have a room prepared for you, if you need to take a rest. Or perhaps you would like some tea, instead; I could have that fetched for you as well…”

“I… I’m fine now, I think. I…” Amira fumbled, hesitating. “I just… Would it be alright if I stayed here? With you?”

Such a simple wish, and yet one Aymeric would grant in a heartbeat. “But of course,” he said. It was rare for Amira to make such a request, especially when she often thought such desires selfish. “I must only apologize that my office isn’t the most comfortable place there is.”

Amira shook her head, giggling softly. “Rest assured, I feel safe and sound so long as you’re here, Lord Commander.”

Aymeric chuckled softly in response, though the flush in his cheeks betrayed any composure he attempted to present as he guided her to sit alongside him on the couch. “I am but a loyal knight in your servitude, dearest heart.”

His mere presence was definitely enough to help calm Amira’s nerves, and she allowed herself a moment to breathe as she settled down by his side and leaned against him. He felt strong and warm, and he smelled nice and comforting, so much that she felt as though she could fall asleep right then and there without having to worry about a thing, as if just having him this close would help ward off any nightmares, too. She only wished that she herself was stronger so that she wouldn’t slip into such open vulnerability around him, even though it was Aymeric, kind and gentle and loving Aymeric who would love and accept her no matter what, because she didn’t want him to see her so needy, so pathetic, so weak.

After all, wasn’t she the Warrior of Light? As Hydaelyn’s chosen, she was supposed to represent hope, salvation, light itself - everything that was warm, everything that was good, everything that was correct. People looked at her and saw a hero, someone who could save them from everything cold and bad and wrong; and save them she did, for she was there for every new threat that would arise, every new obstacle that barred their way, every new evil that challenged the peace that they sought and desired. 

And so what was she to those who stood on the other side, those that she cut down and trampled to achieve that peace? The opposite, of course - despair, damnation, darkness; to them, she was destruction incarnate, a hindrance that thwarted every single one of their plans, a force that opposed them at every turn. To them, she was the threat, the evil they had to be rid of, the monster that had to be taken down. She was death, Elidibus had said, and Amira couldn’t find it in herself to even think that he was wrong.

Woe betide the man who stands opposed to the Weapon of Light, for death will be his reward. Death for him and his kin and all that he holds dear.

There was a sick irony in how saving one’s life sometimes meant taking another, in how one’s hero could just as well be another’s villain. Amira knew this, and even after all these years, every single time she took a life, she felt as though a part of her died as well. Each time she wondered if there was another way; more often than not, the answer was no, and it was the cruel reality she had learned to accept. Every now and then she continued to hear Elidibus’ voice, continued to see those she loved dead by her hand, and there was little she could do to keep the thoughts away.

She felt Aymeric’s hand, then, his fingers lacing with hers. Just the warmth of his touch was enough to bring tears to Amira’s eyes, and it took all of her efforts to not let them fall as he lifted her hand gently and brushed his lips against her knuckles.

“Safe and sound, yes?” he murmured, and Amira smiled and nodded slowly.

“Safe and sound,” she repeated, nestling even closer against him now.

Safe and sound, she hoped, and prayed.

#ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2021 #jeanne writes stuff #amira aarden #aymeric and amira #wolmeric #ffxiv fanfic #ffxiv fanfiction #this was meant to be so much shorter and then aymeric happened #shb spoilers #5.3 spoilers #aymira

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV: A Splatter of Rage

Wolmeric Week #1: Formal

A/N: So I was messaged by a couple people that today was apparently the first day of Wolmeric Week on twitter (which I do not have an account on), and at first I was all, “oh jeebus no I just did twenty-eight days of prompts, no more!” But then the first day’s prompt stewed in my brain. And then turned more into worldbuilding than shipping, whoops, but it’s not like I don’t prefer worldbuilding, some days. So. Enjoy?

Day 1 || Day 2 || Day 3 || Day 4 || Day 5 || Day 6 || Day 7 || Bonus!

RATING: T WORD COUNT: 1677 WARNINGS: Brief references to misogyny and classism

---

For all that Synnove intensely disliked (an understatement) what Ishgardian nobility considered a proper social function, she moved through the crowd of the Haillenarte parlor with an ease that certainly didn’t appear wholly feigned. Part of that, Aymeric knew, came from being forced to attend the much more cutthroat soirees of Ul’dahn business magnates by her mother and absorbing how they traded barbs disguised as compliments, whether she liked it or not. Part of it also stemmed from the years of maintaining the façade of bureaucratic benignity while serving as a cargo assessor for Mealvaan’s Gate and waiting for the right moment to bury a merchant-captain in so much red tape they couldn’t see the light of day for sennights.

“There is no Ishgardian count or lordling,” Synnove had muttered to him the first time she had accompanied him to a party as his beloved and not a Warrior of Light, “that has an ego to match that of a member of the fucking EATC board of directors. The likes of Lolorito and Lady Shushuha would flay this lot alive with just their tongues and barely consider it sport.”

Tonight was the type of gathering that was focused on gossip and hobnobbing rather than dancing—admittedly something neither of them had overly minded, too tired from overwork to gather the energy for more than idle strolling while sipping fine wines—and he had been drawn early on into a conversation with Counts de Haillenarte and Dzemael and the Speaker for the House of Commons, Lionnet Aucheforne. Artoirel and Lord Edmont had thus taken turns to keep Synnove company for most of the night; he had caught her eye more than once as she had taken leisurely turns of the room with either gentleman, delighting in the spark of predatory, possessive satisfaction in her gaze when it alighted upon himself. She was quite fond of him in the fine blue coat she had brought back from the First for him, and it was his honor to be a source of some pleasure for her this eve.

Unfortunately, it now appeared that in the lull between father and son switching off escort duty, someone had waylaid his lady. It was only years of exposure to the subtle shifts in Synnove’s carefully maintained mask of pleasant neutrality that allowed Aymeric, even at this distance clear on the other side of the large room, to pick out the sourness lurking at the slightly downturned corners of her mouth, the chill turning her lovely eyes from grass green to sharp emerald. He couldn’t see who it was that was speaking to her, however; leaning around Count Baurendouin would be far too obvious, so instead he kept half his attention on the conversation in which he was supposed to be participating as he flicked his gaze towards Synnove every few moments.

Finally, the crowd parted, just a little bit—

—oh, Seven fucking Hells.

Aymeric was quite certain he had not spoken aloud, but there was no hiding the horror contorting his face at the moment, as both Counts and his House of Commons counterpart immediately ceased speaking to stare at him in quiet bemusement for a handful of heartbeats. And then, in one synchronized movement, all three men turned to follow his gaze. Another heartbeat of silence and then while Master Aucheforne maintained his puzzlement, both Count Baurendouin and Count de Dzemael swore.

“Why would you invite her?” Count de Dzemael hissed.

“I did no such thing, and neither would my lady wife,” Count Baurendouin replied in the same tone. Both men had hunched their shoulders in unconsciousness defensiveness.

Clearing his throat, and speaking in slightly more normal tones, Count Baurendouin turned to him and said, “Ser Aymeric, I will take no offense should you decide to escort your lady home early tonight. Or if anything untoward should happen to another of my guests in ensuring your lady leaves further unmolested.”

Without any further prompting, Aymeric broke away and strode in ground-eating movements for Synnove while the two counts explained to Master Aucheforne why the sight of Lady Isabeau de Torsefers—Aymeric’s mama’s absolute least favorite cousin—struck terror into most of high society.

Lady de Torsefers occupied an unassailable position in Ishgard: widow to a noble knight of means who had died in honorable combat slaying Dravanians. That she was widowed at twenty-one, five months after her marriage and carrying her husband’s heir, had been considered a romantic tragedy among her generation. That her position mere steps away from saintliness had meant no one had been willing to rein in the worst of her snide, cruel comments for anyone who presented the slightest inconvenience to her whims and wants, that had transformed over the decades into the haughty never-wrong surety of an elderly dowager, was considered a waste of potential of a maiden who had been a shining example of proprietary and grace at the time of her betrothal.

“A feral croc in karakul’s clothing, that one,” he had overheard Mama mutter to Hersande when Lady de Torsefers had shown up unannounced for afternoon tea, once.

He wove through the crowd with ease, startling no few of the lords and ladies, leaving a wake of rustling silks behind him. And with every step closer, Synnove’s expression chilled further and further until her face was as cold and expressionless as a statue of the Fury Herself.

(That tiny, atavistic part of his mind recognized that “Fury” was too-apt a comparison.)

Aymeric finally reached his lady’s side, nearly out of breath, to hear Lady de Torsefers say, somehow managing to look down her nose despite age having shrunk her to ilms shorter than Synnove, “—though I suppose you aren’t the worst choice to final beget a passel of Borel heirs.”

Synnove’s hand tightened on her wine glass until her knuckles whitened. Aymeric internally seethed, but this, unfortunately, wasn’t the first time some too-nosy noble had thought they needed to venture their (unwanted, unasked for, absolutely inappropriate) opinion about what type of family Synnove and Aymeric should have. (Never mind they had everything they wanted just as it was.) Still, it never failed to have him see red that anyone would reduce a woman, much less a heroine of the Dragonsong War and a Warrior of Light, to breeding potential.

“Children aren’t in our future,” Synnove said in a voice so frosty it was a wonder her breath didn’t ice the air before her. Aymeric ilmed closer to her, gently setting his hand on the small of her back; she shifted imperceptibly to press back against him. “The carbuncles are rambunctious enough on their own.”

Lady de Torsefers laughed, dry and mocking, her beady eyes glinting. “Oh, children are a much larger challenge than pets, though a proper governess makes that simpler!”

Synnove growled, low and furious, with enough force that Aymeric felt it reverberate up his arm. He may have made a similar sound himself, he couldn’t say for certainty, though he did know he saw red once more. The fact there currently wasn’t blood staining the Haillenarte carpet and walls was likely a product of divine intervention: nothing enraged Synnove quite so much as any implication that her carbuncles weren’t people.

His mama’s least favorite cousin for obvious reasons gave him a dismissive glance. “Two governesses, perhaps, to counteract the late archbishop’s taint.”

Aymeric’s jaw dropped, shock knocking away his rage as he stared at Lady de Torsefers and her mean little smile, so absolutely taken aback that his mind skittered to a halt. He heard more than one outraged gasp from the nearby nobles.

There was a beat of stillness, the sounds of the rest of the party distant and dim—and then Synnove threw her wine into Lady de Torsefers’s face.

The dowager shrieked in surprise and outrage as the liquid streaked her face powder and dripped onto her widow’s weeds. She pulled out a handkerchief and started frantically dabbing at her eyes as a few startled, choked off laughs echoed around them before the culprits hurriedly turned away; Aymeric didn’t bother to do similarly, instead letting out his smirk as malicious glee unfolded in his chest. Once her eyes were sufficiently clear, the widow lowered the handkerchief to glare at Synnove, a nasty sneer curdling her mouth.

“How dare you, you ill-bred cur,” Lady de Torsefers hissed.

Synnove matched her glare, unblinking, as she set her now-empty wine glass down on the tray a server had whisked over to present, and just as quickly whisked away. “Madam,” said Synnove, voice shivering with barely-contained rage, “should you ever again insult a member of my family, whether it be in my hearing or not, I will do worse then douse you with wine.”

The malicious glee morphed into pride and deep affection; even years after she had first done so, it never failed to awe Aymeric that Synnove had chosen him, that she counted him among her loved ones and a member of her family. In as deliberate an insult as he could manage without actually wasting words on the woman, he turned his back on Lady de Torsefers, ignoring her gasp of outrage. Synnove sniffed at his nudge on her back but acquiesced, spinning on her heel, and in unison, the couple left.

They were, fortunately, not far from the large parlor’s exit, so only a few eyes followed them as they swept out with a pointed swirl of Synnove’s green skirts. Her heels clacked loudly against the marble floor of House Haillenarte’s grand entrance foyer, the sound sharp and strident as she near-vibrated with fury, as she growled, “I know we’re rather overdressed for it, but I want a drink from the Forgotten Knight.”

Aymeric used the hand still on her back to pull her closer and kiss the side of her head. “No argument from me, darling,” he said. “And then we can detour to the Congregation and blow up a few striking dummies. We can even dress them in old black rags.”

“I’m keeping you.”

“You’d better!”

#wolmeric week #wolmeric #final fantasy xiv #ffxiv #aymeric de borel #aymeric x wol #aymeric x synnove #oc: synnove greywolfe #dt's writing