Apr. 23rd, 2017 09:50 pm
twilightscribe: (lancer 05)
[personal profile] twilightscribe
Title: fanatic
Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV
Prompt: 022. fanatic
Pairing: Aymeric/Durae (WoL)/Estinien
Words: 489 words


Ysayle watches as Durae drops off to sleep.

It’s a gradual thing, one she recognizes he fights but eventually loses. His head drops to his chest and he sways where he sits, eyelashes brushing against his cheeks and highlighting those strange, bright freckles of his. Lazily, his tail curls around him and flicks, before settling against his thigh.

She’d never met an Au Ra before Durae, though she had certainly heard of them. Here are a people who have suffered the results of Ishgard’s long war with the Dravanians; fleeing one war only to be caught up in another. It’s all tragic, and yet here he stands, prepared and willing to end a millennia long war with no regard for his own safety or reward. Simply because it’s the right thing to do.

However, that isn’t what surprises her most.

No, it’s the way that the Azure Dragoon gently guides him down until his head lies against the man’s armoured thigh.

He must see the way that her eyebrows shoot towards her hairline, because he scowls, voice low and rough as he snarls out, “What?”

“I did not think you sweet on him,” she says, quietly. “Perhaps there is something soft within you after all.”

“There is nothing soft about me, Iceheart.”

She laughs, low and soft, “Of course. You need not fear, your secret is safe with me.”

He twitches, hand tightening into a fist before relaxing again.

That’s when it clicks.

“You… him…?” Her hand flies to her mouth, “You are soulmates?”

Again, he twitches at the word. His voice, though, is impossibly soft when he answers, “... we are. Though I am unsure what I have done to deserve as much.”

Ysayle looks down to her own thread, long turned black and it’s slowly crumbling away. She had known, from when she glimpsed the truth, that there was something much more important that she do than find them. Whoever they may be, she prays that they are happy; for she knows that they will be happier without her.

Even with their blackened, rotting thread.

“You are lucky,” Ysayle murmurs. “For I never knew mine, though they are better off never knowing me. Of what I have done and who I have become. They must know, though, that they are better off without me.”

“Why do you say that?”

She holds her left hand up, watching as the faint light from the stars above illuminate it, “Because our thread is black and rotting. What I have done… has burnt it beyond recognition. In time, perhaps, it will crumble until nothing remains.”

Even distracted as she is, she does notice the way that his mouth thins and hand twitches. Oh.

“Is yours…?”

“No. And that is none of your business.”

“Of course it isn’t,” she replies. Lowering her hand, she clasps them in her lap, “But after all that has happened, do you not deserve some measure of happiness?”


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