Chapter Text
It should not have been like this , Urianger thought to himself. Her room in the Ala Mhigan Palace was lovely, yes, but far from the comfort of the familiar. And he wanted it to be comfortable and familiar; he wanted their initial lovemaking to be an experience she’d associate with the daily rhythms of her life in Ishgard, the life she had made for herself and Glowing – not some exotic interlude she could dismiss as an anomaly.
And he hadn’t really done this much, sex, and not at all since Moenbryda. He had a feeling ‘twas the same with Bloom, that she had remained untouched since Lord Haurchefant’s death. Tonight, however, she was clearly looking to set aside her long vigil of abstinence. As soon as she had preceded him into the room, she’d shed her leathers – the heavy black jacket and slim trousers she had taken to wearing since adopting the war scythe as her primary weapon.
He’d noticed upon his return from Garlemald that she’d cut her hair as well, perhaps with that wicked curve of her new blade. Despite his recognition of how foolish he was to perceive it thus, he could not but think the blade flashed a malevolent smile everytime she brought it to bear upon an enemy, as though it grinned to lap up the blood staining its edge.
Shorn of a full fulm of her moonlit hair, Bloom was no less lovely to him, but there was something…something he couldn’t quite name. Something was markedly different about her – something fierce.
“What is it, Urianger,” she asked, the sweep of her jagged fringe obscuring one side of her face. “Are you yet uncertain?” She reclined in the bed now, one hand behind her head, revealing the enticing swath of silver curls under her arm, and the other trailing slowly down her body to twine claw-like nails into the even more enticing strip of silver leading to her vulva. Urianger was frozen in place at the sight of her, unable for a moment to even form words.
“Hm-mm,” he cleared his throat. “I do not believe thou hast ever revealed the full force of thy appeal to me before this night, Bloom,” he said, somewhat stiffly.
“I haven’t. You’re quite right, Urianger.” She heaved a sigh then and sat up, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Me , of all people, attempting to seduce. Forgive me for my forwardness, my friend. It doesn’t suit,” she sighed again, flicking her eyes to catch his and immediately dropping them to her lap, abashed. “I wasn’t much more than a virgin when I met Haurchefant – so inexperienced. He, of course, had enough experience for us both, and then some,” she said, grinning at the memory of Haurchefant’s enthusiasm for all things carnal. For a moment her features, her entire presence, seemed to lighten, before sinking back into the perpetual gloaming of her typical bearing.
“I do not seek to encroach upon the space Lord Haurchefant occupies in thy heart, Bloom, nor could I if ‘twere my intention,” Urianger replied, sitting down beside her now and taking one of her hands in his own.
“As I could never replace Moen in yours, Urianger,” she said.
His breath caught in his throat at the thought of his lost beloved, his dearest friend, and Urianger had to close his eyes and breathe deep to steady himself. “I dearly wished to maketh her mine own bride,” he said, “as did Lord Haurchefant maketh thee his own. Alas, she ever belonged to the moon.”
“Urianger,” Bloom said, reaching out to comfort him, touching the archon tattoo on the side of his face. He shivered as she traced her fingers along the maze of his mark, opening his eyes to trap her silver gaze in his golden one. Thus, they stared at one another, silent, unmoving, Bloom’s fingers still touching Urianger’s face, until they simultaneously became aware that Bloom was still, in fact, naked. Urianger surprised himself with the rush of heat that flashed through his belly, his lips not nearly as gentle as was his wont when they darted in to crush against hers.
She laid back, pulling him with her, her hands fervently working to ruck up the skirts of his robes and pull off the black briefs he wore beneath them, tossing them to an unknown corner of the room. His cock released, she wasted no time positioning him at her entrance, grabbing his naked arse cheeks in both of her hands and pushing him deep inside her, both of them moaning at the abrupt pleasure of it. Bloom had nearly forgotten the feeling, the blunted pressure of a cockhead forcing itself inside her, forcing her to open, the first few strokes delightfully rough as her body adjusted to the intrusion and then welcomed it.
Determined to keep her eyes open, she focused on Urianger’s face. Closing them somehow felt unfair. Without Urianger’s golden eyes reminding her he was not Haurchefant, she was too apt to drift into her memories, attributing her current pleasure to a ghost instead of the man thrusting himself inside her.
Her new lover’s cock possessed surprising breadth, thicker than her late husband’s, but shorter, and it felt strange, the way it stretched her and yet didn’t quite reach the back wall of her vagina, as Haurchefant’s had. They’d had to be careful, when Haurchefant was taking her from behind, to not lose themselves in a too-fevered rhythm, to not push into each other too recklessly, else he would hit her in just the wrong place, his perpetual smile wilting at the corners of his mouth to know he’d caused her pain.
That had never been the case in the position in which she now found herself, of course, Bloom on her back with Urianger peering down at her from above. Even Haurchefant, with his unusually lengthy cock, could thrust to his heart’s content in missionary. Bloom gasped.
I’m doing it. Even with my eyes open, even as I stare at him …
Frantic at the thought, at the injustice of it, how unfair it was to compare the beautiful, gentle man above her to her lost beloved, she flailed her arms, grasping up at Urianger, catching him clumsily around the back of his neck and pulling him into a kiss. Bloom could not lie to herself; he felt good. He felt so good , good enough that she wrapped her legs around him, hooking her feet around the backs of his thighs. He was moaning now, a constant, drawn-out “ohhhh,” far louder and less eloquent than she would have expected of reserved, lyrical Urianger, and she could not help but buck her hips and arch her back into the rhythm he set.
“Oh, you feel so good, Urianger,” she murmured, the words out of her mouth before she was aware she wished to utter them aloud.
“Thou art bliss,” he returned, dropping his head now to suckle a breast without even a stutter in the pace of his hips. He sucked hard, pulling nearly all of Bloom’s oversized areola into his mouth. They were huge, her nipples. She had not been aware of the fact, however, until Haurchefant had made the observation upon first seeing them uncovered.
“You have the largest nipples I’ve ever seen, my dear, and from the rumours you have undoubtedly heard by now, in regard to my…predilections, you can be assured that I have seen quite a few sets of them. Nipples, I mean,” he had said with a particularly goofy grin spread wide across his features. She responded by immediately crossing her arms in front of her breasts, mortified. “No no, my love. ‘Tis not an admonishment,” Haurchefant had proclaimed, reaching out to her, drawing her arms away from her chest…
No, no, I’m doing it again ! Why can I not keep him from my mind…
Bloom focused. She considered the sensation of Urianger’s mouth working to suck in her nipple. There was a twinge of tenderness their actually, a familiar twinge, and Bloom had a flash of apprehension as she considered what that might mean, but ‘twas not as though she had the will to stop this, had the will to push Urianger from inside her body even has she shuffled through dates in her head.
“Oh, for moons have I wanted to feel thee beneath me,” Urianger said, releasing her breast to kiss her, his lips warm and wet. “For moons…he began, then started as his mind stumbled over the words.
For moons…for Moen…Moenbryda…
No! He would not allow himself to wallow. That he had loved Moenbryda did not mean he could not love Bloom. And ‘twas the truth, no matter that he spoke it in the haze of his pleasure; he had wanted Bloom…for more than moons e’en, for more than a year. Her body may have been somewhat like Moen’s, tall and thick and strong, but ‘twas not Moen’s. Bloom felt different. Her nipples, the press of her vagina around him – ‘twas all a new sensation, and…and… he reveled in it. No, he hadn’t wanted it to be like this, their first time. He’d wanted slow and soft, not frantic rutting. But they had both been denied for so long…
Next time! Next time we will make love. Next time…and the time after that…
Because the one thing of which Urianger was certain in the muddled mess of this, was that he wanted there to be a next time. He wanted there to never not be a next time. He wanted…he wanted…the Warrior of Light..
“Oh, Urianger…I..I’m…”
“Art though close to thy peak my beloved?” he said, the endearment slipping past both his lips and his intentions. She did not seem to react to his unintentional confession, however. Instead she began to very deliberately roll her hips against his, as though trying to grind his cock against a certain spot inside..
“Oh, oh, yes , Urianger. Yes, Urianger..Urianger…” she called out, finally, in orgasm.
Haurchefant…Haurchefant…
Even in the semi-oblivion of her orgasm, Bloom cultivated the awareness she needed to make certain she did not call out the wrong name. ‘Twas a close thing, nevertheless. Before she had e’en finished calling out to him, Urianger’s hips paused for a half-second and then hilted in hard, to the very back of her vaginal wall. Two successive thrusts, less impactful because they were made without drawing out to press back in, were followed by Urianger collapsing into her arms.
His weight didn’t bother her; in fact, she found it comforting to have him lying atop her, pinning her down. All too soon, however, as with Haurchefant, his concern over her comfort overwhelmed his post-orgasm lethargy.
“Forgive me, Bloom. I do not wish to press the breath out of thee,” Urianger murmured, rolling to her side. Immediately he moved to gather her in his arms, nudging her head to rest upon his shoulder. And of course what was meant to be a tender moment was interrupted by the sharp point of her horn catching in her pillow, tearing it open to let a puff of white feathers escape. She watched the scraps of down float and drift, settle on the bed, on the pillow, in her lover’s hair… With a sigh of frustration, Bloom Rising sat up.
“I’m cursed, you know,” she said, looking down at her hands in her lap. “Or at least you should know…n-now…now that we’re lovers,” she stammered, her voice uncharacteristically uneven. “I s-should have told you…long before we gave into it,” she continued, finally looking down at where Urianger still reclined in the bed, blinking and confused.
“Cursed?” he replied.
“Aye, cursed. The Hellsguard…they keep watch over peaks of flame…they stand vigil at Damnation’s Gates. Those are the rumours at least,” she said quietly, looking away from him now, toward the window, toward the Ala Mhigan stars. “In every generation, the First Daughter of the Clan must endure the pact that keeps those gates closed, keeps the Seven Hells from spilling out onto the star.”
“Bloom…” Urianger tried to interrupt, but she talked through him, unresponsive, still looking to the sky.
“My Sea Wolf blood did not save me, as my poor mother hoped it might. First Daughter was I born, and Her burdens must I bear. ‘Twas Halone’s mercy that Glowing was born a boy. Foolish though it may be, I can only hope it spares him,” she said, her eyes glazing with tears. “The First Daughter has never before borne a son – not in the entire history of the Clan…
“Bloom!” Urianger said, the tone of his voice jerking her gaze back to him, to where he sat up beside her in bed.
“I, like my foremothers before me, Urianger, wield a necessary power – the power necessary to keep doors shut. Part of that power is that it shares a likeness with what it seeks to contain: those who wish to keep the void held closed must open it somewhere within themselves. Thus…” she said, gesturing to her horns.
“But Glowing, he hath…” Urianger gestured to where horns might sprout from his own head.
“Aye, he has the physical mark of the burden, but has yet to manifest the aetheric indications of the curse, as I did while still in my cradle. Urianger, please, I cannot bear the weight of your searching gaze,” Bloom called out, seeing him narrow his eyes in concentration, as though he possessed the ability to perceive her aether unaided. “Have I not bared all to you tonight – my body, my heart, my burden. Dismiss your seeking mind ‘til the morrow, my friend; I beg of thee.”
“Bloom,” he replied, lunging forward now to wrap his long elezen arms around her shoulders, to draw her down upon his naked chest. “I forget myself, love. Pray forgive me my clumsiness of manner. I cannot lie to thee, can ne’er more obscure mine own heart from thee. I didst promise thee transparency when I knelt to beg thy pardon in the Crystarium, and thou shalt have it forevermore...now more than ever, Bloom,” he urged. “I shall leave off my seeking, as thou hast requested, until the ‘morrow, or the ‘morrow after, or the ‘morrow after that. But know, my beloved Warrior of Light, that I will ne’er leave off my search until I am satisfied thy child will not inherit thy burden. Allow me this, Bloom. Allow me to seek ways that I might allay thy fears. Thou art burdened with a multitude of curses, my love – a sacrifice on the altar of Etheirys; allow me to ease that which makes thy heart weep most heavily.”
“Urianger…” she started.
He felt her tremble, the tremor and shake of that which kept a Star intact coming apart in his arms. Tears that could not be shed e’er they betrayed anything but the calm certainty of a hero now slid down Urianger’s chest.
Bloom Rising…fell.
But Urianger was there to catch her, as Lord Haurchefant had been before him. He made a grab for the petals of her heart as the winds of Duty shred them to bits once more…
And he caught them, caught them and kept them close, his pledge to her. He would uncover the fate of Lord Glowing Greystone de Fortemps, uncover it and help both mother and son to bear it.
Urianger sealed his pledge with kisses, and arms that held strong against her shaking sobs. He took her sadness against and inside his body, consuming her tears with his soft lips in their bed in that Ala Mhigan night, in the following morning before they rose to their respective tasks, and before they were parted once again when he left for Mor Dhona after the Alliance Summit.
Knowing how determined he was to share some of her burden, carry within his own heart a portion of the weight bearing down upon her, Bloom Rising felt, well, once stripped of the central terror of her heart – that her child would bear the weight of her curse after all, despite his being born a boy – Bloom Rising felt little of anything at all. ‘Twas as though that single knot of rage and fear and guilt had swelled inside for so long – like rope immersed – that when even partially unburdened of it, she felt little else. She felt numb…which at least quelled any potential anxiety she might have as, days afterwards, she traveled to parley with yet another great wyrm.
—----
Rage,
the burn of it.
The eruption and melt.
Then smoke and ash,
smoke and ash,
smoke and ash and smouldering spark…
waiting to catch tinder, waiting to flare.
He choked on it, the rage, knowing his flame was nothing to hers and ashamed she’d nearly managed to pull it from him. Nidhogg had spent centuries learning to control that part of him, to keep it pushed down, buried.
“Thou didst spy on me…spied on us!” Tiamat accused.
“I did not!” he refuted.
“What then, boy? Trying to spy how ‘tis done?”
“No! No!” he shouted, feeling the fire in his belly grow warmer with his embarrassment.
“Which of them dost thou covet, Nidhogg? Ratatoskr? Hraesvelgr?” Tiamat accused more than asked. Her eyes shifted then, looking down for a moment before softening. “I know thy love for her, child. And I have seen thy eyes when thou dost look upon him. But Nidhogg…thou art not yet prepared to leave the nest. And thou must be, my brother, if thou wouldst make one of thy own.”
Movement at their side, a flash of gold, a flick of the single nubbed horn on his snout, and he was upon them, crying: the youngest of the brood.
“Thou art leaving,” little Vrtra called out to Tiamat. “Bahamut and thee. Thou art leaving to found thy own brood.”
“Ah, little one. ‘Tis not polite to spy,” she said gently, lifting her wing to allow the small dragon room against her side. He snuggled in close to her warmth and she lowered her wing to blanket him. “But, aye, Vrtra. Thou dost speak true. I shall lay mine own first brood, mine own and Bahamut’s, at the greening of the willows.”
“Thou shall depart?” Nidhogg said, still bewildered.
“Aye, little brother, and that is why I must speak to thee of thy…inclinations, before I fly to make an aery of mine own,” she replied, her voice gentle now. “To love is to know a fear like no other, to know the fear of losing what thou dost love. The more thou lovest, the deeper boreth thy terror, ‘till ‘tis the hole at the center of thy heart, prepared to be filled with thy dread, thy joy…thy ire.”
Nidhogg shifted uncomfortably in place. They pricked at him, her words, the announcement of her departure just as pointed a loss as that of which Tiamat spoke when she cautioned him about the dangers of loving.
As though he could stop now…as though he were not already hopelessly in love…
But Tiamat…leaving. They had no mother. Midgardsommr had fled his world with no consort at his side, no warmth to buffer the spaces between stars through which he fled. Through all that dead, dead cold – all that frigid, empty dark – Midgardsommr flew alone. Nidhogg could never hope to be worthy of his father, and, knowing this, he refused to seek comfort where he would never know approval.
But Tiamat…that she had chosen to mother the brood, to fill in that absence, was undeniable. He would miss her terribly. Unable to speak without choking, this time with the torrent of his sorrow, his rage forgotten, he began to sob.
“I will not admonish thee for thy tears, child,” Tiamat said to him then, lifting her other wing, inviting him in. Brooding, heartsore Nidhogg found himself shuffling forward then, settling against her, weeping in concert with the youngest of their clutch as Tiamat crooned low, her own dragonsong singing them to sleep.
Estinien looked up, tears leaking from his eyes, down his neck, dripping onto his chest. He looked up at her, wiping quickly at his face so that Alphinaud, Alisaie, that other one – what was his name, something Tia – would not see. He didn’t so much mind Bloom, really; she’d seen him weep.
Only this morning…
He remembered what he’d dreamt, remembered the dreams that had come in the bells after his link-pearl call with Aymeric – dreams about the cost of loving.
And Tiamat…to see her like this, broken. He could not bear it, would not bear it. The hole in his heart, the one of which she had spoken in his dreams, was swelled full of his regret. But was it his regret? Estinien’s? Was it Nidhogg’s? Or was it some amalgamate of their shared sorrow – that kernel of ache at their common center, ruthless in its reminder that they had both been absent in a moment of need.
Nidhogg was part of him. He felt his emotions as his own, at least his attachment to his brothers and sisters. Estinien had just said as much – had voiced it to the Scions. But what could he do, now that he was certain Tiamat had not been used to summon Bahamut, was not a tool of evil any longer, but merely still its thrall?
He could taunt her, provoke her…stare down that throat of fire as he’d been unable to do so many years ago. He could make her remember who she was:
Wyrm of the First Brood. Mother of the Meracydian Aery. Consort to Bahamut.
Tiamat, Queen of the Heavens!
She responded, as angry with him now as she’d been in the moment he had guilelessly intruded upon her lovemaking, the remonstrance from that remnant of her brother woven through Estinien prodding and poking as perhaps none other could. The part of him that was Nidhogg smiled, and Estinien smiled with him. Dragon or man, ‘twas his lot, it seemed, to drive the point of his observations through the insecurities of those he loved, forcing a reaction.
Now if only he could submit his own behaviors to the keen lance of his insight… or so he imagined Aymeric would say. But that was for another day.
Today he had succeeded in re-igniting the ember at the heart of his…of his… What was she to him really? Only summers ago she would have been part of that which formed his core of rage. Now she was…his sister? His dear sister? Estinien did not recall ever having a sister, yet he could not deny the knot in his throat that formed when he saw Tiamat mount up again into the skies that formed her ever-shifting throne. Nidhogg’s attachment to his sister radiated from the pool in his gut where his fury once sat. Nidhogg’s attachment …and yet ‘twas Estinien who felt it. He felt love – the pull of deep love for her – as though it were his own sentiment. ‘Twas a flame that burned akin to what he felt for his daughter – for Aymeric – and he could not help but continue to foster it.
“Our enemy awaits,” he called out to her, momentarily surprised to hear the cadence of a Coerthan shepherd boy in his voice instead of the weightier rhythms of Draconic. “Shall we,” he asked, before vaulting onto Tiamat’s back.
The minute he landed, he could not help but succumb to the strangest of sensations. ‘Twas as though he were both rider and mount, both passenger and the one who steered their course. He stumbled, dizzy with it, and would have slid from Tiamat’s back had she not banked abruptly to compensate.
“Pay heed, Dragonslayer, to thy seat upon my back. I would have thought thee more adept, descended as thou art from the first of those riders who fought from dragonback,” she rumbled into his mind, her tone more amused than admonishing. “But peace, little one,” she continued. “Thy armor, thy weapon, thy new bearing upon my back, clumsy though it may be,” she snorted through what could only be described as a laugh, despite how it reverberated through his body, shaking his bones, “ verily makes evident thou art Dragonslayer Estinien no longer. Thou art Dragonrider Estinien now – not Estinien Wyrmblood, but Estinien Wyrmbound , bound as thou hast made thyself to the struggles of dragonkind, and bound as thou art, forevermore, to mine own brother’s spirit.”
“I-I don’t know…” Estinien began, but the great wyrm had not yet finished.
“I expect that is the cause of thy disorientation, child. Thou dost remember once bearing a warrior like thyself upon thy back, and for but a moment thou couldst not recall whether thou wert dragon or man. Ah, poor child,” she sighed. “Know this though, Estinien Wyrmbound, as ‘twas in the past, so shall it be now: thou shalt ever have my wing , whether it be to buoy you up to the skies, or shelter you in your sorrows. Sister am I to thee, little dragonrider.”
Estinien knelt then, bewildered in expression and bereft of a response to her kindness. Lowering himself further, he touched his brow to her back in solidarity, in reverence…in love. She hummed in affirmation of his gesture, trusting now that Estinien Wyrmbound’s cause was her own.
—----
In Ishgard, the stage was dark, the theater cold and echoing, smelling of sawdust and paint.
“Lights please,” said a pleasant male voice, and the result was blinding, like a too-bright beacon bouncing off fog, illuminating only a more stubborn opacity. ‘Twas the backdrop curtain, painted the stark white of an Ishgardian blizzard, reflecting the powerful stage lights. “Draw the olio traveler please,” the voice said again, with a sigh. A moment later, the squeak of ropes and pulleys and the swish of heavy fabric precipitated an abeyance of the nigh painful glare, mid stage curtains drawing together to block off the backdrop.
“Fortunately my discipline requires little in the way of sight,” a female voice said to the male.
“You scent out your prey then, my dear Drusilla?” asked the man.
“Aye, that I must, Pierrault, though most of my kind need not rely on their physical senses. They have their avatars,” said the woman.
“How does our girl progress with it then?”
“You have more than a mere friend’s interest in her, I know,” sighed the woman, “your grandson and she…
“Are lovers finally,” he interjected with a grin. “I spoke with him on his return from Ala Mhigo. ‘Twas a brief conversation, albeit, but something has altered between them. I’m certain of it.”
“She could use a lover,” the woman said simply. “As for how she progresses with the war scythe, well, ‘tis as with everything else to which she puts her hand: she progresses remarkably well. Still the way of the reaper seems particularly suited to a woman already acquainted with the Void…as I might have expected.”
“Aye, he spoke of that as well, I believe,” Pierrault said, “her connection to the Void, I mean. Or at least Urianger seemed very intent on researching something related to the negative plane.”
Drusilla looked thoughtful. “Perhaps I could be of some service to him there,” she said. Pierrault returned a speculative look. “Oi, man, don’t look at me like that,” she said, but her smile belied the admonishment. “I have some connections of my own with the Void, as you well know.” The rehearsal pianist, beginning to pound out the discordant opening phrases of the score, disrupted their conversation. “What is that awful noise,” Drusilla asked, hands flying to her ears.
“My ballet,” returned the Master with another sly grin.
Far away in Pagalth’an, Bloom Rising did not consider.
She did not consider the dissonant phrases of music plunked on a rehearsal piano in Ishgard, did not consider how the brutal chords echoed the brutal reality of the ballet’s peasant farmers. She did not consider the jerking bodies and tilted heads, the turned in toes and hands held rigid like daggers. She did not consider, as she spun her war scythe over her head, the irony of its connection to the dance: ‘twas a symbol of bounty, a farmer’s tool, but ‘twas also a symbol of death. She did not consider any of it, or, really, anything at all.
She did not consider before she struck.
You took him from me , she felt her Voidself whisper as it spun and dove around her, gnawing and tearing in concert with her spinning blade.
You took him from me.
They had not – not any more than the Ascians were responsible for every atrocity committed to court the power they promised. And these weren’t even the same Ascians. The Unsundered were all dead. There was no grand plan here, no “rejoining” – just destruction, death, the promise of mass oblivion.
You took him from me.
“Bloom,” Urianger called out to her, panting to keep up, desperate, tossing his cards this way and that. “Bloom,” he shouted again, pelting her with healing as she charged ahead of Thancred’s shielding bulk. Before he knew what was happening, she’d descended into the middle of a group from above, her blade spinning like the propeller of an airship, blasting those engaged onto their backs.
Unfortunately, her fury in the moment did not distinguish between friend and foe. Aymeric was among the group – his presence at the head of Ishgard’s forces in Paglth’an a mystery to no one, even when not a single other representative of the alliance’s precious leadership was allowed the indulgence of this first major engagement with their mysterious foe. He was thrown onto his back, his head impacting the ground with a resounding thwack!
“Lord Aymeric,” Lucia called to him, flying back to land on her feet, greaves gouging the dry earth as she skidded backwards.
Bloom did not hesitate, did not seem to even take notice of her allies’ distress, diving and twisting to drive her blade through the hulking steel and fizzing spark of her tempered Garlean adversaries. Blood and charred shrapnel shot through the air as she tore through her enemy, eyes glazed, and ‘twas only Urianger’s swiftly cast shield that protected those behind her from the lethal deluge.
“Bloom!” he called out to her, urgent. She stopped then, but perhaps more because she no longer faced any enemies who still drew breath than because her bloodlust was spent. Still unwilling or unable to acknowledge Urianger’s now-pleading call, she lunged forward toward the familiar sound of clanking, crashing metal, and spitting gunfire. Thancred and G’raha rushed to follow, but Urianger hesitated for a moment, kneeling down next to Aymeric.
“Lord Commander,” he said, flooding his fellow elezen with healing aether, “look at me, Aymeric. Open thy eyes.” Aymeric’s eyelids fluttered at the command, blinking open to gaze blearily up at Urianger.
“‘Twill be a miracle if he is not concussed,” Lucia said.
“Aye,” the healer agreed, watching carefully as Aymeric tracked the finger moving back and forth before his eyes. “Mayhap the Scholar Thaliak and Our Lady Fury can join in bringing one to bear upon Lord Aymeric – a miracle, that is,” Urianger said, lifting his planisphere high. A powerful rush of aether poured into the prone man’s body then, and ‘twas not more than a moment before he sat up.
“Forgive me, Aymeric,” Urianger said, “but I must hasten to follow my lady. Something is…amiss.”
“Of course, Urianger. I am most grateful for thy aid,” Aymeric returned. “Hasten anon to Bloom’s side.” Urianger did as he was bid then, disappearing from Aymeric’s view only to be replaced by yet another elezen man landing lightly beside him.
“Aymeric,” Estinien said, immediately on his knees next to his lover. “W-What…w-why?” he stammered, taking up Aymeric’s hand. He swallowed once, closed his eyes and squeezed his knight’s hand. “ Why are you here ,” he asked then, snapping open his eyes to catch the other man’s gaze in his own. “The Scions were not aware that any Alliance Leaders would be taking the field.”
The Lord Commander of the Temple Knights looked down at his lap.
“‘Tis obvious he wanted to be near you, Estinien,” Lucia broke in. “He could no longer bear the separation. Do not harry him for it.”
Estinien looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. “Aye,” he said, continuing to nod his head, as though he was having difficulty grasping his lover’s motivations. “Aye,” he said again. “I must rejoin Tiamat, Aymeric. I have pledged my lance to her in this, but I shall return for thee anon,” he continued, his voice soft as he lifted his lover’s chin so he could kiss him.
“Pray take care of him, First Commander. We shall meet again when the day is won,” he said to Lucia before vaulting back into the sky.
The sun was not long set, a hazy red sky mirroring the day’s battle, when Estinien made good on his words, returning to the alliance camp. He pushed aside the flap of his and Aymeric’s usual tent, a nostalgic reminder of their Temple Knights Days, stopping up short to stare at the sleeping Lord Commander splayed out on his bedroll. A lingering strip of light struck him across the face as Estinien pushed the flap wide enough to duck inside, staining Aymeric’s face blood red. Estinien quickly thrust the flap closed behind him, blocking the sun.
“Estinien,” Aymeric said, the flash of light and noise from the tent flap rousing him.
“Don’t get up,” Estinien replied, watching as Aymeric braced his hands at his sides to push himself into a sitting position. “Don’t,” he said again, dropping to his knees to place a hand on the center of Aymeric’s chest.
“I am perfectly capable…” he began, pushing at Estinien’s hand.
“Lie back,” Estinien interrupted.
“But Estinien,” Aymeric objected, even as he settled back into his bedroll, “Urianger granted me his most powerful healing spell. I am both hale and whole.”
“Aymeric,” Estinien choked out, voice trembling as he collapsed on top of his lover, chest pressed to chest. He wrapped his arms around the back of Aymeric’s neck, burying his face in his broad shoulder, boring his nose, his sharp chin, into the other man, trying to press himself as close as possible. “ Why are you here, Aymeric ,” he asked again, voice muffled in Aymeric’s shirt.
“I-I…’tis as Lucia said, I could not bear to be apart any longer. I could not bear to see you take to the battlefield once again – after your long absence from full-scale engagement – without being by your side, to guard you where possible,” Aymeric stammered out.
“Guard me?” Estinien snorted into his neck. “ You can barely guard yourself. Oh for Fury’s Sake, Aymeric! To lose you…I-I…”
“I know, love. I know,” Aymeric said, snaking his arms around Estinien’s waist to pull him close. “Neither of us can anymore hurl ourselves into the abyss after the other, as we might have done mere moons ago. We have…”
“You have, Aymeric,” Estinien interrupted again. “Ah, forgive me for being cryptic,” he sighed, noticing Aymeric’s look of confusion. “Let me speak plain: we have a family waiting for us in Ishgard, at home; ‘tis true. But only you have a small version of myself to hold close to your heart should I…”
“Estinien!” Aymeric said, louder than he meant. “Do not say it, I beg of thee. I cannot hear it voiced, Estinien.”
“Hear this then, Aymeric,” Estinien said, kissing up his neck, his jaw, his ear, “I would have another you to love. Have you ever thought of it? What we could have…together? How a child made from the two of us might look, how he or she might behave,” he asked. “I have. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since we…since the night you took me in flight. I would have your child inside of me if I could, Aymeric.”
“ Estinien …”
“‘Tis a fancy, I know, but let me finish,” he said, nuzzling his face into Aymeric’s dark curls. “I will never know what ‘tis like to have a part of you growing inside my body…” he paused, feeling Aymeric twitch beneath him, as though in laughter, and propped himself on his elbows to peer into his lover’s eyes, now shining with mirth. “‘Tis supposed to be a tender moment here, Borel,” he said in mock frustration, swatting Aymeric’s fringe from his eyes, “and you insist on disrupting it with your ribald insinuations.”
Aymeric smiled up at him. “‘Tis only that I cannot help but observe that you have taken part of me inside your body quite frequently since our first night together in Ala Mhigo,” he laughed.
“Aye,” Estinien returned, “and I should like to do so again, tonight if possible, if you would stop teasing me long enough for me to make my point…”
“Which is, Estinien?” Aymeric interrupted with a sigh. “What is this elusive argument? A child of our own, made from the both of us? You wish us to conceive of something we cannot,” he said, wistful.
“Not together, no,” Estinien rejoined. “But you could sire a child of your own, Aymeric.”
“ How ,” Aymeric asked, sincerely confused.
Estinien replied with a raised eyebrow. “Your highborn education was apparently lacking in certain subject matter,” he said, sardonic.
“I-I know how one goes about siring a child, Estinien,” Aymeric rejoined, flustered. “But I love another man. I love you – even when you are being ridiculous.”
“There are many ladies of Ishgard who would consider it far from ridiculous to bear the child of Lord Aymeric de Borel. They would regard it as an honor.”
“Estinien? You honestly wish me t-to…to bed a random woman?
“Aye, a good idea that! It could be a lottery – or even a way of raising further money for the Firmament! Each lady contributes a small sum to be entered in the drawing…”
“And now who’s being flippant?” Aymeric said, rolling Estinien onto his back and bracing himself over him. Estinien’s eyes went immediately to Aymeric’s upper arm, to the clean, straight slice through his woolen tunic.
“She caught you with her scythe,” he said, raising his hand to touch his torn sleeve.
“Bloom? Aye, she did. Sliced right through my cloak.”
“Something is greatly amiss with our warrior, Aymeric, and has been for some time,” Estinien said, rubbing the woolen fabric thoughtfully. “‘Twas too close, Aymeric.” He raised his eyes to meet his lover’s. “‘Twas far too close.” Estinien shoved one of Aymeric’s arms abruptly out from underneath him, making him partially collapse down upon him, chest to chest again. He took Aymeric’s face in both hands, holding it as he pressed up into a kiss.
“Estinien, my love” Aymeric sighed, shrugging out of his grip to begin removing his clothing.
“Nevermind that yet,” he said, gesturing to Aymeric’s partially bared chest, “let me just kiss that pretty mouth of yours,” Estinien replied. “‘Tis been too long since last I held thee, Aymeric. Our bed has been a lonely place. And to come upon you after our separation like this ,” he said, fingering the torn fabric for emphasis, “sliced nigh to ribbons…”
“Aye, I missed thee too, and feared for thee. Do not ask me to keep out of harm’s way while you face additional great wyrms, Estinien. ‘Tis yet another thing I can no longer bear,” Aymeric whispered against Estinien’s mouth, before acceding to his lover’s request, softening his mouth, already half open, to accept Estinien’s seeking lips and tongue.
‘Twas momentum then, building like the rare desert storm that began to pat, pat, pat fat raindrops on the roof of their tent. Their kisses, slow at first, then Estinien’s teeth biting Aymeric’s full lips fuller, Aymeric’s tongue slipping inside, the precursor to his cock. And they could not fight it, the way it built – both inside and out – the storm pelting rain over their heads as they bared their cocks, both erect now, hard against each other’s stomachs.
They were one with it, with the storm and with each other, and Aymeric wanted, so wanted, as he rolled Estinien on top of him again, to be out in it , to feel the static buzz of the air, the sting of angry rain – Estinien in his element, a storm unleashed above him, head tilted back to welcome it, hair whipping, rain streaming down his naked chest; Aymeric yearned for such a sight.
He caught Estinien’s eyes then as his lover began to ride him – those eyes that spoke a storm of hips moving, heart pumping, fast and fast and faster, building with rise of the winds, the hammering torrent, and he saw he already had his wish: to be joined with Estinien was to ride out the storm. And so he did. He rode out the storm while moving inside it.
“Estinien!” he called out finally, rolling thunder a backdrop to his cry, a lightning clap flashing the image of Estinien arched above him, the smell of ozone in his nose and mouth as he felt his lover clench down upon his pulsing cock.
Estinien poured down upon him then, his seed, his panting, loose-limbed body, smearing sweat and come and spent tears between their bodies and Aymeric knew; he knew at the center of his own weathered heart: their love was as rare as the waking desert bloom stirring in the night around them.