#emmerwrites

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Alyx fidgeted with the sash on her robes as she watched the dense, emerald waves of the Twelveswood roll beneath. When the airship finally dipped beneath the surface of the canopy and into the lush, cool depths of the forest, she watched Gridania appear like an unexpectedly colorful rendition of a dark, faded dream.

It had been nearly five years since she left.

The yellow banners depicting the Order of the Twin Adder made her stomach drop. She was going to have to talk to them, at least one of them. She wondered if they would recognize her now.

No, she thought, that's stupid. It was years ago. Those same soldiers might not even be here anymore. If they were, they likely wouldn't see her - the esteemed adventurer envoy from Ul'dah! - as the half-hysterical girl in braids who had to be physically removed from the Adder's Nest.

"Your brother's dead, kid," the officer was exhausted, and trying to speak kindly, for all it was worth, "He served bravely, and he fell. I'm sorry."

"Then where is he?" She demanded. "I don't believe you. He's still out there. Did you even look? Did you even try?" she was loud enough to have attracted the attention of other yellow-clad soldiers. Her throat felt dry to remember her voice breaking as they dragged her away.

"If he's dead, then show me the body!"

They had nothing to show her.

Alyx's fingers closed into a fist, crumpling layers of linen in her lap.

There was nothing they could show her now. Nothing even the Elder Seedeer herself could show her.

When the airship docked, she hesitated. How could she walk back into the home she abandoned, the home she had spent years trying to burn from her memory?

In a small brass tray beside the sink lay a small pile of Alyx’s jewelry. Upon closer inspection, it was a collection of rings running the gamut from plain to brilliantly ornate. A mixture of gold and silver, colorful gems and intricate carvings, each carefully chosen, restored or graciously gifted.

Metal and minerals had aetherial properties, he knew. It was common for mages to adorn themselves in jewelry to enhance their abilities. Some jewelry was important enough to never come off - particularly the stone around her neck, often glamoured, yet never removed.

These rings, while important, were occasionally set aside for various reasons - gardening, in particular, led to the unfortunate chore of cleaning caked soil from beneath each band if not removed. She had used an alchemical solution to protect the metal from water damage, yet sometimes took them off when bathing to avoid snagging in her hair. 

He was not one usually prone to rummaging, but he couldn’t help but look closer. He idly examined a particularly small silver band with what appeared to be an oval of polished jade, and a carved band with a black gem reflecting violet when held up to the light. Her engagement ring - a Borel family heirloom in gold and sapphire - lay among the magical finery, entirely lacking in aetherial significance.

Aymeric smiled, placing the ring over the tip of his index finger, where it barely fell beyond the first knuckle. Alyx had meanwhile reappeared from her search for further adornment, stocking-clad feet padding quietly across the rug.

“How are your fingers so tiny?” He wondered aloud.

“My fingers aren’t tiny,” came her reply, “Your fingers are big.”

He reached for her hand - her left, specifically - and slipped the sapphire ring over her finger. Despite being already wed for some time, the gesture was apparently romantic enough to bring color to her cheeks.

“May I help you with the rest?” Aymeric offered.

Alyx chuckled. “Are you sure? There are a lot, and they all have specific places to go.”

He drew the dish of functional finery closer, choosing to begin with the impossibly small silver and jade. She humored him by offering her right little finger. 

“Dance with your ears, not your feet.”

Sometimes she said the most ridiculous things.

°

The plate was held on by straps, concealed by heavy fabric. The buckles were built for easy-release, which was a mercy - though half a dozen more remained, hidden under arms and across the chest, around the backs of the legs. The heavy ornamentation went the same way as the rest of the plate, more complex but similarly secured within the heavy surcoat. Beneath the surcoat was the tunic, beneath that the layer of fine mail, but first the gloves had to give way to the rest of the sleeves. At the end of the road were well-worn leather boots, tight yet comfortably fitting trousers, a final shirt snug over the shoulders - beyond, simple skin and bone, no more than flesh. At the end of the journey - the ritual, the ordeal, the meaningless everyday routine - was just a man.

It was a road so well traveled, the process had become rote and inconsequential to complete on his own. He was so practiced that receiving help was technically a hindrance - certainly an extension of the time required for its completion. But he welcomed the help when offered, despite the unpracticed clumsiness, the questions, the distracting little touches.

It was a process she wished to learn, even if just for the sake of the gesture. She was curious, and she was selfless, and she was devoted. She smiled at the end, letting out a sigh of accomplishment.

"I'm sure it's easier with experience, but I can't imagine doing this all by yourself every day," she said.

(schmaltz incoming)

6 years ago today I published the first chapter of I Damn Well Mean to Try. Over half a decade and approximately 96k words later I genuinely can’t imagine what life would be like if I hadn’t subjected my WoL to a silly rom-com trope and tripped her down the stairs into the arms of her love interest.

I know I’d love FFXIV without this ship, but having these two at the center of my creative life for over half a decade has made this game & world all the more important to me. I am extremely thankful to them for that, and for you folks. Ultimately we write for ourselves, but there’s no way I’d be where I am creatively without the encouragement, excitement and inspiration from friends & readers.

So...thank you!

“Is this truly happening?” Aymeric wondered aloud, only half-jokingly, "Are you truly here?"

Alyx’s response was said with a smile but tinged with a distant trepidation. “Feels a bit too good to be true, doesn’t it?”

1062 Words, Rated M. 🌟 Read it here! 🌟 

Trying a new update linking format/strategy to please the ale gore rhythm gods. You can also use this link to go right to Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41086272/chapters/121512856

The smell was the worst part.

The sight was lovely - fire was always pleasant to watch. The flames danced with blue feet, and white, flailing arms fading into smoke. The shadows joined, curling about as the conflagration spread and grew. The fire climbed effortlessly over its fuel, blazing paths across every surface it could reach, until the entire mound - a small one, this time - was engulfed in roaring heat and light.

Fire lit with flint and tinder and sometimes fed with oils would serve its purpose well enough, but there was an advantage to magical fire. Fire lit with words and channeled aether burned hotter, and quicker, and required less encouragement and less supervision. It could burn in the wind and rain and even in the heavily falling snow - it could cut through a blizzard like a beacon until it had been extinguished.

Alyx was good at lighting fires. Her techniques changed over the years, as did the effort required to cast the spells. It was “convenient” and it was “like nothing” for her, to hear others tell it - for that’s what thaumaturgy was for, wasn't it? Starting fires? Why waste a match when you have with you a living, seemingly inexhaustible source of cleansing flame? She could burn things with a snap of her fingers or a flick of her wrist - even spells cast with a practiced wave of her staff were easy for her, after all.

Not always. Even after her elemental prowess grew to such lengths that lighting a hearth barely took a thought, this sort of blaze would still exhaust her. Each time she had to say the words and watch as the flames feasted voraciously upon their meal, her heart would turn to lead and lay uncomfortably in her chest.

It was no easier when the fire was quiet, as it sometimes was, for not everything screamed while it burned. When the fire was quiet and only spoke with its own voice rather than the voices of others, the sound was soft, like blood rushing in her ears. She likened it to the distant crashing of waves at times, all the while acknowledging the irony. 

With a deep breath, a feather touch, a sacred word, and her powers of destruction would create something new. She would break down the bonds of matter before her and turn it all to heat and light. The flames would dance and she would have fulfilled her duty once more, until the next time she was called upon for the sake of convenience.