#emmrita

It was raining. It had been raining for three days. The other denizens of House Fortemps told them it was a good sign; surely, it meant the Fury’s mercy and the end of the Dragonsong War would lead to a thaw. All over Ishgard, Rita knew people were looking hopefully at the remnants of their years-out-of-date spring wardrobes and planning a resurrection. The general mood ranged from cautiously optimistic to outright giddy joy.

The Scions currently occupying Fortemps Manor hated it. The only one expressing any sort of cheer was Gantsetseg, and that was because the dampness was good for her scales. Y’shtola and Eirk’a’s tails flattened miserably in the wet, and the twins’ hair had grown absolutely unmanageable outside of their customary braids. Rita woke every day feeling like her skull had been filled with cotton wool and her bones with lead; her own hair, evidently emboldened by the moisture in the air, had only been tamed by arranging it into a loose braid and ruthlessly pinning it up off the back of her neck.

And yet, because clearly she was some sort of masochist, she persisted in trying to read. In her defense, Emmanellain and Honoroit had just returned from their first trip to Ok’Gundu without her hovering to smooth over any diplomatic incidents, and Honoroit had taken exhaustive notes he’d wanted looked over by (in his words) a less biased party. So she took his notebook and curled up in one of the library’s window seats, trying to ignore the dull throbbing in her head as she sank into the boy’s terse, clear prose.

“Ah, there you are, old girl.”

Emmanellain. She sighed and turned a page, shifting over so he could squeeze onto the cushion next to her. “Mm.”

“Well? How is it?” He sounded excited, which she couldn’t blame him for; after a low-grade panic attack that had lasted the entire airship ride to the Blue Window, his first meeting with the Gundu tribe had ended with him utterly swarmed by the youngest hatchlings while a gaelicat napped on his shoulder. (She reflected that she may have caused that; she had rather talked up his prowess as a teacher somewhat to Sonu Vanu.)

She grunted something, and then realized that he probably wanted words. “It’s good.”

A warm arm slid around her shoulder, tugging her unresisting body against his side. She looked up to find him frowning thoughtfully down at her. “Be sure to correct the lad on my finer points, hm?”

She turned to rest her head on his shoulder, and couldn’t help her smile. “You mean you weren’t chased screaming by a groundskeeper golem all the way back to Ok’Zundu?”

“I was not!” He huffed an indignant breath into her hair. “It was only a malm or so.”

Humming in amusement, she returned to her reading. The rain drumming on the window and the steady thump of Emm’s heart under her ear settled into her soul like a contented cat, and she found her attention drifting. Maybe she could rest her eyes for a moment…

Only answering for the ones with active ships or we’d be here all night, so:

Gantsetseg: Insists she does not get jealous. Is a liar, because anyone flirting with Alan would not only confuse the hell out of him but get her attempting to loom in the background until they leave. (She’s 5′7″. The looming isn’t necessarily very effective.) The Garlic Is Amazing But He Is Hers, Dammit, You Will Not Steal.

…In her defense, “you stole it you bought it” is a recognizable means of marriage on the Steppes. Bayaqud marriages may or may not involve a highly ceremonial form of doing exactly that.

Evrard: Is jealous and will admit to it, because look at Busari. Feast your eyes upon all seven fulms of lizard lancer. Ev just isn’t that much of a catch in comparison, and he’s a little insecure about it–especially if there are other Xaela around. Who would pick Skinny Elezen Dude over scales, fangs, and the ability to yeet a full-grown Roegadyn? (Bu would, Ev. Bu would.)

Ritanelle: Doesn’t get jealous! With the highly open relationship she has with Emmanellain, it would be horribly hypocritical of her–and besides, they’re just friends. Right? Right. No deeper feelings here, no sir. She certainly is not pining while she’s stuck on the First.

Emmrita? Emmrita, because I’m feeding myself here.

&

&

The insistent chiming of her linkpearl shatters the silence between them, and she reluctantly excavates one arm from beneath the warmth of their covers and his body to answer it. For a long moment she’s quiet, ears twitching, before she sets it aside with a sigh. “Ah, shite, I’ve gotta head out.”

He’s still conscious enough to respond, even though his limbs feel like lead; the knowledge that she will flick his ear to alert him if he pretends to be asleep while she’s leaving is enough for him to roll over. “Mm?”

She’s pulling away. Damn. “Got a call—they need me in Ala Mhigo.”

Well, he’s awake now. She’s getting dressed, which is always bittersweet; the view is glorious, but so is watching her slide into the armor of a Warrior of Light. But still… “It’s not a primal, is it?”

She’s putting her hair back up. He’d enjoyed unraveling those braids the night before; now he finds his gaze lingering on her hands, trying to see how she puts them to rights. It’s a good distraction. He still hears her words, but they don’t send ice-cold dread spiking into his heart. Yet. “Aye, another summoning of Lakshmi. We’ve been trying to talk to the Qalyana, but...well...”

“But they’re tempered.” Thou shalt not suffer one touched by a primal to live. Scripture and common sense agree; until he’d met the Scions, he’d never met anyone so upset by it.

But she’s different, and her gaze is downcast for a moment under the transparent guise of applying her makeup. He doesn’t have to ask why; she’s told him enough times of the fate of those who aren’t Echo-blessed and think they can face primals. He still remembers the last time she’d fought Titan. “Aye.”

He should say something reassuring. What actually comes out, as he rests his elbows on his knees and stares at the bearskin thrown across his damask coverlet, is “...It’s a shame, isn’t it? All this fighting?” He’s not thinking about her, really—though he supposes it’s related, because until he’d met her he would have been the first idiot up to carve a bloody swathe through what most of Eorzea calls beastmen, until they summoned their gods in their pain and made her life harder. She’d told him about the Ehcatl Nine, about the Brotherhood of Ash, about Novv’s clutch who only wanted to raise their children—and so when she’d gone to improve relations with the Vanu Vanu, he’d swallowed his fear and his pride and asked to visit. He’s thinking about them now.

She sucks in a breath and lets it out with a growl. “You don’t have to tell me. Every time I hear someone call ‘em bloody beasts--”

Aether is flickering blue and brilliant along her fingers as she slams down her makeup case, crackling along the gold, and his ears are pinning back in fear and threat and danger a moment before he finds his voice. “Save your rage for the primal, old girl!”

“...You’re right.” And she’s standing up, running a hand over her braids, and coming back to their bedside to fetch the dragon-horned mask she keeps on his nightstand. He wants to reach for her, tug her back into bed, but he doesn’t dare. “Well...guess I’ll be going...”

She’s not looking at him. Suddenly, he wants her to look at him more than he has ever wanted anything in his life. “...Ritanelle?”

“Yeah?” The edge of her gaze slides to him, and his throat goes dry.

He knows she loves her job, knows that the only missions she’ll ever turn down come from the Black Shroud, knows that she wants to protect all the people of Eorzea, and knows—too well—that a woman who makes a career out of killing gods never considers the possibility that she might fall to one. I eat primals for breakfast, Emm, she’ll say, laughing. You think I’m scared of them? Every time they say goodbye could too easily be her last. There’s a faint smile curling around the corners of her eyes, and he can’t speak.

I’ll think of you while you’re gone.

I’d follow you if I could.

I love you.

“...Take care.”

And there’s that laugh, soft and bright. When she isn’t heading off to war, it warms his heart; now, it feels more like a stab. “Don’t I always?”

“Rita!”

She’s halfway to the door, and he’s watching her go. Go off to fight a primal, to meet her death—no. No, he refuses to think like that. She will be fine. She has skilled comrades and the blessings of the star itself on her side. Silhouetted in the doorway, she pauses and looks back at him. “I’ll...I’ll be back soon, alright?” Does she sound sad? In the half-light of a Coerthan dawn, he’s not sure.

He nods. He makes himself smile at her. “I expect a full account upon your return, you know.”

“I’ll take notes!”

Her grin stays with him long after she’s gone. It’s there to greet him when she comes back, flush with victory and eager to tell the whole garrison her story. Months go by, and in all honesty he...forgets, mostly, about the things he hasn’t been able to tell her, the things that might upend their cozy relationship.

“The last time I panicked I killed two people, so you’re actually doing much—”

“What?!”

Emmanellain was staring at her, his expression and the set of his ears combining into shock-verging-on-horror. Ritanelle felt her stomach drop into her shoes. She’d said that out loud. At normal conversational volume. In the middle of the Jeweled Crozier on market day. And here, she’d felt safe enough to remove her mask. People knew her face. Why yes, Master Wood Wailer, the lady with the rune tattoo… “I...uh.” I’m an adventurer. A Scion. I’ve killed more than a few people but that was all deliberate and Emm knows it, he never lets gossip go and I—

She turned her face away and took a deep breath. Right. Breathe. Before she could do anything else stupid, she reached out and grabbed Emm’s hand like a lifeline. “Come with me.”

He let himself be led out of the Crozier, past the crowds to one of the innumerable high ledges overlooking the lower city. At some point he’d twined his fingers around hers, and the firm grip had almost frozen her in place before she’d forged ahead regardless. But he’d stayed quiet—uncharacteristically so, but then they’d had a long and terrible day—until she stopped, pulled her hand free, and leaned heavily on the wall.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then, staring out at the marbled sky—she couldn’t bear to see his face—she broke the silence. “I never told you how I got the scar on my neck.”

She remembered him tracing it with his lips. “No...I’m afraid you didn’t, old girl.”

The clouds shifted above her, gray on gray. “Wailers. My brother, you see—he’s a Wood Wailer. Was. Is. I dunno. His mates—well. We’re Duskwights. Greys, they call us, when they wanna be rude.” Her gloved hands clenched on the stone barrier, anchoring her to the earth. She was fine. She could say this. “They thought he was getting ideas above his station. So they—”

Oh, her eyes were watering. She blinked furiously to clear them; Emm took a step towards her, and she shook her head. “Don’t.” If you touch me I’ll break. If you come to me with your compassion I’ll— “They tried t’ kill me! As an example, they said. That’s how—my neck, and the ones on my arms.” She swallowed hard, fixing her gaze on a particularly dark cloud shaped vaguely like a bat. “So I set them on fire and I ran, Emm. I ran all the way to Ul’dah and I ain’t never looked back, I can’t, because Rinette Habelliard is wanted for murder and it’s better if her mum and da think she’s dead!”

There. She’d said the whole thing without crying. She was very proud of herself for not crying. And, if Emm reacted the way she dearly hoped he would (awkwardly, self-pityingly), she would be able to go on not crying.

She heard him take the two steps necessary to bring himself to her side and turned her face away. “So, y’know, we all fuck up but at least you ain’t actually killed anyone yet.” This is about you. Look, see? I’m trying to reassure you because I care about you, so please just take it. For once I am actually looking for Selfish Arse Emm here and not—

His arm slid around her, turning her thoughts into static as the side of her head collided with his coat. She could feel the vibrations of his voice in her own chest, soft and encouraging. “And you, my darling, are still a certified hero. So I daresay you need not weep over stumbling at the start.”

Though she reflexively jabbed an elbow into his ribs—she had not been weeping, thank you—she found herself smiling up at him anyway. He tended to have that effect on her; it was something about the strength of his hugs. He gave excellent hugs. “Good, you understand my point. Now, if I can be a hero, you can recover from this.”

It was his turn to avert his gaze, ears drooping. “I’m not as brave as you are. I know I said—I know this is something I must do on my own, but...will you come with me to speak to the Lord Commander? As moral support?” His voice nearly cracked on the last few words; he tried to cover it with a cough, but even if that had worked Rita was still watching him turn red to his eartips.

She remembered the terror of the first few days with fresh scars. She remembered Dariustel and his fellow Redbellies, patient and sure and sharp as knives, setting her feet on the road to Ul’dah with the knowledge that she’d been prepared to walk it.

Objectively, the Crystarium was beautiful. Objectively, the Crystarium was safe. Objectively, the world of the First Shard was where her friends were, where she had an obligation—a duty—to remain until both it and the Source were free of the threat of looming Calamity.

Ritanelle didn’t feel much like being objective.

She walked through the crowds to the rooms she shared with Eirk’a, conscious of the weight of her bag on her shoulder. She’d tried closing her eyes and sitting in the shade of the buildings, but even that hadn’t helped. The noise of the market was different. The voices were different. Her own people had always been rare, but here in the First they seemed to be nonexistent. She’d caught the locals staring at Eirk’a’s eyes and the length of his fangs. And there wasn’t enough shadow.

Eirk’a, thank the Twelve, wasn’t in. She wasn’t sure she was up to talking to him without screaming. Instead she threw her bag on her bed with an audible thump and an involuntary sigh of relief—she’d forgotten how heavy it was, carrying most of her possessions around with her—and stood blankly for a moment, staring at the worn multicolored coverlet. The Exarch had suggested they all rest. It was probably a good idea, if they were going to be fighting things he’d summed up as the Light version of voidsent.

Instead, she crossed to the window and sank onto the seat, staring out at the city below her. Of course they’d wound up in an upper story. Eirk’a was probably thrilled. Ritanelle looked up at the great glass wall encircling the city, gleaming in the perpetual sunlight and doing absolutely nothing to block the glare, and thought about Ishgard. About the dark stone and gray skies and the cold that sliced even through her most luxurious fur coats. About the people, hard as that stone but welcoming once it was cracked.

Mugs of hot spiced mead, warming her down to her bones.

Dark hair flopping into its owner’s face or laying like silk on a pillow, showing its proper shade of muted purple only in direct sunlight.

A smile, radiant.

And she’d never—

I am trapped here. The thought hit her like a knife between her ribs. Without so many blessings of Hydaelyn or a pull from the other end strong enough to tear souls from bodies, to attempt to traverse the rift would be almost certain suicide. We are trapped here.

Holding one end of a paper pattern steady for Tataru as she pinned around it. The bone-deep tremor of magic coursing through her as she sparred with Coultenet. The cool glass of Dariustel’s spectacles as she cleaned them on her shirt for him, his leather armor being unsuited for the task. Rrisya’s tail curled around her waist and into her lap, a friendly gesture that she’d never expected from a lancer taciturn enough to rival Estinien. Emmanellain’s arms around her, warm and solid and safe, guarding her from nightmares the way he wanted—recklessly but so sweetly it melted her heart—to guard her against everything else.

Things she’d never feel again.

It was amazing what being a ward of House Fortemps could get you. Invitations to House Durendaire’s latest ball, for example, a glittering fete sure to be the social event of the season. Her squad had needed a break, they’d agreed–and so, after a solid week of shopping and measuring and fitting and haberdashery (it was hard to find hats that would fit over miqo’te ears), the whole pack of them spilled out of their carriages and into the Durendaires’ main hall.

Ritanelle began to regret it almost immediately. They should have arrived earlier; being “fashionably late” to squeeze into the antechamber (Honoroit had vetoed his master’s initial choice of waistcoat) led them squarely in the midst of a crowd unlike anything she’d ever seen. While she was no stranger to crowds of people, the sheer brightness made her eyes hurt. Everything shone or glittered or was polished to a mirror sheen; bright colors assaulted her eyes; conversation that might have been quiet in a room containing five people was a concussive force in a room with nearly five hundred. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t handle it. Her head was pounding, a beat that had nothing to do with the Echo. They haven’t announced us yet, I could just–

A hand at the small of her back, warm even through layers of silk and whalebone. A light voice, as casual as the carefully tousled hairstyle he wore. “Alright there, old girl?”

She snapped her eyes and her fan open, taking a deep breath as she met Emm’s concerned gaze. Right. Steady. Her heartbeat was fine. “Bright lights. Open spaces. You know what I mean.” Even if he’d needed the morphological differences between Duskwights and Wildwoods explained very slowly. She was adjusting, and she’d been looking forward to this for weeks. As long as she had her friends by her side, surely she could handle this. “It was just a bit of a shock. I’ll be fine.”

His ears slowly slanted back as he took in the crowded ballroom, but by the time he looked back at her he’d arranged his face in the bright, false smile he wore when he was worried but trying not to show it (in other words, all the time). “Once the dancing starts, I’m sure you won’t notice a thing! See–the musicians are warming up.”

They were. She recognized the opening strains of a waltz and found herself smiling in response. “Do I get more than one dance if I don’t step all over your feet?”

His hand on her back slid until it was his arm around her waist; the light kiss he pressed to her temple would probably power the rumor mills for months, a thought which made her grin. “Dear Rita, you will have every dance even if you step on my feet. I’ll see to it you have a marvelous time.”

“Unless you’re forced to duel someone over whatever rude thing they’ve said about Gan or Eirk’a?”

That made him snort wrily, gesturing to where Artoirel was pointedly introducing her miqo’te and auri squadmates to their hosts. “I daresay I shan’t have the chance, and in any case Honoroit would be dreadfully put out if anyone bled on this waistcoat. Shall we?”

Her eyes gleamed as a thought took her. “What, just like that? My lord, where are your manners?”

His elaborate bow hid his smirk, but she could feel it against her glove as he took her hand and raised it to his lips. Behind him, Gan was giggling; Artoirel looked as though he’d like to bury his face in his hands. Emmanellain’s voice dripped with overbred politeness and no small amount of glee at, however briefly, being the center of attention. “My lady, may I have this dance?”

By some miracle, she managed to keep a straight face. “You may.”

The ballroom itself was still crowded, still too bright and too loud, but–to her surprise–Emmanellain was right. Dancing helped. Her world narrowed to the feel of silk skirts against silk stockings, the warmth of Emm’s hands, the way his hair brushed her ear as he held her too close for strict propriety. Even when she stumbled on a step or missed a beat, he corrected their course so smoothly she didn’t even feel embarrassed. She floated with the music, held to earth by his hands.

When the waltz ended, he was beaming softly down at her. “Why, you didn’t hear a single word of any of the news I’ve been trying to impart to you this whole time, did you?”

He’d been talking? At her blank stare, he let out a bark of laughter so loud that other couples turned and stared, and she flushed and poked him in the ribs. “You great arse, you know I was concentrating!”

“I know, I know!” His grin was unrepentant–and infectious. “Another dance, darling? It should be the minuet. Fewer…distractions.”

Also in attendance at the Durendaire’s Masque for the Feast of St Valerinne was Mistress Ritanelle Soleil, Scion of the Seventh Dawn and Ward of House Fortemps, sporting a Quite Daring Ensemble of Violet and Black Silk and Onyx Leather trimmed with Amethysts and Black Ul’dahn Lace, with an underskirt of Purple Silk. Amethysts at her ears and throat completed the Effect charmingly, and her mask was formed in the shape of a Hornéd Dragon. Several matrons were heard to make Disparaging Remarks re. her decolletage, but This Columnist ventures to remark that a woman who rides Dragons and Slays Primals may wear what she likes.

“...Oh. You’re still here.”

“Mm. You sound disappointed! Don’t tell me you expected me to leave.”

“Well! I...to be truthful, I thought...you’re an adventurer, aren’t you? I thought you’d be off doing—well. Adventuring...things. All...you know. Diligent. ‘Tis near noon.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me. You’re warm. This bed’s warm—no, come back over here, it’s alright. ‘S nice and I’m bloody well staying until you throw me out.”

“No chance of that, old girl! Ah, last night...”

“Was excellent. I’m keeping you. Uh. Can I keep you? Because if I find out you’ve got a girlfriend hidden away I rescind that offer.”

“Hah. No, I am quite unattached, I assure you. Mmm...oh, you’ve scars here. I trust one day you’ll tell me your suitably heroic story?”

“...Maybe. For now—was that your stomach?”

“I do believe it was yours. And I also believe that if you’re of a mind to get dressed, I can probably convince the kitchens to furnish us with breakfast.”

“Uuuuugghh. Alright, alright, let me up or I’m never going to leave this bed—where’d my bloody socks go? Oh, here they are.”

“Ah, I’m afraid I left marks, you may wish to—that’s my shirt, you know!”

“Not anymore.”