#ffxivwrite 2024

Hades glanced over his notes, head leaned hard into one hand while a quill rested in his other (how long until he replaced every painfully primitive quill in the house with an easier to use pen, he wasn’t sure). He had overheard only a little of Akira’s daughter’s new abilities that were making themselves known, and though his help had been spurned before even asking him — and of course he certainly did not want to help anyway — he couldn’t help but ponder over it. And the more he pondered, the more he wrote, and now his desk was covered in notes he had no way to give Akira without admitting he had overheard. Not just her suggestion that they seek his help, but also the firm dismissal of—

“Up!” He glanced down at the small voice, finding the tiny red-haired frame of Stella, shoving the sketchbook he’d made for her at him to hold, barely waiting for him to grab it before letting go and climbing into his office chair, pushing insistently until she was crammed into it with him. She reached for the sketchbook and, while for anyone else he might grumble…he handed the book back, giving her a little pat on the head between her miqote ears.

For a while, they sat like that, Stella balancing the little book on Hades’ lap as she colored, Hades himself going back to his notes, occasionally glancing at the toddler. He snuck glances at her soul, as if someone would be able to tell if he lingered too long, fascinated at how the color almost precisely matched the ambient aether of the aetherial sea. He was deep into a multi page tangent on what it could mean combined with what other signs he had heard she was exhibiting when she tugged on his sleeve.

“What is it, dear?” Hades’ voice was softer than his usual prickly demeanor; he would never use the term of endearment if he suspected her father to be near, knowing with certainty now that, if the archon had his way, that Hades would have nothing to do with his daughter. But no matter what any of them did, Stella still sought him out with just as much regularity as her father, mother, or Hythlodaeus.

Stella flipped her book around proudly, ears flicking and small nub of a tail doing its best to swish while trapped between the arm of the chair and Hades’ leg. It was a little drawing of five stick figures, one much shorter than the others, three with red hair, one with purple…and one with white. For a moment, Hades was lost in the dozens and dozens of lives he’d lived, little children destined to live chaotic lives and die tragic deaths proudly bringing their ‘father’ their little creations looking for affection.

“Eme!” Stella pointed helpfully at the white-haired stick figure, and it broke Hades out of his reverie.

“No, no, Hades,” he corrected, and she frowned, pointing more forcefully at the figure.

“Eme!”

“Ha-des,” he pronounced slowly. Where had she learned that name? Now her face had a smirk that reminded him all-too much of her father.

“Eme!” she giggled at his frustration, and he let out a groan.

“You might as well give up,” Hades glanced up from his torment to find Hythlodaeus leaning on the frame of the office door. “Once kids decide what they want to call you, there’s no changing it.” Hades slumped forward onto his desk dramatically, and Stella jumped down with her prize, running over to Hythlodaeus and holding the book up to him.

A grunt was his only answer, and Aymeric sighed internally. He hadn’t expected much, honestly. The dragoon-in-training was recalcitrant on his best day, but he was also unfailingly loyal, and completely unconcerned with social status in a way that was incredibly refreshing. Aymeric liked him a great deal, even with his sour attitude – and if Estinien accepted the invitation, maybe it would stop his mother from fussing about him being lonely, which always inevitably led to her trying to persuade him to live at home rather than the barracks.

Aymeric had not had many friends in his youth, and truthfully, joining the Temple Knights had been as much an attempt to find somewhere to belong as a place to prove himself and serve his city. He had hoped that his fellow recruits would judge him on his own merits, but the highborn gave him a large berth for the same baseless reasons they always had, and most of the lowborn sneered at the idea of another noble son playing knight – especially one who was his father’s heir. Spending his nights in the comfort of his childhood home would only make that problem all the worse.

Most days he attempted to distance himself from his parentage – both the truth and the rumor – but no one, not even his detractors, could begrudge him going home for Starlight.

And so he was sitting at the dining table, regaling his father with only slightly embellished stories from his recent forays into the highlands, while his mother put the finishing touches on a meal she still insisted on cooking herself, when there was a dull thud against the heavy wood of the front door.

His father always dismissed their meager household staff to their own family homes for the holiday, so Aymeric rose and hurried to the door himself, trying not to be too hopeful. Perhaps it was merely a group of carolers, or a friar accepting alms for the children of the Brume.

Opening the door revealed a rather disgruntled young elezen man, hair released from its customary tail, and clad in linen shirt and calfskin trousers that looked nice, if a bit rumpled, and entirely unsuitable for the season. Aymeric stared at him in shock for a moment, before his face cracked into a wide grin. “Estinien! I did not think you were coming!”

His excitement was met with a glare. “Are you going to let me in or not? It’s bloody cold out here.”

Aymeric stepped aside just in time to avoid being pushed aside as Estinien shoved himself through the doorway without waiting for an answer.

“My apologies. What made you change your mind?”

Estinien folded his arms across his chest, thin mouth set in an irritated line that Aymeric was beginning to suspect was partially embarrassment. “I never said no. And you were right, what they serve at the barracks tastes like chocobo’s arse,” he declared loudly, and Aymeric could hear a soft snort of laughter from his father in the dining room.

As they walked towards the dining room, Aymeric murmured a quiet, “mind your language in front of my mother, please.”

Estinien’s ears turned a bit pink, and suddenly he went from looking like a man of two and twenty to a boy of fifteen. “I’m not a bloody imbecile, I know how to behave,” he hissed back, and Aymeric very politely did not point out the hypocrisy in his word choice.

As they entered the dining room, so did the Lady de Borel, heavy silver platter held in delicate hands that had begun to shake more often than they did not. Leaving Estinien to stand in the doorway, Aymeric darted over to his mother and took the platter from her, ignoring her protests as he did so.

“Well, who’s this, then?” asked his father, peering at Estinien over his spectacles, and Aymeric smothered a laugh at how uncomfortable the man looked. ‘Twas uncharitable of him to find amusement there, but the man looked as if he had stepped onto a battlefield filled with dragons, rather than a friend’s home with his elderly parents.

“Estinien Varlineau, ser,” he responded, awkwardly, shifting his weight as if unsure of his welcome. “Aymeric invited me.”

As Aymeric put down the heavy platter of food, he decided to throw the poor man a lifeline. “Father, you will remember that I mentioned a young dragoon who saved my life two moons ago? That was Estinien, who has since become a good friend of mine. As he is unable to return home for Starlight, I invited him to ours.”

His mother gasped and walked over to Estinien, taking his hands in her own. “Oh, of course! Thank you so much for looking after our boy. Come, sit.” She tugged him towards the table and Estinien followed, looking a bit overwhelmed as she ushered him to the seat next to Aymeric’s own. His father rose and pulled out her chair for her as she walked back around the table, sinking into it gratefully, and Aymeric squashed a twinge of worry for how unsteady she seemed.

Estinien sat as he was bid, casting a slightly bewildered glance in Aymeric’s direction as he carved the roast and deftly transferred it to plates. “That’s laying it on a bit thick, isn’t it? As I recall, it was you saving my damned fool hide. Twice.”

Aymeric shot him a warning look, then shook his head, face falling back into a pleasant mien. “Ah, but if you had not wounded that dragon as you did, it would not have fled the battlefield, and instead finished what it began with the rest of our company. Thus I owe you my life, and my thanks.”

Ducking his head and fidgeting, Estinien didn’t say much throughout the dinner, only speaking when spoken to (and without any more swearing, praise Halone), save to compliment the cooking, which made Aymeric’s mother glow with pride. They had scarcely finished eating when his parents excused themselves, his father gently guiding his mother up the stairs as she leaned on him in exhaustion.

Aymeric sighed. Clearly she had overtaxed herself today – ‘twas likely that this would be the last Starlight dinner she cooked herself.

Turning to his guest, he held up the half-empty bottle of wine, then refilled only his own glass when Estinien shook his head. “I am glad you came. They worry too much, and I think you being here eased that somewhat. Or at least made them less likely to openly fuss over me.”

A faraway look came over Estinien’s features, doubtless thinking of his own parents, and he shook his head. “Wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Fancy house aside, you actually live like people.”

“Glad I am to have disabused you of the notion that I am some spoiled little lordling, playing at war,” Aymeric responded, a faintly bitter twist to his words.

“Oh, have no doubt, I still think you’re spoiled. Just in a normal way, not the highborn brat way.” Estinien grinned and tossed back the last dregs of his wine as if it were a mug of ale.

Aymeric laughed and shook his head. “’Tis better than the alternative, I suppose.”

Wood scraped over stone as Estinien shoved his chair back. “I should be getting back, I’m sure they’ll have us doing drills in the morning.” He turned away as he stood, then paused, not looking back. “Thanks,” he muttered, then tromped towards the front door without another word.

“You are changed.”

Y’zel didn’t look up as Y’shotla stood before him, lazily separating his research notes from his students’ homework assignments. “Hm…have I?”

“I suppose it’s a mixed blessing. I don’t readily miss your mewling over your paramour’s, but I do feel the absence of your company,” Y’shtola said, pouring them tea before sitting down across from Y’zel at his desk. “Though, I suppose being the Doman Consort does keep you far from home.”

Y’shtola closed her eyes as she lifted her saucer so that she could take a cautious sip of her tea. Meanwhile Y’zel mostly ignored the gesture for a moment, straightening his paperwork before removing his glasses and leaning back in his seat with a sigh. “Home is it now? I cannot think of any one place I’ve stayed long enough to dub ‘home’.”

“And here I am the romantic one with the sentiment of home not being a residence but where the people they care for are. Perhaps, I too, have changed,” Y’shtola said, absently brushing her ear, or more accurately the earring upon it.

Y’zel didn’t respond, eyes attempting to avoid his cousin’s gaze as he idly fingered at the paperwork on his desk, only focusing upon her out of habit and necessity to read her lips. He opened his mouth briefly, almost finding himself rudely asking ‘Is that all?’; however, he decided it was best not to hurry her off and give cause to worry. “I am as I always have been. My mind is just full and my responsibilities continue to stack up before me.” 

Y’shtola shook her head. “I cannot, nor care to, imagine what mental gymnastics it takes to maintain your dual lives and keep your sanity. I can only ask as someone who cares for you to ensure you’re taking care of yourself. You’ve always had a way of…contorting yourself into a situation rather than seeing how or if you can fit into it naturally.”

The notion hung in the air, Y’zel flicking his ears back a little in annoyance as he was given unsolicited council. Still, he could not dismiss the observation made. Shifting uncomfortably in his chair he sat up and finally moved to nurse his tea. Y’shtola tapped her finger lightly against her mostly empty cup as she looked around the small office before setting it on the table. “I’ve interrupted enough of your time checking in. I should get back to the Annex and see what more Krile needs of me before she departs for Tural.”

“Tural?”

“Yes, Tural. It seems the New World has taken a keen interest in our friends. Tural’s Dawnservant has opened its borders to us to observe their Rite of Succession. My interests keep me here so I’ve not made plans to join the envoy, but I imagine it should prove enriching for those curious of distant cultures. At the very least it’ll help foster global citizenship post Final Days.”

"In any case," Momodi kept her eyes on the letter in her hand, the corners of her mouth slowly curling. "I thank the Twelve you were there to help them."

It was funny. She had been working this job for many a summer, and she had seen a wide variety of a wide variety of things. This would ever count as a first for her.

Before the guild counter stood a stringy boy of an Elezen in full armor, this part was not odd given her profession. His gaze read of innocence and his stance was open, which was.

His name was Oscar Moreau. One of many new adventurers to grace her counter of late. A good lad. Though clearly one lacking a working internal compass.

"There's just one problem, Oscar." Momodi continued, stifling her laughter and exasperation both.

The lad all but froze.

"Is something wrong, Miss Momodi?" Oscar questioned, brow raising.

"You were supposed to report to Black Brush station, in Central Thanalan." She pointed out.

For a mercy, the lad was smart enough to look guilty at hearing this.

"You went so far to the west, that it's a wonder you didn't wind up in Horizon."

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It didn't hurt, was the problem. Even with his chronic anxiety Martyn took far too long to realize something had gone terribly wrong. Dollmaker had put the weird mouth embedded halfway down its neck on Martyn before, after all. No reason to not assume this was more of its wet kisses. Whatever strange stilling of the aether that Dollmaker did to disassemble and reassemble its dolls meant there was no pain when the teeth sank into Martyn's shoulder and the vast, dark maw began to feed. 

There was an odd tugging, a sense of dizziness, a feeling of cold creeping along his arm and then a feeling of emptiness that even someone who'd touched every magical discipline Eorzea would allow had no vocabulary to describe - not just emptiness, but an active, sucking void, a whirlpool that he was being pulled into.

His weary mind frantically battered the pieces of his thoughts together with the strange sensation until finally, by a mercy, the answer snapped into place.

The voidsent was devouring his aether, bite by slow bite.

This wasn't – I didn't agree to this, stop this–

"My doll, precious doll, sweet doll," Dollmaker moaned. "And how delicious your essence. Sweet and potent, fluttering with purest life. Just a taste, doll, just a taste, you owe me that much, you owe me…"

The oddly comforting locks around his limbs now revealed themselves for the chains they had always been. Martyn couldn't move, couldn't scream as the teeth dug into his flesh. The massive tongue laved at his arm, drawing his essence in deeper down the voidsent's throat.

Nonononono

His cane was across the room, as useless as if it were in remote Thavnair. Nothing to channel with. No focus. Incredibly unsafe, incredibly ineffective, but good gods he couldn't even cry for help. With that monstrous mouth across his vision, all Martyn could think of was the rotting undead goobue wandering the ruins of Amdapor, its hunger so vast that its own stomach had opened a maw of its own. The Gourmand, they'd called it. 

Spectral teeth bared in the dim light of the tunnel and snapped down on Dollmaker's gluttonous neck. The monster jerked, body wriggling at the impact. "What is this? What–" It slapped the teeth away. The slow drawing in of aether continued, but it had broken Dollmaker's focus just long enough.

By force Martyn ordered his body to flinch away, his neck to turn inch by agonizing inch. He pulled in what precious aether Dollmaker hadn't already devoured, coiling it, sharpening it.

Don't touch me don't touch me you can't touch me

Protection to harm his enemies, to make any hand that touched him suffer. The sharp edges of a thousand sabotender needles exploded from Martyn's body. Dollmaker screeched, dropping Martyn's body from its arms as it clawed at the tiny spines embedded in its dark flesh. Another burst and spikes of ice slammed into its mask, leaving a crack along it. Glowing blue seeped through the crack and the eyeholes of the mask, shimmering in tune with the rising rage in its voice.

"Fiend, how dare–how–!"

Later, Martyn would realize the moment the rage turned to horror and regret in the voidsent's glowing gaze. Right now, he just wanted the vile thing to burn. 

Martyn shook himself, rolling up to curl on his side. His clumsy arms folded around himself, a protective gesture for the blue mage's last resort. When you couldn't win a fight, you made it a draw. Fire aether channeled between his palms. The dripping voidsent reached out for him again, its voice high and piteous.

"Wait–doll, please, Martyn–"

There was the reek of sulfur, the crack and roar of flame, and then nothing at all.

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