#ffxvi garuda

this is why as a scholar in such times as these, especially one from the lands beyond, haste is an all too important preserve for a former nation turned into another.

it is also why when you arrive on the distant shores of valisthea on the continent of ash, many an attempt is made to speak to as varied a people as possible- soldiers, mercenaries, merchants, scholars, lords, ladies and farmers; a picture begins to form.

but, with all of your attempts at speaking to someone new, one name is bought up consecutively- barnabas tharmr. he is the man who lead many of the battles against veldermarke. he is the one they say is the dominant of an eikon people are calling odin. he is the man who renamed the land his; waloed. most, if not all, are calling to name him as king. he is also the man who until a week ago, has given you so, so much trouble to find and speak to him about your research. damn him.

you arm yourself with both tomes and shortsword to finally meet the man- varied accounts of a person’s character make the need for preparation feel all the more important, after all.

upon entering the new capital of stonhyrr, erected on the remains of an old nation, you recall an account that gives you pause. ‘stubborn and cantankerous! far too young for a position such as king!’

though this had come from a fellow scholar over a few pints of ale, this is a point of view you’d like to take with a grain of salt; after all, this scholar had some rather strange views about your own hometown in the lands beyond, views you knew to be entirely untrue.

nearing the finally agreed upon meeting place, you continue forwards through a more populated street, fingers flexing over a tome pressed to your left hip upon recalling another description of the man- it is swatted away much quicker, a crooning voice curling around your ears much like it had a week prior across the bar top; you don’t need to know what his hands felt like, nor the intensity of his eyes to judge what sort of information he could give you for your research, thank you very much.

a short call of your name is what distracts you completely from your thoughts, eyes now directed to a young man dressed in a strange combination of armour and finery; strange, because he wears a single leg guard, a chest plate and one vambrace on his arm baring the crest of what you know to be odin. the man is also broad, very easy on the eyes and walking your way- perhaps that account from a week prior might actually have some merit after all.

“i take it you are the scholar? apologies, it seems i’ve been a hard man for you to pin down.” eyes cut across your face from under a dark fringe, shortly followed by an amused quirk of his mouth at the tome under your arm, along with the contradiction of the short sword at your hip.

i’d not make it hard for you to pin me down.

the thought that follows across your own mind is short, unsaid and quickly dismissed by the clearing of your throat to rid it from your mind; you decide instead to speak to him like you’re supposed to for your research.

“all is well; it seems then, that you’ve been expecting me long before i was expecting to see you. i suppose i should expect as much from the man i’ve heard is to be king.”

a smile widens his mouth, hand coming up to rub at the side of his neck before he turns and beckons you to follow after him- his footsteps sound strange, with only the one leg guard and all, but you follow nonetheless. “ah, that. i- do not know how that has come to be, but, i shan’t reject it.”

you shake your head, footsteps following in quick succession with his and arms occasionally bumping against each other- his side profile is rather lovely, from the glances you take at him on the short duration of the walk back to a building of some sort. “then ser, i suppose i should keep myself in good standing with you, if you are to be the king. i am after all, just a feeble scholar.”

“a feeble scholar? aye, i can see that plainly from that.. dagger at your hip. what research have you sought me for? i have heard little of your works, though i hear you come from the lands beyond. why come to- this place?” his sentence ends when he turns to face you, taking steps backwards and beckoning you over to a table by the wall; this is where you were supposed to meet, after all, at this bar crowded with men with swords that greet him with a call of his name and ale already on its way over to the table.

you make your way over to him and sit down, watching him; he’s already looking at you. he has sharp eyes, made sharper still by the tilt of his head and his position now directly across from you. with this sharpness comes the softest familiarity, binding you into your seat and prying open your mouth.

oh. this is.. for research purposes. strictly.

oh.

..maybe not.

————————

you do not expect the man who stumbles into the rest- if you had to guess, you’d say he’s one of cid’s.. though, it’s strange for the man himself not to be here; he’s.. close with martha, after all.

but, you’re not complaining at all about this particular man making an appearance- you don’t see many travellers with a face like that in a place like this. with your gaze directed at him, you’re able to observe a few things as he makes his approach.

the first thing you notice is his face- youthful, yet hardened. he has the mark of a bearer branded onto his cheek, too; it does nothing to detract from such a pretty face, but it makes a part of yourself ache at the reality such a simple thing brings forward.

the next is when he’s right in front of the counter, broad shoulders taking up your view and head ducked down in an awkward half shrug; the hilt of the sword strapped to his back knocks into his head at the gesture, to which you smother a laugh. awkward, but still sure of himself. it works for him.

“ah, is martha here?”

his voice is not quite what you’d expected- less brash, a familiar lilt and weight of the words on his tongue that marks him as a local. this is strange, since you know all of the locals and you’re almost certain you’ve never layed eyes on him before in your life.

you clear your throat, putting down the glass that you’d previously been holding onto the counter, weighing up your words before you speak. “i’m here in her place for a few days, i’m afraid. are you- are you one of cid’s?”

his expression pulls into something strange as you speak, scrutinising over the little scar on the back of your hand shaped like a star. it is a momento from childhood, from falling on a metal picket when you’d been messing around with a boy who came to your village sometimes; you think he must have been the son of one of the lords in the capital. his eyes soon skitter back up to your face, eyes blinking too rapidly to be entirely nonchalant.

suspicious.

“yes- ah, clive. i.. there’s a note, cid told me to give it to martha. could you..” he pats down his pockets, soon withdrawing a crumpled bit of paper and thrusting his hand over the counter towards you. he looks, to put it kindly, rather bloody awkward. you take the paper, knowing better than to look, pocketing it quickly in your own apron.

you tell him your name in return, amused at this character who’s stumbled in on your shift; maybe i should ask to cover for martha more often.

“so, clive.. i haven’t seen you in before, i don’t think. i’m taking it that you’ve only recently been uh- acquainted with cid. he’s a bloody idiot, that man, you watch yourself and that lovely face of yours.”

he does that thing where his eyes blink rapidly again, looking much like he’s unsure how to answer you- or, more likely to answer what part of your statement.

“i will- thanks. i’ll be passing back through in a few days. will you still be working then?”

something in his face stops your immediate response- he’s staring at the scar on your hand again, so much so that it starts to feel like a brand. there’s a weight he carries in the steel of his eyes and the stiffness of his shoulders, for just a moment it presses down on you too.

the pressure rises into a crescendo, an old melody baring a familiar pattern just out of your grasp- i know you. maybe.

another look over his face stops the snag of your thoughts, bringing the moment back into focus with the fresh batch of regulars that stroll in through the front door. “i will be- come find me whenever you can, yeah?”

————————

you live in your own bubble, in a little cottage contained within the bounds of the land you’d inherited from an aunt on your father’s side; when you’d found out, it was a loss you did not mourn. in life the woman was an old bat- she’d certainly left you much better off dead than she had when she was alive.

you can hear her now, screeching something or other about fixing your posture and listening more to your tutors and probably something else too, you’re sure. all you can remember of the woman is hazy, great greagor you’re glad for it.

you know you shouldn’t be stuck in your thoughts like this, but you miss your little bubble. you miss it dearly with it so far from your grasp, sitting against the back wall of a dingy bar on the outskirts of ran’dellah and watching the assortment of people pour inside this place.

merchant. highborn. politician. merchant. thief. merchant. merchant. mercenary.

the last title does not taste right- it does not fit correctly on the woman who had strolled through the entrance of the bar, yet, it is the only word that comes to mind aside from a sort of white noise buzzing in your ears.

she is all hard edges of jagged glass; stiff shoulders and a spine made of iron, sword strapped to her hip and covered entirely in a sleek black armour of some kind. if your eyes pause at the sway of her hips and lock onto the curve of her waist, that’s entirely business of your own.

the way she moves through the bar is smoother than you’d expected, almost feline in a way that makes your hair stand on end. you can tell enough from your observations and you pride yourself on your survival instincts, which are telling you to leave the bar.

it’s when you tip your head back to down the last of your ale that you loose sight of the woman- perhaps that had been your first mistake. your second though, is not hearing her sit down across from you until her leg brushes yours under the table.

“you are not good at being discreet, you know?”

it takes much more effort than you’d like to admit to not fall out of your seat; people weren’t supposed to move that quiet.. at least, they didn’t the few measly times you’d been at court- all clicking heels against polished floors and frumpy greetings to hide mountains of ugly disdain.

the woman who you’re presuming is some kind of mercenary or sell-sword has a strange accent- almost waloeder in origin, but not quite. so, you look up, knowing within yourself that this is probably a bad idea. probably.

definitely a bad idea.

“how do you know i was aiming for anything in such a realm? don’t make daft assumptions.” it takes a lot to get any words out, being close to such a pretty woman- it brings back memories from youth, of laughter and hushed whispers and fingers locked together under the table.

the smile that curves her face feels more like a scar on your own skin- sharp, jagged, and oozing something that makes your hindbrain claw its way to the surface. her leg bumps yours again under the table, one ankle crossed lightly over your own as she leans partially over the tabletop, “it’s not daft when you seem like such a lamb- pretty and soft, you are. you’ve no calluses on your hands, no armour to coat you. you’d not have jumped so far out of your own skin when i sat down, if you weren’t attempting to be discreet.”

there’s a leftover mirth in her eyes as she takes a swig of her own ale, the un-added ‘and failing’ remaining needlessly unsaid.

reflexively you cross your arms, hands tucked into the crooks of yours elbows and staring at the smug woman over the table- perhaps you’d need to be more sneaky, being here, for the reasons you’re so far from home. “i detest the notion that you seem so smug to think you’ve read me- you’re none too discreet about what you are. soldier, mercenary, bloody fighter of some kind.”

she seems to be amused, if the quirk of her mouth is anything to go by- it’s unfair, really, for any one person to hold your attention like she does at such a minute gesture. the gold of her eyes contradicts her sharpness and melts over you like molasses, like the warmth of summer, golden and familiar.

“i am what i need to be. i think perhaps you might envy me, little bird in your gilded cage. tell me, how prettily would you sing for me?”

there is a flutter at her words- low in your belly that seeps through your body, warmth swallowing you whole as it lets her dig her claws and hook in under your skin. your spine prickles, your ears burn, a reflexive swallow represses any possible expression you could make.

there is a familiarity in her mirth, in the cant of conversation she steers in her own favour; the attitude that contradicts the sharpness of her gaze, the gold that melts over you like honey, sunlight peaking through foliage.

“i- i do not even know your name!”

the sputter seems to melt her amusement slightly, sharp edge gone a moment as she reaches over the table, fingertip dragging over your crossed arms and unravelling you from your tightly wound coil. “i suppose not- benedikta. now, will you give me your answer? i want your name in return.”

oh, this feeling. what is this you’ve found somewhere far from home? from the cottage that had burnt down and the courtiers that tittered behind their hands?

why now? how inconvenient.

notes; so, tldr; this was supposed to be done in december/january. obvi that didn’t happen!!! but!! it’s something (less character too because i got carried away- but, i can do others of the main cast if it’s something people want) so i’m happy it’s posted ^-^ in regards to barnabas; his part is set when he’s young and just establishing waloed, so it might not be the characterisation you would immediately expect (since it’s pre ykyk) && in case you couldn’t tell, i indulged a little bit too much with certain things, haha!! oh well :’)