Aveline had read her share of prose about the cruelly irresistible woman, the icon of promiscuity and dark delight that could make a man broke in a day. Oh, how poems loved to describe her beauty and rail against her wicked temptations, in equal parts obsessed with her pleasures and burning with hatred for her immutable hold over their authors! Â
There was one man, however, about whom she could wax sympathetic with these lovelorn muses.
She could still feel the tingling warmth of his kiss, after all, as if the heat of his passion had singed that tender flesh and left it aching. The imprint of that last and desperate embrace was still on her delicate frame, her skin invisibly marked by long, loving fingers that hadn’t wanted to let go. For a moment, just a fleeting one, she’d been convinced he would stay. Despite the importance of all he had to do, despite the selfishness of wanting the whole of him for a day or longer, she’d thought he might indulge them.
But alas, he’d pulled away with that devilish gleam in his eye. Though his lingering touch described his own longing for her in great detail with every slip and squeeze, his delight in her puppy dog pouting was no less palpable. His voice had been near to a purr as he’d reassured her with the hot breakfast that awaited her, along with a warm bed she could return to — as if these things could substitute the pleasure of his company.
As she lay in their empty bed, cheek pressed to where his scent lingered on the pillow, she couldn’t help daydreaming about those Panglossian moments. If he had any faults, they were lost in the re-imagining, the ache of his absence softened just a touch by the tickle of his fingers through her hair and the sharp teases that had poked her sleepy mind awake.
If there was one thing she could say about the man (beyond the mindless praise she was prone to thrusting upon him when the passion between them was at its hottest), it was that he seemed to enjoy the messiness he imposed upon his partners and clients. Mussed hair and askew nightie straps, a sloppily drooped mouth and a squeak of surprise — he must prefer it because she was constantly in such a state during their time together and even afterward.
“Come home.” Aveline squeezed his pillow in her arms tighter, voice still scented with the sweet syrup of breakfast. “Gods, come home soon.”
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Characters: Pyotyr Ilych (Male Duskwight Elezen Warrior of Light), ifrit, Y’shtola, Krile, Urianger. Vaguely implied WoL/Y’shtola and WoL/Aymeric.
Rating/Warning: T (Mild adult situations, Violence and serious injury)
Summary: Pyotyr has always had to fight. But he’s always had good reasons. Still, reasons may not be enough to save him when Ifrit is summoned with a particularly large amount of fire crystals. Written for ffxiv write 2020 prompt #12.
Ifrit Growled, a deep rumble, as heated as his element, and it shook Pyotyr Ilych, Warrior of Light or no, Echo-Blessed or no, to the bone.
Still, it wasn't the first time he'd faced down this Primal, and it likely would not be the last. With practiced fingers, he flipped through the pages of his arcane tome, finger nails tracing the lines of the spells, releasing the power trapped within - Bio and Miasma to weaken and poison, Broil to boil blood so hot not even ifrit could stand it.
The Primal reared back and roared at the barrage of magical energy, and Pyotyr took it as a sign to press the attack. Bolt after Bolt of magic, disrupting Ifrit's aether, keeping him off-balance, close to dispersing him, and then-
He hadn't seen the claw coming, and it crashed into his right side, cutting through his magical shields as if they were naught more than spun sugar. His body flew through air, to come crashing to the edge of the ring of fire, and his book flew out of his hand the opposite way.
He scrambled, shook his head, trying to fight off a sudden bout of double vision, and leapt to his feet, running toward the book where it had fallen, nearly on the opposite side of the arena.
But ifrit stepped in front of him first.
With a howl of rage, the primal bought down his toward Pyotyr, a killing blow. He wouldn't have time to dodge, he wouldn't have time to cast a shielding spell, all he could do was -
"No," the Duskwight Murmured.
His hands came up, setting his feet against the ground, and as the fist came down, he caught it in both hands!
Screamed as his knees nearly buckled, as pain shot up his legs.
But he was still standing.
"You... blocked it?" Ifrit said, the shock in his voice echoing off the canyon walls, "You are weak! Nothing more than a Bespectacled Scholar! Where is this strength from?"
He groaned again as another lance of pain shot through his body. Whatever he was doing, his body couldn't take much more.
Gods. Ifrit was right, though. He might not have always been a Scholar, but he was one now. Had been for many years. His physical strength wasn’t what it used to be.
Scenes flashed unbidden before his eyes.
A back alley in Limsa Lominsa, fists in front of his face in a sloppy boxer's stance, standing between a shuddering miqote boy and a large, angry Roegadyn man.
A fighting ring out in the La Noscean countryside, fists held above his head, his latest opponent face-down in the dirt.
The smell of sea spray and cry of gulls and he climbed the rigging of his old ship, and looked down to see his captain locked in combat with a Garlean officer, sword-to-sword. Quickly, he raised his axe, took aim, and threw it, and it the officer square in the head, sending him tumbling over the railing and into the churning ocean. His captain looked up and threw back a wild grin and a playful wink.
Long hours in the Arcanist's guild, frantically writing notes in a small notebook with one hand, scanning the lines of a book with the other as his candle nub threatened to flicker out.
Fighting, again and again.
In a jungle, ducking wildly behind a rock just in time to avoid sickly green flames from the mouth of a great green dragon.
In a deep, dark tunnel, wrestling with an ochu vine as it squeezed tighter and tighter round his waist.
In the tunnels under Ul'dah, stealing one last desperate look at Y'shtola as she yelled at him to run before turning to face the soldiers who had betrayed them, who called them traitors.
In a small sunlit room in the capital of Ishgard, grasping the cold hand of his beloved Ser Aymeric, staring with trepidation at his pained, sleeping face, at the wound in his belly.
He was shaken from his reveries by the sound of crackling, the pain of flames washing over his body, and he let out a scream.
Ifrit laughed.
"You see? You can't hope to defeat me! What are you but weak? What are you but mortal?"
"I am... still fighting..." he said through gritted teeth, and with one final yell, he pushed, with all his might. Ifrit let a yell of surprise of his own as the force sent him staggering back.
"I will always keep fighting..." Pyotyr murmured as he dropped to one knee, "Tooth and nail. Until there's peace again."
Ifrit climbed to his feet, snarling, back on his haunches, preparing one last strike.
But Pyotyr scratched at the dirt with his nails now, drawing the lines of the arcanist's symbols from memory. It might not work as well without the specially prepared paper and ink of his book, but he'd never reach the book in time. But with this.
Ifrit leapt at him with a mighty roar, claws set to rip him apart without hesitation or fear.
But now, Pyotyr let out a shout, pressing his hand in the center of his hastily prepared runes, channeling his own aether to complete the circuit. Energy leapt from it, strong and certain. bolts of great, explosive energy slammed into the Primal's chest even as he dove toward Pyotyr, claws now inches from his face-
-and then, non-existent, as the power of Pyotyr's last attack pierced Ifrit's heart, immediately scattering his aether back to the lifestream, to await the next time the Amal'jaa prepared an offering.
Now Pyotyr collapsed to the ground, on his back, breathing heavily. He vision swam, and he wondered if, after all, this would be the last fight.
Then, footsteps in the dirt. Running.
Familiar faces appeared above him.
"My... apologies for the poor greeting, my friends," he murmured, smiling weakly up at them, "I fear you've caught me at a bad time..."
Y'shtola's expression was one he had seen more than once, as she shook her head, "If you weren't already on death's door, Pyotyr..."
Krile's look was a little softer, but not by much. She raised her hands, and they began to glow, "Not only are your legs and arms both broken, but if your aether was any lower, you'd be in danger of discorporating altogether..."
Pyotyr chuckled, "It will come back. It always does."
"Until it doesn't," Y'shtola said, flatly.
Pyotyr's face softened, "I... am sorry to have worried you. This Ifrit was powerful, I couldn’t risk waiting for backup, and I couldn't risk anyone without the echo getting tempered. I thought I could take him on my own..."
Urianger, who had been looking around the area, rised his goggles and stared down at Pyotyr with a nod.
"In truth, thou didst," he said, "For I canst find nary a sign of the beast's aether. Truly, thy prowess is to be commended."
"Don't ENCOURAGE him," Y'shtola looked up at Urianger, and Pyotyr felt himself grateful that she had a new target, for a moment.
But she pressed the matter no further, and instead busied herself with assisting Krile, binding some of the wounds her magic couldn't heal completely.
"Thank you," Pyotyr said, "All of you. I promise you. No matter how hard I fight, it's always so I can see you all again."
He liked to think he saw Y'shtola's cheeks redden just a bit at that. It was enough. He let himself be carried off by sensations of Krile's healing magics, and for a moment, he had peace again after all.
