#ritavery

In one of those seconds that feels like an eternity, Ritanelle wonders whether her gown is having the intended effect.

Oh, she knows she looks fantastic—she’s all in midnight-blue silk and gold, high-necked in front but plunging to her waist in the back, two long slits flashing silk stockings as she descends the stairs—but that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s working for Avery. This thing between them is so new, so fragile, she’s afraid to hold it too tightly.

(Her! Afraid! She’s never been afraid of love or sex in her life, but Avery is different. Avery was her friend first. Is her friend still. Now that she knows the taste of his smile, she can’t bear to think about losing it.)

Avery is waiting at the foot of the stairs. He looks incredible, of course; no armor for him tonight, as G’raha Tia insisted they celebrate saving the First in style. Instead it’s tall boots, a silk waistcoat, gold trim on his coat. His shirt is an ivory that makes his olive skin glow. The knife at his belt (because he’s Ishgardian, of course he has a knife) has a sapphire the size of her thumbnail in the hilt. They didn’t plan their outfits together, but he’s still dressed to match and gods, she loves him so much it hurts.

And she doesn’t need to worry about her reception after all, because he’s staring at her like she’s put the moon in the sky. “My lady,” he starts. Stops, swallowing visibly. “I—you…”

She can’t help but grin, sweeping down the rest of the steps as quickly as her heels will allow to execute a quick, wholly unnecessary twirl to show off the back of her outfit. What there is of it, anyway: a fall of silk skirts and an expanse of bare skin, her serpent-and-thorns tattoo shining like moonlight. Her ears twitch at his sharp inhale; when she looks up at him again, there’s color in his cheeks. “Well?”

It’s light, teasing, because the night hasn’t even started yet and she can’t fluster him half to death before they’ve had at least one dance. But at her words he seems to claw back some composure, because he steps forward, takes her gloved hand in his, and presses a kiss to her knuckles that positively crackles all the way to her spine. “Miss Rita,” he murmurs. “You look beautiful.”

She may briefly forget to breathe. “I bet you say that to all th’ pretty young maidens,” she blurts out, horribly conscious of the prickly red blush crawling up her face.

His violet eyes glitter as he straightens to meet her gaze. “No,” he says simply. “Only you.”

The next few seconds stretch out in a ruthless procession of logical statements. If he keeps looking at her like that, she is going to kiss him. If she starts kissing him, she is going to want to keep at it. If she pulls him back up the stairs, they are going to be entirely late for their own party and she will quite literally never hear the end of it from Shtola. The only conclusion is that she really should pull away. Now. Before all those events come to pass.

But Avery’s lips curve in a smile that says he knows the effect he’s having on her (when did he get smooth? Was this always there, lurking beneath years of job-induced depression?) and so she really cannot be blamed for taking a step forward and letting him tug her close, his gloved hand on the small of her bare back like a brand just below where the thorns of her tattoo end. She slides a hand up into his loose burgundy curls, watching the way his eyes darken in response. “You know,” she breathes, “the lady I bought this lipstick from swears it’ll never come off, but I think that’s a hypothesis deserves testing.”

She can feel his heart kick in his chest. “Well,” he murmurs, “you know that a knight of Ishgard lives to serve.”

They are late. When they stride in, Rita’s hair a little ruffled and Avery trying unsuccessfully to salvage his wrinkled cravat, Shtola threatens to turn them both into toads.

This didn't fit any particular prompt this year but I wrote it a while back and REALLY wanted to post it so here you go

& & &

Yotsuyu is dead.

So is Asahi, but that’s less important. Yotsuyu—Tsuyu—is dead. She’d been given a second chance, she could have done so much with it, and now she is dead. (Because of Asahi, because her brother used her parents against her, because he wanted an excuse—oh, Ritanelle could kill him a second time If she had the chance.)

Alas, there are more immediate concerns than vengeance, no matter how much she wants to scream and incinerate Asahi’s corpse until the pyre is visible from Garlemald. Asahi hadn’t come to Doma alone, and instead of sensibly fleeing for their lives his underlings are still here. Still here and talking.

...Alright, she can recognize when she’s being unfair. Maxima quo Priscus isn’t a bad sort, despite the actions of his superiors. He’s tall and handsome and grave, and he has never once called any of them savages in her hearing. But gods, his explanations of the truly minute details inherent to Garlean political parties could just as easily have come before all this, in a much more pleasant setting. Over drinks in the Kienkan, maybe, instead of where they are now—near a dozen people hovering awkwardly around each other in a Castrum Fluminis meeting room, forced to sit on the floor or lean against walls for lack of chairs.

(She’s summoned one, and gotten Titan-Egi to hover behind Gantsetseg and Avery so the three of them—who have just been fighting an entire primal, thank you—don’t all fall over. It wouldn’t be dignified, and they need all the dignity they can get.)

“I admit,” Hien eventually says coolly, “I am surprised you are still here.” His hand rests lightly on his sword, a silent warning.

Rita stared down at the hastily written letter without really seeing it. Now that she was finished writing, regret was seeping in like ink.

It really had been a whim; that was the worst part. She hadn’t planned it at all. Hells, Avery Mordeterre was—had been—her enemy, even when all she’d known of him had been red curls and flashing violet eyes across the crowded tavern at Dragonhead. He worked for the Inquisition, who were the biggest bastards she’d met since leaving Gridania, and she’d met an awful lot of bastards since leaving Gridania. The smart thing to do would’ve been to leave him to his fate after the false Inquisitor Guillaume fell, let him slink off to his superiors or die in a ditch somewhere or be questioned by House Haillenarte. It hadn’t been any of her business what happened to Guillaume’s lackeys. Master Alphinaud would probably prefer it continue to not be her business; he was far more politically-minded than she’d ever been.

She was pretty sure real heroes didn’t go saving peoples’ lives on a whim. They had grand gallant reasons to charge in like knights in shining armor, ready to lay down their lives in heroic sacrifice. They didn’t stare down Ser Whatsisname—Drillemont, that was it—and casually point out that, in case the man forgot, her day job was killing primals, so perhaps he wanted to reconsider torturing interrogating an archer whose only real crime had been to believe a heretic who was, after all, a very good liar...? They definitely didn’t feel a smug little thrill at making a seasoned knight with the backing of an entire Ishgardian noble house go all pale and stammery.

Well. She wasn’t very much of a hero, all told. But if saving Master Mordeterre in the first place had been a whim, writing to him now was...something less than that. A blip. A half-formed thought skittering across her mind and out of her mouth before she could stop it. But he’d just been—been so skeptical and huffy and pretty, it had apparently made her reckless. In retrospect, she had the feeling she’d wanted to prove him wrong. He’d thought she and Master Garlond and Master Alphinaud couldn’t survive the Stone Vigil? She’d show him.

And now she had. The furiously-scribbled proof was laying on her desk, signed and dated. All she had to do was send it, and the moogle post would take care of the rest. Give them a name, and they could deliver letters to the bloody New World, never mind the frozen spires of Ishgard’s Holy See.

He’d probably use it for kindling. It wouldn’t surprise her. Again, she considered taking the smart option and saving him the trouble.

But he’d said he would look forward to hearing from her, and she was stupidly optimistic enough to want to believe him.

Avery’s gone.

He’s been gone—she saw him off to Garlemald with Alphy weeks ago, with her lucky earclasps and prayers for his safe return—but at least she’d known he was somewhere in Ilsabard. At least she’d known he was alive. But then bloody Gaius van fucking Baelsar had shown up with an unconscious Alphinaud and a tale of watching Avery vanish before his eyes, and now—

It’s very quiet in the Rising Stones infirmary.

Urianger. Y’shtola. Thancred. And now, Alphinaud. In sleep they’re still as the grave, only the rise and fall of their chests letting her know they still live. The loudest thing in the room is the beeping of the monitors the Ironworks donated to track their vital signs. Ritanelle wants to scream.

She could. It wouldn’t wake them.

She can’t even bury her face in Avery’s shoulder, their shared grief making it permissible.

(If she finds who took him, she’s going to set them on fire and laugh as they burn.)

The door creaks, and she looks up. Maybe it’s Krile back from her break, or Tataru coming with tea. Or even better, Ephemie with a stiff drink.

“Mraow.”

Tears burn in the corner of her eyes, because it’s not any of them. It’s Galloway, Avery’s sleek black cat, who probably thought his papa would be home any day now and has been cruelly proven wrong. He pads over to her and puts his front paws on her knee, peering up to see what she’s doing because he is a nosy little furry bastard and she loves him. “’Tis a handkerchief, you great gaby, ‘tis not food—”

He meows at her, and that’s it. She scoops him up before he can escape, burying her (damp, tear-streaked) face into his neck. He goes practically liquid in the way of all cats, letting himself be held like a baby. So many of her friends are gone, but at least she has Galloway purring in her arms and accepting her muffled, “Good boy! Aww, you’re so soft and plushy…” (She is a Scion of the Seventh Dawn. She has slain gods with aether-infused geometry. And yet cats turn her into a shameless idiot.)

Galloway nuzzles her face, and she can’t help but giggle. Gods, she wishes Avery was here to see this. He likes to joke that Galloway’s as much her cat as his, ever since the first day she’d gone over to his tiny apartment in Foundation to help him with his Echo and almost immediately found herself with a lapful of cat trying to steal her tea. The tension between them—her nervousness that she had no idea what she was doing, his Ishgardian propriety and unease about this entire concept of their Mother’s will and existence—had evaporated in an instant and never returned.

He’s been by her side ever since. Through the end of the Dragonsong War, through letters sent between Ishgard and Ala Mhigo, through a terrifying, incredible meeting with family she hadn’t known she had. He’s taught her Old Gelmorran; she’s taught him what tricks she learned from lost, beloved Minfilia. She’s heard him relearn how to laugh. (He’d looked so surprised, as though he’d forgotten what it sounded like. She’d wanted to kill Charibert all over again.)

And she never got to tell him—

Tell him what? He knows, or should know, he’s one of her best friends. He knows, or should know, that he’s one of the smartest and most blisteringly attractive men she’s ever seen. (He does own a mirror after all; it should be obvious.) None of that matters, because she’s flirted with him before—hells, it had been their very introduction, when he’d just been the pretty knight at the Dragonhead inn and she’d been a fledgling adventurer—and he’d barely even seemed to notice. She’d only waste her breath.

She doesn’t even know what she’d say. Where it would lead. She just knows she misses him.

Galloway apparently has enough of being snuggled. He wriggles out of her arms, drops to the floor, and begins an exploratory circuit of the room. His tail is low to the ground, when normally he carries it so high that running her hand down his back ends with a full stop at its base. Even he knows something’s wrong, and she’s seen him get his head stuck in cardboard boxes.

Up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen We daren’t go a-hunting…

It was all her fault.

She’d let go of Avery’s hand. They’d been half running through the woods, barely caring where they wound up as long as it was away from the Eulmoran army, and she’d been so focused on keeping up with the rest of the Scions and not falling flat on her face and not listening to any horrible songs or childish giggles from the too-tall trees or wriggling shrubs that she’d let go of Avery’s hand.

And of course, the Good Neighbors had seen him—knight that he was, braver and stronger than any of the rest of them because he’d chosen this, he hadn’t had the memory of Louisoix or the love of Hydaelyn urging him to walk the path of the Dawn—and stolen him away.

Thancred said Feo Ul was fond of Avery. Pixies on the First probably weren’t the same as the fae she’d grown up with a healthy respect for back home—where you spat, and touched iron, and never ever called them by name because the Elementals were bad enough—but that wasn’t as reassuring as he probably thought it was. The Good Neighbors weren’t the sort to surrender their favorite toys easily.

A toy was about how Feo Ul spoke of Avery too, their precious sapling. But they were a furiously flitting orange beacon ahead of her, seeking out any trace of the pixies who had stolen him, so at the moment...

She’d been terrified. She still was. But this was Avery.

(He’d taken half the Light of Holminster’s Lightwarden into himself and then wrapped warm, solid arms around her to hold her together as the rest of it tore at her seams, as her world was blank pain. His voice had been so soft.)

(“Forgive me, my lady. I—I couldn’t let you bear this burden alone. Not if I could carry it for you.”)

(She was a Warrior of Light. A champion of Eorzea. One of Hydaelyn’s beloved children. Nobody had ever done that for her before.)

She was past caring about the shifting, dappled shade. About the thorns catching her clothes and slicing her exposed skin. About what might be moving in the trees, watching her, waiting to strike. She didn’t care if the oak looming ahead of her was about to crush her with its branches or if the pines she passed were actually hungry treants. The slippery leaves under her boots might as well have been solid stone.

Every seven years, lady, They pay a tithe to hell As I’m so fair and full of flesh I fear ‘twill be myself

She was vaguely aware of Thancred keeping pace with her and Alisaie lagging behind, the same way she was aware of her lungs burning and her legs starting to voice complaints. It didn’t matter. She could count the number of real, close friends she had on one hand, and she wasn’t going to let the bloody pixies have this one.

Thorns left trails of fire across her forehead, her shoulders, her bare thighs. Feo Ul zipped into a hedge she summoned Titan-Egi to crash through.

And on the other side, bound in thorns and faerie dreams, lay Avery.

She’d never cast herself in the role of Janette. The boys she’d known growing up had barely been worth crossing the street for, never mind fighting a Wilding Queen. But Avery’s chest rose and fell, thorns dimpling the leather of his breastplate, and she forgot all the tactics she’d ever learned.

The pixies were fast. She, wrapped in Garuda’s wind, was faster. Her bare hand hit the nest of thorns just ahead of their dive.

"Avery Mordeterre!” she snapped. “Temple Knight of Ishgard. Scion of the Seventh Dawn. Wake up, damn you!"

And then she threw herself into the dream.

well met by moonlight

~*~*~*

She and Avery have been together for a while. Rita thinks she’s probably getting a decent enough handle on this dating thing, considering she’s never done it before.

(“What th’ fuck,” Gan says when she mentions that. “What about Emm?...what do you mean, not th’ same thing?!” But it isn’t. This is serious. She and Avery live together, fight together, have faced down the end of the world together. He may not have her near-bottomless well of aether, may not have been Hydaelyn’s Champion first, but his is the seat of Azem—alone among the Scions, alone among all the men of the world, he is the one she trusts on the battlefield. And because he is kind and patient and good—because he calls her my lady and means it—she trusts him with her heart as well.)

(It is absolutely not the same thing as when she was with Emmanellain de Fortemps.)

They’re in Tural for two days when she realizes she might have a problem. Not with Avery—gods, no, even in this beautiful land filled with new and exciting people, he only has eyes for her. (Sometimes literally. When she debuts a new swimsuit he nearly trips off the edge of the For’ard Cabins pier.) She knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he is loyal.

No, her problem is with everyone else.

Wuk Lamat shrugs cheerfully when she brings it up. “There aren’t a lot of elezen here! Avery’s just...new. Exotic! Like I was in Sharlayan!”

Rita narrows her eyes at her. “When you were in Sharlayan, you were single.”

“What does that have to do with...oh. Oh. Right.” Wuk Lamat certainly understands when flirtation is directed at her—though watching her try to flirt back is an exercise in torture—but when it comes to other people, well, the subtext has to be delivered with a sledgehammer. “But he’s so—I mean, no offense, but he’s so spindly.”

“Your fellow Tuliyollans don’t think so,” Rita growls. (Technically untrue; spindly is certainly an accurate description next to a Xbr’aal or a Hanuhanu or even most Mamool Ja, and she and Avery and the twins have gotten a lot of extra portions foisted on them by locals who think they need to eat more. But that’s not the part she’s complaining about.)

They’re sitting at a little table outside Aunt Tii’s, drinks in hand. Avery’s in line—it is a long line—to fetch them lunch. It’s an Ishgardian thing, Rita had explained, and then Wuk Lamat had asked her what Ishgard was like and that conversation had lasted them until Avery was three people away from the counter and Rita had looked up to see a Tonawawtan woman leaning over from behind Avery to put her hand on his arm, gazing softly up at him and asking something about where he was from, he was so tall...

Rita sets her piña colada down, takes a deep breath, and adjusts her bra straps.

“Oh no,” Wuk Lamat says.

Her ears are pinned back, but only the Xbr’aal here will know what that means. She rises from her seat like the tide. “I’m not gonna hurt anyone,” she says evenly.

She doesn’t have to. No, instead she saunters over to where Avery is, setting each foot in front of the other in a way she knows emphasizes the curve of her hips. It’s immensely gratifying to watch Avery turn to watch her, a smile tugging at his lips, but that’s not why she’s doing it. No, she leans against him, draped against his side with his hand coming to rest on her waist, and says, “Love, refresh my memory. Did I order th’ shrimp tacos?”

Avery blinks at her. She knows what he’s probably thinking—that she rarely forgets anything, not least because she writes everything down. “You did; why?”

She shrugs. “Wanted to make sure. The table next to ours had some and they look incredible. Think we can get extra salsa?”

He peers over the tops of his glasses, doing that little squint he does when something is at the exact wrong distance for his farsighted gaze and yet too far for the glasses to help. “Aunt Tii seems not to have run out yet.”

She grins, sharp and not aimed at him. The Tonawawtan woman has shrunk back, red-faced, and Rita spares a moment to flick her the coldest glance she can. Back off, her eyes say. He’s mine.

Her mouth, on the other hand, says, “Grand! Extra salsa for me, then. Th’ mild stuff, I don’t wanna accidentally kill you.”

Avery’s ears turn red. “I am perfectly capable of handling spice—”

She grins up at him, twining a lock of his hair around her finger. “I know. But we can’t cheer Wuk Lamat at her coronation if your mouth’s on fire.”

They order the mild salsa. By the time they’ve got their tacos, everyone trying bites of everyone else’s—Wuk Lamat’s pulled xibruq is the clear winner—Rita’s almost entirely forgotten having to stake her claim.

Despite what Avery thinks, Rita is not dying. She hasn’t taken on that much Light, really. She’s fine. If he calls her my lady one more time in that achingly concerned tone of voice she might hit him with something.

Not that it wouldn’t make her melt in any other circumstance, but that’s besides the point. The point is that, though his efforts at sharing her burden are appreciated (gods, nobody’s ever even offered before, never mind been able to), she’s far better equipped to handle this than he is. She’s just...tired. Yes. Tired. That’s it. She shouldn’t complain.

On the other hand...

Well. On the other hand, he keeps asking how she’s doing, if she’s sure she’s well, and right now—they’re in Amh Araeng, it’s hot and dry and sandy and she’s stuck watching Thancred be an absolutely prize arsehole to Mini-filia while Urianger, for some infuriating reason of his own, is not tearing him a new one for it, and all she has to survive this with is shade and a lukewarm beer—anyway, after all that, she can’t stop herself from answering.

It starts like this: the shade of an awning. Avery perched on a crate with his sword across his lap, grimly oiling the blade. He’s pulled his hair tightly back, and she watches the glint of her bronze earclasps in his ears and thinks about touching them. (She’s thought about touching them a lot.) The wind kicking up, blowing sand into her face and making her cough until she can barely catch her breath. Avery’s head snapping up, his concerned, “My lady—Rita? Are you alright?!”

She finally manages a deep breath, aided by another swig of what is truly terrible beer, and snaps, “No.”

He tries to say something else, but she’s still talking. She can’t stop now. “No, I’m not bloody alright! It’s hot and the light hurts my eyes and I’m feckin’ exhausted all the time, I have cramps in muscles I didn’t know could get cramps, my feckin’ throat hurts, I have to look up and—and see Minfilia’s tomb, the place where she died, th’ land she died for, and Mini-filia’s gonna go the same way if nobody—if nobody stops her—Thancred’s not gonna fuckin’ do it because he’s a fuckin’ useless sack o’ shite—we’ve gotta put up with that and the feckin’--th’ feckin’ light zombie voidsent—an’ I’m so—so bloody tired, Avery, I’m so tired—”

And now she’s crying. Wonderful. She scrubs at her eyes, immediately regretting it when it makes the salt burn of her tears worse, but at least this way she can’t see the expression on Avery’s face.

Avery, who’s making a noise like he’s been struck. His sword falls to the ground with a clatter as he rises to his feet, his hand outstretched as though he’s going to—what? Place it on her shoulder? Pull her into his arms? Gods. If he does that, she’ll—she will—

(Break.)

(Push him away.)

(Never let go.)

But he doesn’t get a chance, because one of the locals has noticed them and is asking whether she needs help; she answers automatically in the negative, watching Avery slowly sink back onto his seat and pick his sword up. It will need to be cleaned again.

She blinks away the remainder of her tears and risks glancing at him. Her voice comes out thick and snotty, but she still feels better for getting all that out. “...Sorry. I didn’t mean to go off like that.”

He catches her gaze and holds it. His eyes burn. “You never need to apologize, my lady. I recall a very wise woman urging me to express my feelings; ‘twould be churlish of me not to welcome your own sentiments.”

She’d said that to him once, long ago, when they were near-perfect strangers and she’d been urging him to write with no clear expectations that he would. Her heart twists in her chest, and she knows she’s blushing. “Avery,” she mutters.

“Ritanelle.” His voice has gone soft and warm as candlewax. And the way he’s looking at her...