Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

So the girl in the tower wants to slay dragons.

He strokes his beard in contemplation. On one hand, he’s doubtful he can train a woman with little melee experience to become a full-fledged dragoon. On the other, there’s a certain romanticism about it, a story about a good Sister of the church picking up the lance to defend her homeland.

“Why do you wish to wield the lance, Sister Odeline?”

She is quiet for a moment, and he thinks to himself — she is not made for this.

An extravagant curtsy, gesturing at the whole of her body. 

“When you look at me, what do you see, good Ser?”

It is his turn to pause. It is clear what she means. Even in her modest church robes, one would have to be blind or willingly daft not to see the horns on her head, the way her black scales coat the peek of her wrists like armor. He remembers the day she was unveiled in the tribunal; the way angry bile rose in his throat towards they that would dare unclothe a goodly seminarian in front of the public, the way that bile stung his throat in disgust, his lance hand clenching automatically around nothing upon seeing the draconic scales peppering her face.

There is a faint smile on her face that doesn’t quite reach her eyes as she continues without his response. “If Ishgard sees my scales and shudders, then I intend to cover myself in enough Dravanian blood that they cannot hope to see anything else.”

Very well. He will teach the girl.

Ishgard will not be defended, but avenged.

Chapter Text

The interior of the Athenaeum Astrologicum is dark, as per usual, and he blinks once, twice, waiting within the doorway for his eyes to adjust to the low lighting. “Ser Janelnoux!” some of the fledgling astrologians call out to him, gaining the attention of their peers that haven’t yet noticed him.

He bears the title with a small smile instead of the puffed chest Adelphel surely would have, still unused to the form of address, having only recently earned his spurs.

“A missive for you, milord,” he says, bowing as he approaches Jannequinard, envelope offered atop open palms.

“Mmm,” Jannequinard starts, only pretending to glance through the message Janlenoux is sure, before continuing, “And I hope that is not all you have brought for me, my good Ser?”

Janlenoux sighs inwardly, already unhooking the large lunchbox from his hip as the students begin crowding around him. He’s happy his visits are so beloved, and he had, of course, prepared exactly what the younger Lord Durendaire expected of him…… He just wishes the man were a mite less shameless in his conduct.

He opens the lunchbox to reveal marrons glacés, their glazed exteriors shining like little jewels, lovingly placed inside delicate paper shells.

Jannequinard hefts the largest portion of the confections for himself, yet only consumes a single one. No doubt his hard work will be used as bait to lure the next beauty Jannequinard sees into his bed, he thinks, suppressing a grimace. The other students of the Astrologicum reach out with eager hands for their shares, the dour air of the facility now rife with smiles and chatter as they use this as an excuse to take a much needed break.

Only one student, veiled from head to toe — a lady, judging from her form — stands aside, spinning her planisphere this way and that with precise, featherlight touches. His own growth spurt has just started, so he stands only a few inches taller than the figure, though her build is startlingly petite, half as broad as himself even in layers of robes. Younger than he, he guesses, though he cannot fathom the reason one would be so slight at the age required to study at the Astrologicum. A prodigy perhaps? Her commitment to her studies while her peers relish the distraction would track with such an assumption, but……

“And one for the lady?” he asks as he approaches, shaking what little remains in the box invitingly. She pauses, sending her planisphere spinning with one last idle pass of her hands before stilling it and setting it aside.

“My apologies, Ser, but I must refuse. Though I thank you for your consideration.”

Her voice is delicate as the touch on her planisphere, a slight airiness to her tone that makes him think of a bird and its hollow bones. Despite her face being hidden, he knows that were Adelphel here, he’d already be inviting the young miss for personal dancing lessons. And as they left the Astrologicum he’d lament at such a beauty being covered. Janlenoux would quip that he doesn’t know whether she’s a beauty or not, and Adelphel would remark on the grace of her lonesome figure, all by herself — how such a maiden must needs be courted lest she fall into despair!

The Adelphel that lives inside his brain is right. The question of her being a beauty aside, it would be remiss of a gentleman such as himself to allow a lonesome maiden to be without company so long as he remains here. At the very least, the lady should be allowed to indulge herself.

“Even though your fellows are delighting? Surely one as studious as yourself can spare a moment to indulge me.” It’s a line ripped right from the Adelphel playbook. He hadn’t meant to be so forward, and can feel warmth start to bloom in his cheeks from embarrassment, but he stands firm.

“Ah, I mean no offense of course, Ser, it’s just……” she trails off, and he can imagine her chewing her lip in contemplation under her veil. “I’m simply not allowed to eat while away from home.”

He frowns. The daintiness of her figure may well be due to malnutrition then. It isn’t as if marrons glacés are the most nutritious of foods, but now he must insist on her eating something , his own pride be damned.

“You say you mean no offense, milady, but how else is a gentleman supposed to take such spurning?”

“I—” she stands straighter, searching for words. It seems she isn’t used to being pursued in any measure.

And in her bewilderment, he does something audacious. He separates a marron glacé from its wrapper, and ever so gently, tucks his fingers under her veil to feed her.

The Adelphel in his mind cheers voraciously. The warmth in his cheeks spreads all the way to the tips of his ears, and he decides that Adelphel must be much braver or much more oblivious than he gives him credit for. Yes, he decides in that instance that fighting the Dravanian horde is much less nerve wracking than being so forward with a lady. A lady he does not yet know the name of, nonetheless.

She dips her head ever so slightly, and he feels the marron glacé leave his fingertips. He thanks Halone that he is wearing gauntlets lest he feels her teeth, her tongue , even her breath upon him. He withdraws his hand, careful not to disturb her veil overmuch, and takes a step back, outside her bubble of personal space. The entire interaction had to have lasted less than a second, yet for him it felt as though the moment stretched on without end. His countenance can no longer bear the audacity of his actions and he turns on his heel without waiting for her reaction, or gleaning her name. Luckily, it seems the brief attention he’d gathered by approaching the girl had dissipated by the time of his… flirtations… as most of the students are back to chatting amongst themselves or are focused on their planispheres once more. 

He feels a small tug on his chainmail, and cannot bear to turn back around.

A small “thank you,” delicate as the flowers that bloom in Ishgard’s newly perennial frost tickles his burning ears, and the best he can do is incline his head slightly toward her in gratitude.

When he finally leaves, Jannequinard’s low whistle follows quick on his nearly-running heels.

Chapter Text

He has no idea why his fellow seminarians deign to give Odeline any attention at all. She may be covered head to toe because of the veil she wears, but anyone with eyes can see what she’s like underneath should they bother to witness her magic.

The ice flowers she conjures are kitschy at best, and an outright tacky gimmick in his own opinion. She has the ability to produce flame, but she spews it forth with no attempt at control, seemingly content to show how she can blacken a wall. He finds it a relief that he has not witnessed her attempts at thunder or wind magics lest they, too, bore him to tears.

To be completely fair, she isn’t as hopeless at magic as some of their classmates seem to be. But her casting is uninspired schlock seemingly carefully designed to appeal to Headmistress Elvaine in particular. 

He tells her as much when she asks his opinion of her thaumaturgy. He can’t tell what expression she wears under her veil, but her body language — which has not changed in the least by his scathing review — does not communicate distress. In fact, he would say it hardly communicates anything at all. Much like her magic.

“Then, would you care to practice with me? It seems there is much I could learn from you…” A perfectly calculated response. Even the tone of her voice seems to be at a pitch high enough to sound docile, but not so high it becomes annoying. Carefully enunciated words at an even rhythm. The only strange thing is how she sometimes pronounces words — especially names — with emphasis on the wrong syllable, but it’s the only oddity he can find in her presentation of herself.

“No, I don’t think I would,” he responds pointedly, and stands to disengage from the conversation.

“A shame,” she says plainly, and while he detects a downward tone of regret, there is something of a lilting cadence to her voice that makes it sound like she’s teasing him.

He can imagine her with a gloved hand over her mouth, giggling, but when he turns to catch her in the act, her hands are folded against her lap, proper as proper could be.

Chapter Text

Guerrique’s vision swims as he shotguns another pint, savoring the smoothness in which his ale goes down, and the warmth that hits the back of his throat and races down his esophagus to sit pleasantly in his belly.

“Come now, are there truly no more challengers?” his bellow is cut with a hearty laugh as he sets his arm on the table, elbow down, hand up and at the ready for someone to respond to his invitation.

He keeps the position for a minute, flexing his hand, eyes narrowed in the effort of keeping his vision singular, though to the outside it must look as if he were concentrated on an imaginary opponent. Realizing his call to arms has been met with resounding silence, he glances over to his other Ward brethren, bewildered.

“Truly, none of you will indulge me?”

Ser Haumeric’s gaze slides to meet his, then continues sliding away, sipping nonchalantly at his wine. Ser Grinnaux, devoid of his shadow, simply snorts into his cup as he drinks, though Guerrique is unsure if he’d accept such a challenge after the way The Bull had hit him last time he won. Ser Zephirin’s eyes are more tired than usual — or perhaps it is a trick of the dim lighting — as he sets his mug down to address him.

“I don’t think there’s anyone left for you to challenge, lest you wish to arm-wrestle the barmaids.”

He frowns, which in truth is more of a pout.

Then, the slightest of grips on his slackened hand. So slight, indeed, he is glad he is bereft of his Ward blues, for he wouldn’t have felt it in his gauntlets.

He rights his gaze back in front of him, smiling broadly to welcome his newest challenger, and is perplexed for a moment when he sees no one there.

Hand upon tiny hand, he follows the similarly tiny arm back to its diminutive owner, having to crane his neck downward to meet the gaze of the girl who’d so boldly answered his call.

“I will be your opponent. That is, if you would have one such as me, good Ser.”

A gently lilting voice, the kind he’d hear sing hymns in the Vault, rather than jaunty drinking song. In fact, he’s sure he’s seen her as part of the church choir, veiled though she always appears even though there’s only one person in all of Ishgard that would need to cover themselves so diligently.

Speaking of which, the blueish-black scales that are normally covered are on full display now, modest though her clothing is. He doesn’t know what she means by ‘one such as myself;’ if she meant her size made her an unworthy opponent, or if it was a self-consciousness borne of her draconian features…

No matter the case, he grips her hand in turn, his fingers long enough to cover her knuckles, her small hand barely able to wrap round the base of his thumb.

Right. He doesn’t mean to condescend the lady, but he thinks he’ll have to go easy so as not to hurt her.

“On three! One… two…”

It’s over in an instant. His hand, slammed back against the table, as if he’d put up no resistance at all. His mind goes completely blank as he tries to process what happened.

The girl has the smallest of smiles on her face as her hand rests atop his, unmoving.

“Best two of three?” she proposes, voice gentle as ever.

He nods, righting his arm once more, brain a pace or two behind him. There must be some trick to this, he just has to focus — though that’s easier said than done when his last pint is hitting him, making the room spin.

Very well. He’ll put in actual effort this time.

She slams his arm back down as easily as the last time.

This is happening to him ? The Cleaver ? Though at this point he feels as though he’s been reduced to a mere paring knife. 

“Once more,” it was meant to be a question, but comes out as more of a demand.

“Of course,” is her only reply. She closes her eyes serenely when she says it, mouth pulled into a wide, closed-mouthed smile. Gentle, kindly, and like she was hiding something of dire importance.

He vows he will put in the same effort he uses to slay dragons.

Like all the other times, there is no resistance once the game is called.

But this time, it is her arm being slammed back.

It happens like this. He calls three. She’s still smiling. There’s so little resistance he almost can’t believe he’s moving. He feels his hand slam into the table. He hears a sickening crack. She is still smiling. He feels the table give, splintering. He tries to pull himself back, but he doesn’t know if there’s some delay between his brain and his arm, or if it’s the strength of his momentum refusing to be stopped so easily, but he breaks clean through the table. And the girl is still smiling.

“Oh, gods, milady—” he starts. The Forgotten Knight is no longer spinning. Her arm, hanging limp at her side at a strange, gruesome angle sobers him in an instant. “We’ll get you to a chirurgeon, the Temple Knights Hospitalier—”

Then, she laughs. Heartily, from the belly, like she’s been holding it in the whole time.

“No need, good Ser. I myself am well-versed in healing magicks. I just— ah—” A barely stifled gasp of pain as she moves her arm from the table. “—need to set the limb properly so it does not heal incorrectly.”

He’s halfway to her, leaning over the broken table, ready to fuss over her, but she’s curtsying one-handed at him in a way that seems to deny aid. Indeed, the small crowd gathered around them only watches in stunned silence at the curious turn of events.

“My thanks for indulging me, Ser Guerrique. And my apologies for tricking you so meanly.”

She bounds up the stairs and out the doors before he has a chance to reply, mind still parsing who truly indulged who, and why she felt the need to apologize when it was he who broke — if not shattered — her arm.

His eyes flick to his brothers-in-arms. Zephirin, expectedly, has his face in his hands, rubbing at his temples, the barest Guerrique can make out of a green gaze tilted heavensward, as if asking Halone for guidance. Grinnaux is the first to break the silence, roaring with laughter, which only seems to exacerbate Zephirin’s headache. Haumeric—

The man’s form mirrors his own, halfway around his table, to the spot where the lass once stood. The only difference is that Haumeric looks just about ready to kill someone, and it seems a toss up on whether it’ll be himself or Grinnaux first to be frozen inside out with the way his narrowed eyes dart between them.

The next time he sees the girl, she ends up perched atop his shoulder, directing him through the Crozier as she shops for sundries. He can’t recall how, exactly, it happened — if she asked, or he offered — but even though the ridiculousness of carrying her while it’s her arm that’s in a sling does not escape him, somehow, he can’t bear to put her down.

Chapter Text

The snow drifts down from the firmament, fluttering down like butterflies used to flutter upon the breeze before the Calamity, before Coerthas was consigned to its icy fate. He sits upon the edge of the fountain displayed in Saint Reinette’s Forum, the sound of running water a constant, comforting rhythm as he watches the snow fall.

An exhale of breath, a small white cloud formed from his mouth. His hands, not knowing what to do, folded solemnly in his lap. Finally, his cool gaze slides sidelong to gaze upon the girl sitting at his side.

The figure she cuts is not the figure with immaculate posture and perfect poise he has come to know. She slumps beside him now, violet-ringed eyes fixated on the ground as she trembles slightly, though he doubts it is from the cold.

After all, it has only been a day since her hard fought battle against the First Inquisitor in a trial by combat — a victory that would put the faith in the Fury back in the heart of an unbeliever, that could only be described as a true miracle.

Still, it takes his all not to prickle at the memory. Forcibly unveiled, black scales and horns damning her, already guilty in the eyes of the public, unable to hide. Her small form, barely taller than a child, facing down a man nearly two fulms taller and ten years her senior. Her, tinkering awkwardly with her planisphere, unsuited for combat, while her opponent — an accomplished inquisitor — deftly wielded a cane entitled Widowbreaker for the cruelty of both it and its owner. Roaring hellfire, enough to make onlookers uncomfortably warm even at their distance to the fight.

And when it all was over, not a single one to applaud her victory. Just a sea of eyes to condemn her in place of the Fury.

Or so he’d heard. So he could envision in his mind’s eye. He could not bear to attend such a farce of a trial.

Which, he supposes, makes him as guilty as the rest who did not offer her a modicum of solace for her efforts.

But he is here now . If it will right his prior wrongs, he does not know. If his presence soothes her, he does not know. Still, he unfolds a clasped hand from his lap, laying it atop hers — eclipsing it, really — his thumb stroking circles into the scaled flesh.

How strange , he thinks. He’d expected them to be hard, like a pane of glass or armor, a shield to separate one from another, herself ever unknowable to himself, his countrymen. Rather, it feels like tough skin, like a callous, like they are not so different from each other, and he wonders if she can feel the gentleness of his touch even through such scales.

“Father…?” she asks, questioningly, and he smiles bitterly at the fact there can be no confusion as to if she were calling upon himself as a man of the cloth or her own adopted father, now that both her parents had been sentenced to death.

He doesn’t know where to begin. If he did, he wouldn’t have wasted a bell keeping her in the cold like this. He wants to say, “Never will you know such hardship again, so long as I draw breath.” Or perhaps a pledge that she will never again stand alone as she did that day.

Or—

He thinks that words are empty, that he might simply take her into his arms and stroke her hair, and keep her safe from even the cold.

Instead, he says— “I intend to write you a recommendation to the Scholasticate so that you may complete your schooling; that is, if you will have it.”

She is silent, and he continues, “I understand if you’d have naught else to do with this Fury-forsaken land, however…”

He takes a breath to compose himself. However, it would be a grave loss indeed to lose one such as yourself. However, who else knows that I take a dash of cream and honey, not sugar, in my tea? However — I would miss you.

“However, it was your father’s wish that you complete your schooling. He left you in my care, so…”

So, please, you have a place here. There is someone who wants you here.

“If— If it would not be a burden to you, Father Haumeric,” she says slowly, words overly polite as if to camouflage the act of begging, eyes still downcast. “I would be much obliged to you…”

Be that as it may, there is nothing he wants from her.

Except, perhaps, for her to meet his gaze just once, unveiled as she is now.

The snow falls. White breath escapes their lips as they sit in silence once more.

She does not look his way.

Chapter Text

“She’s changed.”

That is Guerrique’s impressive deduction on the matter, having held his tongue until the girl’s skirts flounced out of sight.

Vellguine, Hermenost, and Ignasse nod solemnly.

“I wouldn’t say I knew her well, but she always seemed like such a pious woman of the cloth,” the elder lancer says, stroking his mustache thoughtfully.

To their right, the person who would know her best — Haumeric — is frozen, staring at the spot she used to be, hand covering his mouth in contemplation.

Well, what could be read as contemplation. To stupider people. Paulecrain didn’t need two eyes to see how the girl cozied up to the good Father, clinging to his arm in her low-cut dress, breasts framed by frills pressing up against his hand with her diminutive stature. 

He’s lucky the Ward robes are so bulky, and that the mages, too, are required to wear the same padded chainmail trousers the knights are.

He also didn’t need his other eye to see that Odeline was like that with all the Ward members— a giggle here, a demure hand to her not-so-demure bosom there, the lightest touch with the pads of her fingers for just a tick too long, a skirt so short you could see the bands of her pantyhose…

Well, all except him. For better or worse. Better, he decides.

But the others stand there hemming and hawing and he rolls his good eye.

What he wants to say is, “Are you all fucking stupid?” because they don’t bat an eye at Adelphel — who’s only a year younger than her — for having a different girl on his arm every week despite their supposed vows, yet can’t seem to wrap their heads around a girl trained from youth to be a good Sister venturing out from under the watchful eye of the Fury and thinking that perhaps Ishgard could offer her a little more.

And secondly — of course she’s changed. Her fucking eye is gone. That would change a person. For one, her eye is gone. 

What he actually says is — nothing. The words itch in his head so he throws them out, useless, superfluous, showing too much of his hand.

In the end, he doesn’t care what they think of the girl.

Her arrival is as notable as snow in winter. Or any other Fury-forsaken season, for that matter.

And then she comes to him.

For a mercy, there is no leaning into him, no featherlight touches. Just her, looking at him like one might observe a painting or a strangely shaped rock.

It’s he who initiates the conversation. He wants to think of it being against his better judgment, and perhaps it is, but it reminds him of the time they first met in the Forgotten Knight.

Her eyes blank, glowing nearly pink in the lowlight of the bar. It was just after her trial by combat, and her expressionless stare was marred by confusion as a drink was brought to the table. He nodded at her, in good spirits with a fat pouch of coin hanging from his belt — spoils from Grinnaux, who’d bet she’d lose her trial. She’d sipped the drink politely and made a face; he’d laughed and taken the drink from her. Yes, more drink for himself with extra steps.

Still, he’d wanted to pay his dues to the woman who’d paid for his drinks for a month.

Though even now he wonders why he’d bet on her in the first place. He’s not one to bet on losing dogs, but—

But there was a look in her eyes in the Tribunal, beyond that of a scared girl. It’s the same look she wears now, hidden behind the teasing mask she’s donned.

Something he can’t quite place, something that makes him narrow his eye in focus when he looks at her.

And so he starts with— “It looks like you’ve been making a name for yourself outside of Ishgard.”

Her small smile grows wider, a gash with teeth neat and perfect as the Vault’s stone walls.

“I’m surprised you’ve heard anything at all. It’s not like this place to care about anything other than dragon-slaying.”

“The Fortemps bastard won’t shut up about you.”

“Ahh,” is all she says, though her eyes flicker away for the briefest instant. Interesting. He’d thought she’d be overjoyed at the mention of a man — a knight — singing her praises, but it seems her sights are set a mite higher.

“It looks like you’ve earned your stripes.”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t get a battle scar like that without some amount of glory.”

He points at his own eyepatch, her own eye lost the opposite, as if he were looking into a mirror.

“And what glory did you win, Ser Paulecrain?”

He doesn’t answer.

But there’s a strange look in her eye. Like she knows something he doesn’t.

“I suppose they do call me eikon-slayer,” she deflects her own question with a comment, and her voice is so nonchalant he thinks for a moment that she’s bragging, but when he looks down at her face, there’s discontent written all over it. Or perhaps disinterest.

“Have you any such titles, Ser Paulecrain?” Mild interest.

“Coldfire.”

“Something to do with dragonflame?”

“For my cold and uncaring heart.”

She blinks.

“That’s a lover’s title, not a fighter’s.”

“You want to test that out?”

“Antithesis of a lover, I suppose it would be,” she muses, ignoring his threat.

This correction pleases him. He says nothing more on this matter, at least.

“Why did you come back, with how you’re doing beyond these walls?”

“The same reason you stay.”

“I’m part of the Heavens’ Ward. I can’t leave.”

“You could. If you wanted to. If you wanted to climb higher.”

“As if there’s a place higher than the heavens.”

“There is.”

“Not for someone like me.”

“There is. If you wanted there to be.”

What he wants to say is, “You don’t know anything about me.”

What he actually says is, “You don’t know anything about me.”

It’s strange hearing the words fall from his lips. She tilts her head, turquoise eye looking at him as if searching for something.

“I know you pride yourself on your lancework.”

“So does every dragoon this side of Eorzea.”

“You’re not a dragoon.”

“How observant.”

He doesn’t know what she’s getting at, and the longer she goes on, the more her words chafe uncomfortably in his mind.

“You used to serve House Fortemps. Until, at least, you assaulted the lady of the house. A man who rose from humble origins, training his skill with the lance until he makes it in a highborn’s employ… Yet throws it all away— and for what?” she muses. “I think I know more than you think I do.”

“And they say a good man of the cloth went mad, obsessed with running away to Dravania to become a heretic priest, and that you were his daughter, who just so happens to have dragon-like scales and horns,” Paulecrain retorts flatly. “Anyone with two brain cells to rub together would know what happened there. It’s a wonder Charibert didn’t have you at the bottom of Witchdrop within a bell of your interrogation. Though I suppose he wasn’t quite thinking with his head.”

Instead of prickling like he thought she would, she tosses her head back, her laughter chiming through the stone streets like the sound of bells.

“I suppose I should count my blessings that most of Ishgard doesn’t think with their head, then, shouldn’t I?”

He snorts with something that could almost be called laughter. Contesting that accusation is a losing gamble. Any Greystone could attest to that.

A silence falls over the two once more. Odeline’s gaze thins as she looks even higher than his towering form.

“It looks just like a castle, doesn’t it?” she says, voice so soft he can’t tell if she’s talking to him or herself.

Still—

He doesn’t even have to look to know what she’s talking about.

“It does.”

Chapter Text

He has no interest in the girl. Never has.

Not even the eyepatch changes that.

But…

Everyone knows the story of how only a single rat escaped the former First Inquisitor’s clutches. And he recalls the day he’d seen the girl perched atop Ser Guerrique’s shoulder in the Crozier, being led around like a dog on a leash. But more than that—

He glances sidelong at his Ward brother sitting across from her. Ser Haumeric sits, hands folded politely in his lap, drink woefully unattended on the table in front of him. Something catches the girl’s attention from Guerrique’s table, and she looks over, hand covering her laughing mouth.

There. The slight lean in. Blue eyes sunken, a pointed gaze. Never once looking in the direction she turns, but straight ahead. Now this is interesting. He’s reminded of a mutt he saw once passing by the Brume, how it was trained to sit so politely in exchange for food, and how the cruel children would tease it with scraps just out of reach. Never once did it bite. Never once did it beg. All it did was sit, paw crossed over paw, eyes locked onto the piece of meat dangled in front of it.

He elbows Paulecrain, and nods in the direction of the pair. “How many drinks does it take to get a so-called ‘dravanian’ drunk, d’ya think?”

His lips curl into a smile, eye closing in a way that’s almost pleasant, but beckons forth a chill colder than winter. “Only one way to find out.” Count on Paule to know exactly what he’s thinking.

Paulecrain strides up to her in his stead, and Grinnaux leans back in his seat, taking a long sip of his ale. A practiced curtsy, no bow in return. Yet she takes Paule’s offered arm anyway, and there’s a devilishly curious look in her eye as she’s led to their table. He wonders idly if she knows what she’s doing, knows her role in his game. When she takes the seat next to him, he throws an arm languidly around her shoulders and passes her a mug bigger than her head.

He doesn’t have to look up to know whose gaze is boring into him.

He knows the good man of the cloth would sooner leave than fight, but he wonders how far he’d have to go to get the man to throw hands.

“—and if it turns out you’ve done something I’ve said, you take a big swig of that drink, okay?”

He can vaguely see the color drain from Ser Haumeric’s face out of the corner of his eyes.

No, he has no interest in the girl. But she could be fun anyway.

Chapter Text

When the door to the chamber scrapes open, he doesn’t turn around nor does he wipe the blood from his face, even as his eyes narrow at the intrusion of the light.

“Not now, Blyme; did no one tell you—”

“—That you finally had some ‘work?’” there’s an edge of laughter to the voice, smooth and sure, so very unlike his former apprentice’s trepidatious way of speaking. “Yes, I’m well aware. Though I’m not sure if I appreciate being called by another’s name while we’re in…… the Tribunal’s torture chamber, I suppose this is?”

He doesn’t quite freeze at the sound of her voice, but his busy hands pause, dagger still in hand. The heretic groans, a glimmer of hope shining in his eyes once more at the new voice, as if salvation had come. Foolish. This is his domain; to think anyone could wriggle free once he had them in his clutches is mere delusion  at the very best. Well, with one exception—

His cold gaze flicks to the small form that now stands at his side, softly illuminated by the planisphere that floats above her hand.

“My, my,” he says, smile blooming anew on his lips. “Never in all my years have I seen a lamb willingly lay upon the altar.”

“Your appetite for heretics is as insatiable as they say, I see,” the girl muses, small smile not once faltering. “Why don’t you finish your food first, then think about asking for seconds?”

“And if I’d like to skip right to dessert?”

She laughs, perhaps not realizing how deadly serious he is despite his tone. “Where are your manners Ser Charibert? Good boys ought to eat their greens before indulging.”

The heretic’s gaze darts nervously between them though his shoulders grow lax, thinking Charibert’s attention is wholly consumed by this new arrival. Without even looking, flame leaps suddenly from the empty space in front of the heretic’s face, singeing his eyebrows and making him cower best he can while restrained. Charibert pays him no mind, the action no more than an afterthought.

“Am I remiss in assuming you are not, in fact, here to offer yourself up upon my most holy of altars, little lamb?”

“I’m here on Ser Zephirin’s orders, actually. Something about how you’d appreciate the help.”

Charibert snorts derisively. 

“And what, pray tell, would the former First Inquisitor need an amateur’s help with? Unless, of course, you do mean to act as a practice dummy.”

“My expertise as an astrologian, of course,” she says simply, shrugging her shoulders. The light from her planisphere reflects strangely in her eye the next moment as she makes stars illuminate the darkness of the chamber with a wave of her hand, wounds in the heretic’s flesh closing as if being sewn shut.

“Ah, the heretical magicks. Must you tempt me further?”

“You truly only have eyes for one thing, don’t you?” her tone is bemused, but shifts into a seriousness he hasn’t heard from her before. “I’m trying to help, you know. Wouldn’t it be easier with me around? If you could inflict any amount of bodily harm and have it undone in an instant?”

He means to argue with her, but then she’s wresting the dagger from his hands, and before he can stop her she’s plunged it directly into the heretic’s chest. She drives the blade downward a satisfactory amount to only herself, before relinquishing the weapon, preferring to tear open the chest cavity with her — thankfully — gloved hands. 

She puffs her chest out proudly, as the heretic’s still-beating heart comes into view.

Charibert can only stare in stunned silence as she closes the gaping wound with concentrated effort.

He realizes, in that moment, that this girl is a brute.

“See?” she says, smirk replacing her quaint smile.

“You do realize, my ignorant little lamb,” he responds, soon as he can find his voice. “That he could’ve died from shock? Or was it your intention to deprive me of my fun?”

“Of course I knew,” she says, brow furrowed as she lies through her teeth.

Not only is she a brute, but too earnest by half.

It should, perhaps, dull some of her shine for him.

Instead, he finds there is a certain charm to it. It was as if witnessing the innocent sadism of a child ripping the wings off an insect - a sadism without regard to the other party, without regard to the pain of the victim, only the pleasure of the perpetrator. 

It is a far cry from the art he has perfected, yet he thinks of her expression when driving the dagger in, and before that, when proffering her ‘help.’ Almost excited, and oh so willing . His thoughts wander for only a moment, but in that moment he imagines a world in which she’d made the same mistake as Cyr. A world where instead of being a gentle sister of the church, she wore an inquisitor’s blues, staunchly at his side, always, always . 

A heretic to persecute heretics, one he could mould himself in any way he pleased.

He breathes slowly through his nose, trying to still his swiftly beating heart, and redirect his thoughts back toward his duties, his once-held joy, retrieving the abandoned dagger and continuing where he left off. For each gash he inflicts, a flame dances, cauterizing the wound. It is a simple, elegant, yet effective form of torture wherein no healing magicks are needed.

“I suppose you mean to continue your desecrations, then?” though she wears the same expression on her face, there is a sullenness to her voice that makes warmth bloom in the core of his body.

“ Venerations . It is my holy duty, my divine calling, after all.” He tries not to let the feeling distract him.

She is silent for a moment, then smiles widely, eye closed.

“When you ‘venerate’ the body like this,” she starts, “I suppose you must think of me?”

“You assume too much of me.”

“I think I assume the appropriate amount of you. After all, were you not just ruminating on having seconds, good Ser?” she steps closer to him, sweet floral perfume wafting up to him, intermingling with the scent of blood and charred flesh. She puts her planisphere away, and the light goes, plunging the chamber into darkness once more, allowing his imagination to run.

Fury, lead him not into temptation, but deliver unto him his lamb, bound and bleating so sweetly at his dagger’s edge.

“Much as I loathe it, I place my duties as a brother of the Ward above my joys as an inquisitor.” His tone betrays nothing in the darkness.

“Former,” she muses quietly to herself, a laugh in the edge of her voice, as though to mock him for his ‘demotion.’ “But you do imagine it’s me strung up there, do you not?”

He eyes her, trying to read the intention of her question. As his eyes adjust once more, he sees her, her attention turned toward the bound heretic again, a contemplative look in her eye as if trying to imagine herself in such a position, hand reaching up to stroke his cheek as if it were her own.

He decides there is no harm in telling her the truth. “How could I not? There is not a heretic I have interrogated since that day that has not borne your visage in my mind.” He reaches a gloved hand out to cup her jaw, running a thumb over her bottom lip. She allows this, seemingly accepting his words and touch as an extension of this scene, this interrogation, this nightmare, this dream. “Though it is, admittedly, difficult to do when my prize is within my grasp.”

Even at such provocations, even when his fingers dig into the supple flesh of her cheeks, she does not flinch or turn away. He should find this lack of reaction boring. Indeed, he’d prefer to see her squirm, but thinking of her nonchalance as acceptance, as invitation, makes his already racing heart pound thicker in his chest.

“And what of you, my little lamb? Did you imagine it was me when you so brutishly opened this man’s chest cavity?”

Oh, to be opened up with such innocent cruelty. To have his heart beat on full display - would she know? Would she comprehend the depths of his desires? Would she smile that saintly, all-accepting smile as she does now, and in knowing, allow him to truss her up as he’s so fantasized about?

“No, not you.” Her lips are still curved in her mask-like smile, though her eyes shift from him, looking into the distance fondly. There is nothing pointed in her words; indeed, she says it as a simple statement of fact, and yet—

And yet he can feel every nerve in his body burn with envy.

Chapter Text

He apologizes to her, once again, after the fact.

He’d apologized to her in the Archbishop’s chamber, but that was an order — Thordan had commanded him to, and so he did. As if it wasn’t the Archbishop himself who had wanted the two tried for heresy. As if he hadn’t wanted her to champion a trial by combat again.

As if this wasn’t some sort of odd game, some farce, and they of the Heavens’ Ward were no more than pieces on a board to place as His Eminence willed.

No.

The Archbishop’s will is as Halone’s. 

Thus, an order to apologize to the girl was akin to an apology from Halone herself.

Thus, there is no reason to apologize again.

But he does it even so.

The girl — Odeline — rocks forward onto her toes, peering closely as his face. Then, the curious frown she’d regarded him with splits into a small, secretive smile. As if she knows something he doesn’t. Satisfied and playful.

He expects either an acceptance or rejection of his apology. Instead what she says is — “Is that so?”

He cocks his head ever so slightly, the act so subdued it does not displace the blond fringe that rests against his brow. “What do you mean?”

“I’m simply wondering,” she starts, not once breaking eye contact despite having to crane her neck up to meet his gaze, “how sincere you are. Are you really sorry? Or are you saying what you think is correct and—”

She halts abruptly, as if afraid of saying the wrong thing, even though her smile never falters. He feels as if he should prickle at such a question, even incomplete as it is. Then she finds her tongue, settling on—

“Just.”

His mouth, already set in a hard line, purses into an even stricter expression.

“I assure you that my apology was sincere.”

“Oh, I have no doubt about that. What I’m wondering is—” she steps forward, into his bubble of personal space. ”—whether you are a good man or a just man, Ser Zephirin.”

He stares at her, unflinching against her goading.

“Ah, but I suppose your title answers that for me.”

He knows he shouldn’t break eye contact, but he can’t help the way his gaze shifts sidelong when he responds. “I simply don’t see why they have to be different.”

Odeline’s gaze widens, mouth parting into a soft little ‘o’. He doesn’t think he’s said anything remotely profound, but his teeth graze his tongue within his mouth. It’s too late to unsay what he has said, and he knows better than to regret.

Still, too close.

Much too close.

His jaw shifts imperceptibly.

It is only for a second, but Odeline’s gaze thins, flickering to the floor, lips smiling in a way that seems at odds with the look in her eyes, the corners of her mouth pursed and tense.

Something far away in the look on her face, as if she isn’t really there, as though if he were to reach out, his fingers would only graze the air between them.

Then, in the next instance, her expression snaps back to before, except now she smiles with her teeth, eyes closed and curved into overjoyed crescents.

“That’s exactly why you’re Archimandrite!” she sing-songs, lilting voice echoing in the empty halls of the Vault.

He does not proffer his arm, but still she clings to him, snuggling into the cold steel of his gauntlets. They walk in silence for a time as he escorts her through the Vault.

“I like men like you. Just men. Good men. Do you know why?”

“I hardly think to covet what is just and good is an oddity.”

She giggles, and holds onto him tighter. “It’s because if something breaks, you can’t help but try to pick up the shards with your bare hands. Even if you bleed. Even if the pieces slip right through your fingers.”

“You would do well to speak plainly, my lady.”

“I suppose what I’m trying to say is— you can’t help but try to save people.”

He goes quiet and stills his pace, though she continues forward, letting his arm slip from her embrace. 

A memory rises to the surface of his mind. Of how he’d witnessed a fellow Dark Knight, the Auri man, Sidurgu, deep in his cups in the Forgotten Knight, head in his hands, despairing to his partner of how he needed to save a girl because there was one he couldn’t save, long, long ago.

He’d wondered if he’d ever be like that. Regretting. Reaching. Replacing. Always bound to the past, illuminating the future with the light of already dead stars, far away.

Odeline twirls to face him again.

“We’ve met before, briefly, when you were still a commander of the Temple Knights. Except you didn’t know it was me, couldn’t see my face—”

“You think I saved you, then?”

“No. Not me. There was a woman being dragged into an alley, and she screamed, and I remember thinking that it was they way of the world, that nothing could be done, but you—”

She tells the story breathlessly. 

“I was just doing my job.”

“—I know.”

She spins again on her heel, turning away from him, arms clasping her elbows behind her back.

“But if things should take a turn for the worse— If I screamed— Would you—?”

“I won’t.”

His answer comes readily, easy.

“I know.”

Her response just as ready, just as easy.

He thinks of Sidurgu again, deep in his cups, wearing his heart on his sleeve as he mourned the girl he could not save— no, his own broken pride.

He thinks of the girl veiled head to toe, who was not saved up until the very end, set upon by the First Inquisitor, the very Holy See itself.

He thinks. And thinks.

She talked of a day in which he saved a woman from being assaulted in the streets. If he had grabbed her hand, too, then— If he had known—

He shakes his head, a fool to think. “To save a life is the dominion of the gods.”

She says nothing, back still turned to him, rocking on her heels.

And then, so soft he thinks that perhaps he imagined it — “And yet there was a time you once reached for the heavens.”

They walk in silence back to the entrance of the Vault. She does not try to cling to his arm as she had before, though the small curve of smile she’s worn persists even so.

Within him, the strangest need to proffer his arm.

Yet he feels that to reach for her would be to prove her right, as if he were to once again grasp futilely for the heavens.

And so, when his weary gaze falls to the earth once more, he does not dare try to raise it.