Chapter Text
"'Tis not a glamorous outfit, but we make do. Without the persistent strain on supplies, I hope we might begin to do a bit better than make do." Captain Abel Whitecape held his hands at the small of his back, rigid spine, assessing eyes. He had run this inventory in his head too many times, when the hope of 'doing better' had been distant and the calculation had been considerably more grim.
He glanced at the small woman standing at his side. She couldn't have known how far gone Ishgard had been when she arrived. The Dragonsong had been a dirge, and the Holy See's death throes had been mistaken for resilience for years. It was easy enough to placate a devout populace; the faithful shouldn't falter and Halone challenges her finest warriors, after all.
It was harder to convince the city's deathbed attendants that they ought not trust their eyes.
After the Calamity, the slow crumble and fall had begun to seem inevitable. And the Hospitaliers had continued their duty in silence. Only recently had Abel begun to wonder if that had been its own kind of heresy. Or, maybe it was just the guilt of survival. She was watching him.
"It's good to look ahead," she agreed. "Better than wondering about the past." Those dark eyes might have read his heart on the matter, but he couldn't have said. It was a peculiar sort of woman that stepped down from the pedestal of a divine hero and asked to tend to the sick instead. It was the kind of thing that more earnest faiths might've called saintly. Regardless, he had not thought it relevant to question what had moved her to linger in Ishgard when her compatriots had moved on. He simply understood there must be some reason. In the simplest terms, he was not going to deny her the kind of business she asked for, nor himself the benefit of a healer with the potency of most his Order combined.
"That's the right of it," he said. "And while your prodigious talents as a mage are much appreciated, I and the others would be pleased to teach you some of the practical arts." She nodded.
"I have some basic experience with tending to chronic ails and the requisite herbal and alchemical balms," she said. He looked only mildly surprised. "Healing arts can be ferocious to both attendant and patient, at times," she clarified, and even sounded a shade remorseful.
"Ah," he said. A well-known foil to the stronger magics. He proceeded with his tour, waving her after him. She had asked if she might be stationed at Camp Dragonhead, which he had declined. This was Ishgard's smallest clinic, and perhaps the least suited to her reputation. But it was the one that needed her. The Brume had many patients and few resources. The influx of veterans newly unemployed, and often ungraciously marked by their service, were ready to topple the careful balance of care that Abel and his colleagues had doled out to those unable to pay for the extent of their needs. Once again, she arrived at their doorstep with little sense of how close they were to a precipice.
"And there will be another chirurgeon, sometimes myself, who will join you at least twice each sennight -- on the busiest days," he explained as he led her back into the small room that served as both apothecary and office. "After your training is complete, of course. I will see you are competent myself before I leave you to this task by yourself."
Rinh was grateful for the Captain's practical manner and the swiftness with which he had taken her in to work. She had little appetite, or patience, for anything else at the moment. When he had seemingly concluded his thorough explanation of the minimal facilities, its full inventory of supplies, and the schedule of her new tour, Abel paused in the middle of the cramped examination room. "There was some interest in whether you might elect to join the Temple Knights properly and to which Order you would be inclined. That is to say, there is little doubt you might've had your pick."
She gave him a small, baffled smile. "Despite my conduct since the Holy See so generously admitted me, I cannot say I would have preferred to assist another Order." Rinh did not comment on the half-question about joining the Knights proper. She was not ready to look carefully at the way the thought twisted uncomfortably in the pit of her stomach.
"Well, we are pleased for your aid. Count Edmont and Ser Aymeric - that is, his Eminence, hardly needed to petition on your behalf." Abel said. She was careful to keep her expression neutral.
"His Eminence did?" She asked.
The loud rap on the door cut them short, both their heads swiveling toward their new company as the heavy door swung open with a bang.
"There she is!" Hilda's smile was bright and friendly, if perpetually tinged with mischief. The Mongrel: lately elevated to a representative of the House of Commons alongside her heading of the Watch, and as fierce a defender of her loyalties on the parliamentary floor as in the Brume's alleys. Rinh had found Ishgardians somewhat fundamentally chilly by disposition upon first meeting, but remarkably earnest in their affections once earned. Which was to say, Hilda remained dear and wholly unconcerned that Rinh had set down her hero's mantle. Plenty of trouble to be up to in these walls, anyhow, Hilda had said.
"Here I am," Rinh agreed. "What brings you, Hilda?" Hilda ambled into the clinic, shutting the door behind her.
"A gentleman, who'd best still mind where he wanders, crossed my path and thought I might cross yours," Hilda said. "Nearly thought he was gonna send me scurryin' off with gil for my trouble - like an urchin," she added, as if she hadn't decided if she was annoyed or amused. She glanced at Captain Whitecape. "Will you be keepin' her long, Captain?"
"No, Lady Ware, she will not begin her shifts until tomorrow." He stared down his glasses at Rinh. "Two bells past dawn, tomorrow, Lady Caslaa." Hilda scowled.
"Just Hilda, if you please," she said. She reached out for Rinh. "Well, Lady Caslaa, you heard the Captain, two bells past dawn. Shall we?" Rinh frowned, but shuffled toward Hilda anyway.
"Thank you, Captain Whitecape. I shall see you in the morning," she bowed slightly. Hilda watched her unlikely friend. Rarely had she found herself in rooms where she was not the most conspicuous, but the Warrior of Light drew attention in this city that had rather little to do with her accolades. She was so pristinely other, and uninterested in the perception of it. Hilda pulled open the door and waved for Rinh to pass. Hilda didn't mind having attention shifted away from her for once, but she did empathize with her friend. Rinh bore silent interrogation as simply as breathing. That didn't mean she was fond of it.
"Hate to keep noble types waiting longer than needed. They're troublesome, that way," Hilda said lightly. It was in jest, mostly. This time. Things had changed in Ishgard. Seismic shifts she'd never conceived of had rattled their foundations and left something new standing. But many, many things had also stayed the same. The Brume was still poor. The Lowborn were still Lowborn. Men with pockets full of gold and half-decent faces were still smug enough to believe they were owed a woman's world.
When they were out in the cold and out of earshot, Hilda cupped her hands around her lips and exhaled a cloud of steaming breath. "Wasn't always so damnably cold, you know? You can help us move the heavens but Halone herself won't change back the weather," she chuckled. "So it goes." They went along in silence a few moments longer, Rinh trailing a half step behind the striking half-elezen. She didn't imagine Hilda had summoned her away from Captain Whitecape for no reason, though it was anyone's guess if there'd been any such gentleman requesting her presence.
"Does the Lord Speaker need something?" she asked. Hilda laughed.
"Young Master Fortemps call on you often?" she returned, peering at the smaller woman. Rinh shrugged. He did, she supposed, in that there were only so many around Ishgard that called on her at all. She had always existed somewhat incidentally in the city -- or anywhere, really. But she was less lonely than she had been, once. It was novel that anyone thought to call on her specifically at all; and the newness hadn't faded with the primals she'd cut down or the wars she'd ended.
"They are still kind to me," she said. Even if I am no longer necessary. That meant something to her. It was a precious thing to be unneeded and welcome.
"Well, hospitality aside, wasn't Artoirel that was looking for your company."
"Artoirel," Rinh started, brows rising despite herself. She hadn't known Hilda to be on such terms with Artoirel de Fortemps. Frankly, Rinh wasn't always quite sure if she was, herself. They had become friendlier, or closer, since the loss of his half-brother; but his ghost also lingered between them, much as it lingered in all the spaces between her and the House that had so graciously sheltered her when it had not been able to summon the same for Haurchefant. Hilda hummed.
"Artoirel, aye. Find myself workin' a deal closer with him and all the other opinions among the Lords than I'd have ever imagined, or wanted, from my place here among the smallfolk." Hilda stretched. "Halone's tits, it's still so damnably cold though." She sighed, but she was smiling. Rinh's expression softened. It was good to see the little things. It was good to stay behind. Hilda was still a sharp blade, keen and bright, but there was a little less tension in her shoulders and a different sort of confidence rooting the straightness of her spine. She had a look in her eyes that Rinh recognized. That beautiful, overwhelming, determined ambition that he wore like a second skin.
As if summoned by the thought, Rinh saw Hilda's attention shift back to the pretense of their stroll. "'Twas our freshly robed Archbishop I found, wanderin' roads closer to this side of town than those shiny sabatons ought."
Rinh's gut twisted and she couldn't quite say if it was for better or worse. Her ear twitched. It had been more than a sennight since his election and as many suns since she'd seen him. The separation shouldn't have felt long, or purposeful, but it did and it was. They'd gone longer without looking for one another around every corner. Hilda paused their walk to watch the Warrior of Light skate through a series of thoughts that she was well aware were not about to be shared. "How's he doin'?" Hilda asked. As if Rinh would know.
"I should think well, but busy, as he is wont," Rinh said. It was Hilda's turn to arch a brow.
"Haven't graced the poor man with your company, is it?" She asked. Rinh balked. "Look here, I won't pretend I know him all so well, but Ser Aymeric seems to me like he cares too much to say no, and can't claim fine enough stock to be given the option to say no so often as he should besides." They stood in silence for a long moment. "And seems to me he looked a little less wound tight and proper around you."
"Is that so?"
"I don't think you'd miss it. Makes sense to me anyway. You're any easy sort to rely on, which is its own kind of trouble for us all, mind."
"You think he should've said no?"
"I think he wouldn't have, no matter whether he liked the idea much or not."
"I imagine not."
"And I think maybe that's a bit cruel, even if I see the niceness of it for the rest of us. Ser Aymeric was the last Archbishop's unclaimed get, aye?" Hilda scowled. Unwanted children were the Holy See's finest fodder. She knew it well. Rinh looked out over the endless splay of clouds. She'd often seen herself at the periphery of a million other stories. Staying in Ishgard had been part of that. She wasn't sure when she'd forgotten. This was supposed to be about him and this terribly flawed city he had built so much love for. She was a witness at best and she hadn't known she had the capacity to so thoroughly lose the point in so much self pity.
"I would lend him an ear if he asked it," she said to herself as much as to the other woman. Hilda scratched her cheek.
"And maybe I think the two of you might ask for things the same way though," she said with a vague smile. Keen, bright Hilda. The Warrior of Light had never claimed to be brave or true, but she let her feet take her toward the Congregation of Knights Most Heavenly anyway.
Lucia let her into the familiar office.
Aymeric looked surprised. Fleetingly, before he was smiling politely and she wondered if she'd imagined the way he'd held fast to her hips, blue eyes bright with a thousand questions he'd never ask her. She tucked her chin atop her shoulder, cataloging the ways the space had shifted since her last visit. Little things - new stacks of paper atop the wide desk - and big things - a rich blue cape lined in gold and fur hung neatly over a mannequin bust. He'd gone looking for her.
"You're keeping your office," she said. He might've nodded. She didn't see.
"I did not relinquish my duties," he paused. "I should like to think they will not make me relinquish my office." He had held it for less time than many of Ishgard's previous Lord Commanders, but it had become comfortable and he did not care to preside from the Vault as his father had. "'Tis too early to say, but I remain hopeful my role among the clergy will remain relatively ceremonial." She did look back at him then, the soft gravel of his voice giving him away.
He was prone to late nights and early morning, but he often pressed himself further. Aymeric was watching her. "Thank you for coming," he said. She let herself further into the office, slowly drawing herself to his side. He said nothing when she brushed his hair back from his forehead and pressed her own to his. He was warm, the way he was always warm and she was always freezing and it was something they both knew. There was no fever and no change in his aether.
"There's too much ahead of you," she stood back and let her fingertips linger against his silky strands as she rearranged the dark tresses. "Don't wear yourself too thin."
"I heard word you'd been stationed to the Brume," he said, quiet because it was all that was needed at their proximity. She wished his voice didn't spark levin down her spine, but it did.
"I asked for Dragonhead," she admitted. His expression didn't shift much. She felt it like the tide.
"Ser Emmanellain would have been pleased with your company," he said. Rinh wanted to ask him if he wished it wouldn't have, but she couldn't bring herself to pick at unproductive things.
"Hilda said you were looking for me."
"I was."
"Did you need something?"
He gave her a small smile again, still devastatingly polite. "Forgive me," he said. She tucked her hands under her arms, from the chill and to keep herself from reaching out to touch him again. There had never been a time where it had been sensible for her to want to touch him, or to do so with such little reservation, but now she felt she had to restrain herself. He was so still when she did reach for him, like breathing might change her mind. "I wanted to see you."
It was the kind of admission that could've been charming a season ago. Rinh's expression was vague. "I wanted to check in on you as well. I should have come sooner," she said. "To express my disapproval regarding your sleep schedule, at least." She reached to tangle her fingers back through his hair after all, pushing the soft locks as if there was any excuse to fuss. She hated to admit that the shorter cut still suited him and that it had mattered to her at all. "It is my job, really. Now that I have joined your Hospitaliers."
"Mine?" He asked. He leaned into her touch, denying them the excuse of his unruly waves or her tidying.
"Yours enough, Eminent Commander," she said gently. "I did not know you had put in a word for me." He blinked twice, the flash of surprised gone as quickly as it registered. Of course Abel hadn't bothered to hold his tongue. And Aymeric hadn't precisely insinuated he should take care.
"I admit that your skills would have been valued among a number of the Knights' orders, or the Scholasticate, even, had you wished it." Though, she did not follow their faith. He would not have been above making an argument for her merits, however, had that been the path she desired. He told himself it was only right that she get a say in the nature of her labor for once. He would have moved greater heavens. He would have set his titles on the table and made the case for their worth, if they could give her anything. She never did ask for much, let alone anything unreasonable.
Staying behind, staying with him. That had been impossible enough. Maybe it was best to admit that he'd been anxious for her to remain.
"Captain Whitecape spoke similarly. Perhaps I should have simply taken up maid's work in House Fortemps. Surely they'd have accepted my employ as well," she said, as if it was a beleaguering thing to be spoiled for choice. And maybe it was. Her small palm strayed to cup his cheek. She could have stayed in the city and done nothing at all, but maybe they both knew better than to trust themselves.
"They would have paid more handsomely than House Borel might offer, for certain," an idle reply, meant in jest, that came too easily when she was touching him like it should be expected. They both fell silent. She smelled like ginger and violet. He breathed deep and wondered, if he turned his face just so, if she'd move or if she'd let him kiss the heel of her palm. Starving animals often didn't know how to stop themselves, even when food was no longer scarce. "Why is it that you'll touch me now?" he asked when he shouldn't have, voice rasping over the injustice of it. He heard her inhale too sharply. He felt her pull away.
"I should go," Rinh said. He caught her wrist as she turned.
"Forgive me," he said. "I am sorry." She froze in his grasp. The Archbishop, she thought, perhaps ought not ask for forgiveness so often. "Please, forget that I --" They were suspended, motionless, and he felt each second flutter at her wrist. He hadn't seen her in too many nights. It might've been more bearable if she'd been unreachable, but the sense of her had hung in every empty street, around every corner. There had been too many places she could've been, and wasn't.
"I would appreciate your advisement," he started again. "In matters pertaining to the Alliance. The Grand Melee was but a first step, and a military at peace ought to be kept honed through diplomatic endeavors." When she said nothing for too long, he added, "You know them well." It was true, and reasonable, and he he didn't want to tell her not to go. He didn't want to ask for her hands, too cold to be pleasant, to trace the column of his throat. He didn't want to need a reason to see her, but he wasn't above finding one.
"I am at your disposal, as ever," she said. He wanted to drown in those wine-dark eyes. They saw too much and not enough. She pulled her hand free and slipped away from his desk, crossing quietly back toward the door. And then she hesitated.
"Did Count Charlemend support the election of a new Archbishop.. Of you as Archbishop?" She asked, her hand on the heavy brass handle. Aymeric was slow to answer.
"Most earnestly," he said, quiet, and it settled a little heavier across her shoulders than she'd have liked. She wasn't fluent in Ishgard's fealties. Not enough to feel them in her bones. Not enough to judge. He stared at her small frame, cast aglow in the lamplight. He did not know if it would please her to know or if she'd wish she hadn't asked. He was not sure which he would have wanted.
"You are a good man, Ser Aymeric," she said. "Call for me. I will come." How could she not?