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Sometimes, you’d find yourself reminiscing about the faces of enthusiastic soon-to-be adventurers. They had hoped for you to regale them with your tales as the Warrior of Light.
At first, you simply told them your humble beginnings; helping a person in need, or perhaps, fending off hostile creatures. As time passed, you tell them that it is not a path meant for everyone. Glory was cruel with its temptations.
Merely thinking about adventuring seems to drain the life out of you—hells, it ages you by several centuries—you grimly ponder.
You’re now in Il Mheg. Subject to the mischief of the unrelenting pixies, along with the Scions. It would have been easier for you (and everyone else) to use gentle persuasion to wring out the lightwarden’s location in the area. To your dismay, Urianger and the others decided that acquiescing to the fae folk’s requests would invite the least amount of trouble.
With sneers, giggles, and snickers, the pixies tasked you with rather menial tasks. Nothing life threatening, you think, relief settling deep into your mind. Your wandering led you to the shore of the vast lake that rests in the center of Il Mheg, the Voeburtite Castle standing as a brilliant bastion of shimmering light. The sheer brilliance reminds you of the familiar pair of ice-blue eyes, which were filled with warmth and fondness. Nearly slipping into your daydreams, you shake your head as if it helped swat away such thoughts. It hasn’t been that long, right?
For what felt like years in the First, likely had only been days or hours back in the Source.
Your mind fails to escape him, his soothing voice, gentle and smooth like honey, his luscious raven hair that you love to comb through with your fingers, his tall, proud frame as he towers over you with every embrace, and especially his touch, the way it left searing hot trails on your skin, even just from holding hands—
Oh right, back to the task at hand.
Sighing in defeat, you trudge your way back to Lydha Lran, finding that your armor is considerably in disrepair. Since your arrival in Il Mheg was rather unconventional (yet eventful), you haven’t had the time to prepare your supplies. At least the earring he had gifted you is still there in your bag, tucked away in safekeeping. So much for your priorities, Warrior of Light.
You bring the requested items to several pixies, tell them what happened upon encountering certain monsters, and report on everything else. You really need your gear repaired, and you can only hope that a miraculously-not-devilish pixie can help you with that. After asking around, you have found your quarry near the aetheryte, as you note that several of the other Scions have returned. Hopefully, with interesting stories to share. It might be too optimistic to hope that the pixies wouldn’t ask for anything in return for repairing your weapon and armor. You swiftly regret it as soon as you opened your mouth.
The pixie in front of you, joined with two of their friends, is already smirking as if they found the most heinous prank to play on you. You silently offer a plea for help to the Twelve.
In between giggles, the pixie replies to you with a certain trill of their voice, “I’ll repair your armor, only if you play with us!” The three pixies bore the arguably widest grins you have seen in your life. You shoot a quick glance around and behind you, spotting Thancred, Minfilia, and the twins not a very far distance from where you are. You don’t need witnesses.
You slump your shoulders in defeat, agreeing to whatever hellish plans the pixies have in store for you.
“Well,” the pixie continues, putting on an exaggerated ‘thinking’ pose, “it isn’t so much as a playdate, but think of it as a reward for you!”
You blink in mild surprise. It might not be that bad after all.
“Just close your eyes and think about your heart’s greatest desire! And we’ll grant it!”
Your heart’s greatest desire, you parrot back to them in question.
“Anything you want! But we’ll know if you’re lying, mortal; if your wish doesn’t match with what you say, you’ll be in for a surprise.”
By the Twelve, this is a lot worse than you thought.
You momentarily leash your thoughts and throw them into a cage. You pretend to reflect deeply, even closing your eyes and holding your closed fist to your chin, wishing that it’s a convincing act. A soft grumble stirs within your stomach, and you quickly jump at the opportunity. Food, you tell them, you wish for food; for the Warrior of Darkness had quite the insatiable appetite. Your voice broke a little when you heaved out the sentence.
Satisfaction swelled in your chest as you spot a confused look on the pixies, but they quickly shake it off.
“If that is what the mortal desires, then we shall grant it! Now close your eyes…”
You close your eyes, genuinely hoping, praying, wishing that some meals you love from the Source would appear on a table right in front of you, silver platter and all, imagining the aroma filling up your nose. Instead you find a large hand at the swell of your back, another on your chest, as a distinct weight and frame promptly turns you and corners you back onto the stone wall. With a pained and surprised groan, you open your eyes, about to mouth off the person right before you. Instead, you see those damnable, gorgeous blue irises.
You gasp his name in surprise, as his eyes intensely burn into your soul. Your mind (and heart) race a malm a minute: your rather compromising positions, how you the person you’ve been yearning for is right in front of you and should definitely not be in the First, and how the pixies have managed to see past your farce.
His voice didn’t help your heart which at this point, threatened to beat out of your chest, “Have you missed me so, my dear Warrior?” He inches his face closer to yours, both of your lips nearly breathing the same air in the scant space between you. Not even an ilm was between your bodies. You swear that you’re practically radiating heat right off from your face, as your hands struggle to find a way to find purchase on the jagged stone surface. Opening your mouth to speak, you end up repeating Aymeric’s name again, albeit in a high-pitched and painfully strained manner. If he hitches up his knee further up between your legs, you’re sure it will be all over for you. You know it's not the real Aymeric, though it it does not stop you from nearly shouting that this was definitely not appropriate for the place—right here, right now. Yet this felt all too real, the way the hopefully-fake-and-not-in-the-First Aymeric was running his lips against your craned throat. Gods, you wanted it so bad, you nearly considered shoving courtesy out of the way. Collecting your courage, and knowing that it’s not the true Aymeric, and with a slight pang of disappointment, you grab your weapon, holding it parallel to you and forcefully shove the not-Aymeric away from you.
It still took a considerable amount of strength to heave him off. You swallow thickly and begin to pant with effort. Once you find the strength to open your eyes and face shame, you spot tattered leaves on the ground in front of your feet. It was a conjured-up leafman, and the twice-damned pixies managed to glamour it to look like him. Those said pixies are now laughing hysterically, holding their stomachs as they struggle to breathe. You’re too embarrassed and enflamed to be exceptionally furious with them. You pointedly drop your weapon on the ground next to you, your concerns far from having anything to do with it.
Alas, not even centuries can make you forget what transpired. Before you, familiar gazes stare right back a few yalms away behind the gaggle of pixies.
You raise your arms in surrender, pleading that it is absolutely not what it looks like, as you slowly shamefully saunter to your comrades. You stop right at the center in front of them, the everlasting light serving as a spotlight on you.
Urianger and Y’shtola had matching perplexed yet intrigued gazes, Thancred merely gave you a satisfied, smug look, mouthing “I knew it,” as he folds his arms against his chest. Minfilia seems to share a fraction of your embarrassment, unable to meet your gaze. Alisaie’s expression is unreadable; she’s staring intently at the neglected patch of leaves. Alphinaud pointed clears his throat before speaking.
“Pray forgive me,” he pauses as he wildly gesticulates in your direction, “I was not aware that you and Ser Aymeric were… involved in such a way.”
You groaned, and asked the Scions if they have witnessed everything, right from the start when the pixies told their conditions. They look past you; their silence not a sign of disagreement.
You try to insist that it is not like that (read: it clearly is) and of course, Thancred cocks his eyebrows, seeing past your futile attempts to quell the situation, “Is that so? I’m quite positive you remember what I said to you on the day of the grand melee, Warrior.” Flailing your arms, you try to stop Thancred from revealing any more of your love life, but not before Alisaie speaks up.
“When we were unexpectedly journeying towards Doma and Ala Mihgo, you had looked… disappointed. I didn’t want to say anything, as I did not have the context back then. So now—” she cuts herself off.
You felt your mouth agape at her statement, was it really that obvious?
Y’shtola seemed to have read your mind, “It was quite obvious. It was better playing along as if you were dreading to be thrown into another battlefield.” Urianger nods in agreement, amusement clearly dancing in his eyes.
You scoff playfully at the statement, stating that you could have ended up in a battlefield of love instead, the Scions joining you in laughter.