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She is gone by the time he finds the scale – of course she is. Her side of the bed has long since grown cold, and he finds it nestled between the sheets and the thin comforter, caught when it had at some point slid between them both and tangled in the fabrics… hidden, and out of sight until now, as he stripped the linens for washing and there it had tumbled out – an irregular piece of blue-black scale, smooth on one side and ridged on the other. As he takes it in hand, he marvels somewhat as he traces the edges under a curious thumb— it is as hard as a nail, now, when he remembers the touch being softer… more supple, blending near seamlessly with skin despite its outward appearance. It seems being cast off as it is now has left it transformed now that it is no longer apart of the living, breathing woman who had graced his bed, not all that long ago, but it seems sadder for it. Reduced, some of the life and color having leeched away.
Holding the scale in thoughtful hand, Drillemont eases down to sit, and finds still that he is transfixed by the sight of such a small, insignificant thing; now that he has found it, he cannot bring himself to set it aside.
…The scales of an Au Ra were not like those of a Dravanian. Where the former held hides of circular, overlapping scale, there seemed no rhyme or reason to the patterns on Saren’s skin, in their shape or their patterned, graceful lines, and she had not been so forthcoming on the subject as much—
“It simply how it is,” she murmured, as he traced the thick ridges on her hips with wandering hands, “Simply the way we are born. Perhaps it makes it easier to part the waters when we swim? I do not know— other tribes do not travel as the Ejinn do. This is the image Nhaama made us in. Do you question your height, or the point of your ears, and what purpose they are supposed to serve?”
…a straightforward point made, he’d conceded, but perhaps there would never be a way to explain this… this disquiet in his breast, this… this awe. This… shame. For all that it is different, for all that he knows— he knows Saren is her own being, separate and perfect and utterly different, sometimes in his mind’s eye he sees… he sees…
A lifetime and more locked in war with the Dravanians have left a trepidation that is hard to shake. Drillemont has not breathed a word as such to her, would not, could not— Saren has long since forgiven the reception given to her all those days ago anyhow, on her first arrival to Coerthas, seeking a wayward airship…
He could not explain the veneration, that at the same time mixes so heavily with guilt when he lays with her. She is not a Dravanian, she is not a dragon, and the blood of blessed Ishgard’s thousand-year enemy does not flow within her veins, but why, then…? Why must it be, that the woman who holds his emotions in such thrall, be enrobed in the scales of the enemy his has sworn his life against? Drillemont closes his palm about the scale, and feels the edge dig into the skin as he sighs in the quiet of his chambers. There is none to see him here in this state. None who could read the consternation in his breast.
…it is in times like these that he thinks of Saint Shiva. Brief times. Times where he dashes the thoughts as swiftly as they come, for it is the thought of… of a heretic. It is the Fury that guides his heart and his actions, and he will not allow the visage of a patron saint of… of heretics to plant icy roots in a place it has no hold over. Drillemont is strong, and he is devout. The flames of his zeal will burn such attempts before they take hold. He does not turn his thoughts to her, does not think of her in his prayer and yet.
And yet.
Saint Shiva… the legend of a woman who lay down with dragons, and at times he cannot… he cannot, however briefly, distinguish himself from her legacy. Saren is not a dragon. She is a warrior, liberator of the Vigil, strong of mind and arm, and he hears the whispers that surround her, that she is the Warrior of Light that walks among them again, and it is true, every word of it, and yet, and yet.
He holds her scale in his hand, and for a moment, Drillemont perhaps knows why Saint Shiva may have made the choice she did. Did she, too, behold her beloved with such reverence? Did she look upon her lover and see a great and terrible beauty, so unworthy of her attention, so beyond her reach, so different in mind and body both…
…As he beheld Saren now? When she lay in his arms and gifted him the attention he did not deserve…? As he accepted her grace with this… this doubt within his heart?
His knuckles are white around the scale in his hand, and Drillemont slowly unfolds his hand, sees the outline of the edges that had dug into the skin, leaving the indent of its shape behind. He closes his minds, and Saint Shiva slips away. For his weakness he lowers his head and murmurs prayer to Halone, for forgiveness. For strength.
His spirit is thus fortified. Drillemont rises. The scale, the beautifully perplexing scale… it finds a place safely within his few personal belongings, where none will see it, and ask. Perhaps he will ask again, about her scales, when she arrives to Whitebrim Front once more. A coming he both yearns for… and dreads.
He knows he will dream of her tonight again. Of an image of a Fury clad in scales.