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When the anguished scream tears through the camp, Alisaie wishes she could be surprised.
It’s a few bells after Lucelle returned to them – truly returned, as herself and not as a sick joke perpetuated by a monster. The Scions are scattered among the Ilsabard Contingent, resting and checking over supplies one last time before they push into the capitol proper. Alisaie is watching G’raha drill alongside a paladin from the Ul’dah detachment and waves them both off when they turn towards the source of the cry. This isn’t a job for anyone but her.
Broken Glass is surprisingly dense, buildings squashed together for the sake of easier heating and weather proofing. There’s a small square nestled within the tangle, stone and wood tall on all four sides, and the Contingent commandeered it for scrap and refuse. Magitek carcasses and wood too spoiled for kindling are stacked next to one another, making the already tight space even more cramped. Alisaie reaches it in the space of a minute, barely feeling the wind whip across her face, and comes to a stop at its edge.
Lucelle is there amongst the ruin, swinging her gunblade with reckless fury, roaring with each attack.
Alisaie looks for the telltale glow of a loaded cartridge and feels the tension in her shoulders unwind when all she can see is dull steel. It’s a small comfort, because Lucelle is without her coat, arms bare and chest heaving as she brings her weapon down in an overhead strike that would split the earth were she using live ammunition. As is, the already broken hull of a walker shrieks in protest from the force of the blow. At any other time, Alisaie would be swept up by the woman’s strength, trying to hide what it does to her body.
That Lucelle’s face is damp with tears makes it clear this is anything but an ordinary time. And her gunblade is starting to veer out of control.
“Lucy.” Alisaie says, raising her voice to be heard over the din. Lucelle doesn’t respond and smashes a war machina’s leg into a half dozen pieces. She’s muttering to herself, words Alisaie can’t make out, words she nevertheless knows after hearing them before in situations frighteningly similar to this.
“Lucelle!” Alisaie says, taking a step forward, careful to make her footfall as loud as possible. Sneaking up on any soldier is a bad idea, let alone the Warrior of godsdamned Light. Lucelle pauses for a split second and then launches herself into a trio of slashes, reducing an empty freight box into chunks of jagged metal. There was a time when Alisaie could’ve looked at this and seen a mad brute, instead of a woman exorcising unimaginable pain. It still has to stop.
“Hibiki!” Alisaie says, and Lucelle’s gunblade halts in midair, unwavering even as its owner’s breath cascades out of her mouth in waves of billowing white. Alisaie watches while the keen edge parts a flurry of snow that the wind lifted off the ground. A sight worth immortalizing, if she had Alphinaud’s talent with charcoal and ink.
The rigid horizon of Lucelle’s shoulders goes slack and her hoarse, tear choked voice sounds out, “I’m afraid I’m not good company at the moment, my lady.”
“You need only be a warm body to be good company here.” Alisaie says, taking another few steps towards Lucelle. Snow crunches underneath her boots and Lucelle flinches each time. Alisaie can’t say if she’s hyper vigilant or simply ashamed that someone saw her in such a state. “Regardless, you shouldn’t be alone right now. None of us should.”
“Right.” Lucelle snorts, the faintest wisps of steam coming off her shoulders. She runs hot, Alisaie remembers, and a fight has never been the thing to smother her flame. “We mustn’t let the Alliance’s only hope be stolen out from under everyone’s noses again.”
Case in point.
“Don’t.” Alisaie says, feeling her own fire blaze to life in her chest. They’ve had this conversation before and will likely have it again. It’s easier, she knows, to lash out with old bludgeons than confront the actual issue at hand. “If we’re to talk, then it will be about what’s truly bothering you. It will be about Zenos.”
“Zenos, my lady?” Lucelle says, laughter poorly hidden underneath her voice. She turns around and Alisaie gasps softly at the disgust burning in her mismatched eyes. It’s an old, disquieting emotion to see in Lucelle, one that only ever seems to be aimed at herself. “Zenos? You think that I’ve been tearing apart the rusting hulks of Garlemald’s eternal conquest because of the crown fucking prince’s games?”
“It wasn’t simply a child’s game, Lucelle, he took-”
“He took my body!” Lucelle screams, turning and smashing her gunblade into a pile of scrap metal and charred wood. Splinters fly out in all directions and Alisaie stands unflinching, meeting Lucelle’s eyes and weathering the agony that pours out of her mouth. “My. Body. He took it from me with all the ease of a common pickpocket stealing a purse. He slithered his way into my form and almost murdered you with it. Do you understand, my lady? You could have died and the last thing you would’ve seen was him using my face to smile down at you.”
“But I didn’t! And that was because you saved me, Lucy. You did, your body or not, because there is no soul stronger or more resourceful within a thousand malms.” Alisaie says, her hand outstretched and her eyes focused on the few fulms separating them. The tension in Lucelle is bleeding into the air and charging it, like it’s aether swirling about as opposed to the Warrior of Light straining to contain herself.
“And I was almost too late! It was a matter of seconds, Alisaie. Seconds.” Lucelle says, raising her arm and slamming her gunblade through snow and into the earth. Alisaie rocks back on her heels, shocked to hear her given name, and Lucelle looks as though it hurt to say. She gets closer and Alisaie can see now that she’s shivering, the weather finally overwhelming her exertion. “In another world, I lost you, my lady. You died in the snow while I watched and an arrogant, unscrupulous man used my hand to do it, which is one of the dozens of things I tried to escape by coming to Eorzea.”
“Lucy, I,” Alisaie says, trailing off as Lucelle sobs, fresh tears running down her cheeks. She’s come apart and smashed back together again so many times in recent memory that it’s hard to see the original cracks in her foundation. The wounds that Alisaie learned slowly, scars she traced the shape of during moments of peace while listening to the stories behind them. Her warrior is as much a victim as a survivor, loathe as either of them are to say as much.
“My body was taken and its power used for ends I had no say in nor approve of. It is woefully similar to what being this realm’s hope has done to me. That is what infuriates me now, my lady. That is why I excused myself to come here.” Lucelle says, taking her final step into Alisaie, who wraps her arms around her without a moment’s hesitation. Her voice is a pleasant rumble against Alisaie’s neck as she says “I also take issue with the fact that you were placed in mortal danger, once again, by your association with me.”
“Shut up.” Alisaie says, tightening her hold. Lucelle wheezes and she loosens it by a fraction. A storm swirls inside of her mind made up of a dozen and more conflicting thoughts. Being worried over will always raise her hackles, even if there is a small part of her that enjoys the attention. At least it’s her partner and not her brother this time. Of greater concern, though, is that Lucelle’s shivering is starting to become violent. “Come on, you. There has to be privacy in this camp that’s indoors.”
Lucelle’s teeth chatter as she says “lead on, my lady.”
It takes doing – and more than a few pointed keep your distance looks at G’raha and Alphinaud – but Alisaie finds a spare room in a house too small to store anything other than supplies. It’s still cramped, being surrounded by boxes of rations and blankets. Alisaie won’t complain, however, because it’s warm and impervious to the howling winds outside. Lucelle is perched atop one of the supply crates, a blanket underneath her and another thrown over her shoulders, while Alisaie fiddles with a kettle.
“Gods help me, I’ve turned into my mother.” Alisaie says, a quiet murmur that, if Lucelle hears, she doesn’t comment on. Besides, it will give them something to do with their hands while they warm their bellies and talk. Alphinaud will be insufferable if he ever hears that the tea sachets he made her keep on her person was useful.
Alisaie huffs and pulls out two smaller mugs from the bag she snatched up from a pile of the Scion’s shared belongings, depositing the sachets within them. They’re dented, hardy things, meant for the road and whatever their owner thinks to fill them with. Tea direct from Tataru’s personal stores is likely better than they’ve seen since being cast. Not that Alisaie cares, it’s just easier to think about than the looming specter between her and Lucelle. What can she do? What can she even say, to someone whose autonomy was stolen from them in the name of the greater good?
Much and more has been said of the Warrior of Light’s seemingly endless charity, rumor and song as plentiful as official reports. Very little has been said alongside it of Lucelle, the gunbreaker who calls her my lady and takes tea with Tataru while gossiping like it’s a high society function. Alisaie can do equally little to solve that, other than wish she hadn’t dismissed Lucelle years earlier at their first meeting. It’s all such a godsawful mess and Alisaie wants to brain someone with the boiling kettle before her.
Preferably Zenos. She’ll settle for Fandaniel, if it comes to it.
“Do you have any idea how amazing you are, my lady?” Lucelle says, back ramrod straight and a tremulous smile on her lips. Alisaie blushes and scoffs to try and hide it. Lucelle, as is her wont, shakes her head, says “no, truly. You’re making me tea in the middle of a war camp. How could I not be awestruck by such a thing?”
“You’re far too easily impressed, Lucy.” Alisaie says, struggling to maintain her composure. Instinct is telling her to brush the compliment off and harangue Lucelle about even needing a hot cup due to her little adventure. It would be easier than facing the truth of her regard, mutual though their feelings may be.
“And you’re far too humble, my lady. Outside of the Scions, not many exist who look after me with the care you do. Or the love.” Lucelle says, voice soft and measured. How she manages to be the picture of grace after breaking like a dead tree in a thunderstorm, Alisaie will never know. It’s all sorts of attractive when combined with the way firelight is dancing on her scales and giving a sparkle to her eyes.
“Yes, well, if I didn’t worry about your health, who else would? Certainly not you.” Alisaie says, the kettle screaming and giving her an excuse to turn her back on Lucelle. She sought her out to talk her down off a ledge, not be seduced in a shack set atop frigid tundra. Alisaie sighs and begins pouring out water into the mugs, a few trite words about the best laid plans of Exarchs traipsing through her head.
Lucelle takes her mug in hand with a satisfied smile and pats the empty space beside her. Alisaie seats herself and relishes the warmth of her own mug as it seeps through her gloves. She hasn’t decided if she’ll drink the tea that’s steeping within it. It seems a much better idea to steal all the heat it can give her before tossing it out the window to freeze before it hits the snow.
“You seem distracted.” Lucelle says, shifting over until their thighs are touching. Alisaie forces herself to relax and fails, her grip on her mug tightening. They’ve spent countless nights with one another and yet it’s these quiet moments of intimacy that undo her. Lucelle’s gentle manner when it came to her only became more pronounced after that first time.
“I’m thinking before I act. You should try it.” Alisaie says, a lack of venom turning the rebuke into a shared joke. Many and more are the times where they’ve both run off into the thick of battle, Alphinaud struggling to keep up with their mayhem. Alisaie’s never felt more alive than with her rapier in hand, pressed back to back with Lucelle, the scent of gun powder and aether engulfing them.
“And what action will my lady be taking?” Lucelle says, nudging Alisaie with her shoulder. The blanket covering it manages to brush her cheek and the fabric’s softness makes her sigh. Would that they could enjoy these sorts of creature comforts more often. Odd to think of a warm drink and a warmer woman as rarities, and yet.
And yet.
“I should check to ensure you didn’t develop frostbite out there.” Alisaie says, setting her mug down on the crate and turning to face Lucelle head-on. She’s obviously confused by the direction the conversation’s taken, going by the charming quirk of her eyebrow and small frown. Alisaie thinks that it’s her own fault for being slow on the uptake. It’s not as if she’s ever been subtle regarding her intentions.
Lucelle gasps out an “oh” when Alisaie’s lips brush across her forehead. She has to tuck her bangs to the side to accomplish it, but the way Lucelle shivers when she kisses her scales make it worth the effort. The texture is one Alisaie has trouble describing, though it’s never been unpleasant. Far from it, in fact, because when Alisaie presses her lips just so where the scales end and flesh begins, Lucelle whimpers like a small animal. She’s trapped, still holding her mug of tea, and that’s exactly where Alisaie wants her.
Her cheeks are next. The scales here are rougher, less sensitive due to exposure to the elements. Alisaie gives them their due regardless. Lucelle’s breath is shallow and the whimpers turns to sighs and back again with each kiss. For lack of a better place to put her hands, Alisaie brings them up to Lucelle’s horns, heels of her palms balanced on Lucelle’s shoulders as her fingertips run the length of them. A moan escapes Lucelle and Alisaie smirks against her scales. Pulling sounds out of her ever chivalrous knight is a skill born from long hours of practice.
It goes on like this for a time. Alisaie pushes the blanket off Lucelle’s shoulders, plucks her mug from her hands, and slides onto her lap. From that position, she devotes herself to Lucelle’s neck. The scales are, again, less sensitive, but where they meet the skin? Oh, Alisaie lavishes attention there, and Lucelle cannot keep her voice locked behind her teeth. Thank the Twelve for the wind still raging outside of the room.
Finally – blessedly, Alisaie imagines, in Lucelle’s opinion – there’s only one place left to conquer. Alisaie looks at her, truly examines the other woman, and compliments herself on a job well done. Lucelle’s mouth is hanging open and her eyes are glassy with desire, looking for all the world as if she’s been taken against a nearby wall. Perhaps later, once this is all behind them. For now, Alisaie abandons her horns and tangles her fingers in Lucelle’s hair, pulling her in for a gentle by comparison kiss.
Lucelle moans into her mouth, trying to deepen the kiss, and Alisaie tugs on her hair. There’s no time and Lucelle would never forgive her if they fucked in a glorified shed. It’s not befitting for you, my lady is a phrase that has become the bane of Alisaie’s existence, but she’s learned when to push and when, exactly, Lucelle will acquiesce to going down on her in the nearest dark corner. This moment isn’t for sating those urges. It’s for pulling away from the kiss and nuzzling into Lucelle’s face.
It’s for saying, with as few words as possible, that Alisaie loves her. That she still trusts her. That nothing, not Zenos nor the Final Days, will ever break that bond. That, though she murmurs “you didn’t need to go out half-dressed, you know,” she is unspeakably happy that Lucelle is herself, actual and whole.