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A knock on the door pulls Iolaine’s attention and she turns on shaky legs, curious but also dreading whoever might have knocked. That they haven’t barged in could be a good sign, but she’s still in little mood for more company. This newest wave of pain pulsing through her left her kneeling on the floor, panting and gritting her teeth as it pressed in on the edges of her sight. It even seemed to hurt Ardbert when he reached for her but he pulled back as if burned rather than the churning that swept through her, brilliant ice scraping against her bones and gathering like sand in her joints.
She steadies herself on the door and closes her eyes. It could be anything on the other side and she must be prepared for it. Likely it will not be good news; that much has not changed from her time as a Scion in the Source. So dearly do her friends value her need for rest after their missions that they are loath to disturb her, and so she spends much of her time off the battlefield with only Ardbert as company, when he makes himself known. Sometimes the solitude is welcome, but she has no way of knowing whether or not she would be bothered by the spontaneous visit of a friend as it has yet to happen. If his appearances are anything to go by then she wouldn’t mind it so much if the others stopped by as well.
The loneliness that settles on her shoulders lightens when she finds the Exarch standing in the hall, even as he seems distracted, almost nervous.
“Forgive the intrusion…” He begins, and she is already smiling and shaking her head, a mix of genuine happiness to see him and her well-practiced act. She is always available for others, and has for a long time now accepted that she will be called upon when she is needed. It helps that the call to action so often comes from those closest to her, making it that much harder to refuse their well-reasoned explanations for her to put herself in peril time and again.
There is nothing to forgive. You are always welcome at my door. At this door in your home that I’ve come to think of as my home. Would you like to come in? Would you like to stay? Please stay with me.
“...but Minfilia-- that is, Ryne and the others were asking after you.”
What about you? You came, you left the Tower and came here to my door, but was it because they asked, or because you also wanted to know? They could’ve come. Did you volunteer to come see me?
Hope clashes with frustration as questions press at the back of her throat and threaten to tumble out. It is irrational to think that the Exarch has no interest in her well-being; she knows this, and yet with him standing before her, taking care to mention the others and not include himself, it is far too easy to come to a more bitter conclusion.
“Is everything all right?” He asks.
No. Things inside me are shattering, and part of it has to do with the Light but not all of it, and I don’t know which scares me more, the thought of the Light spilling out or of me opening my mouth and telling you everything.
Iolaine shakes her head. “I had another… attack, I suppose you could call it. Same sort of cramp, my vision went white.” She sets a hand on her stomach, recalling the way everything inside her went stiff and brittle.
He starts when she explains and seems to look her over from beneath his cowl. “That pain again? And did it pass?”
Yes and no. The awful grinding of the Light within me is gone, but you still stand before me with your soft smile and warm voice and my heart presses against the ruined walls I built around it and I ache.
She shrugs with one shoulder and gives a half-hearted nod.
“Thank goodness for that,” the Exarch replies, relaxing. “I would not wish to see you suffer.”
There it is, that smile that she trusts even when others don’t, that she cannot help but return. The Exarch’s ways drove Y’shtola to the Greatwood, and even Emet-Selch asked Iolaine about him and the secrets he keep, but a good, safe sort of light glows inside her when he settles back on his heels and nods, pleased to know that she is well again.
Don’t lower your gaze, even if I can’t see your eyes.
“Though I know only too well how much you have suffered on our behalf in recent days,” he offers, head still bowed.
Bitterness sits heavy on her tongue as she recalls her first days here, how she had resented him for thinking that he had any right to bring them all there to solve another world’s problems. She would not have had to suffer this were it not for him, and yet at the same time if she does not do these things, a worse fate will befall not just the First, but the Source as well. These days she is ashamed of those first thoughts, of how little she understood of the Ascians’ plans, and of the Exarch himself.
“Indeed, I have no right to impose upon you further.” He looks up at her again and she shakes her head, waving a hand as if to banish the idea that he is intruding. “Nevertheless, I must ask one thing of you.”
Anything.
She’s surprised at how much she means it, embarrassed by the rush of excitement within her at what he could possibly ask of her. At each turn he has continued to be a leader she is glad to follow, and she is prepared to give all of herself and more if that was what he wants, in more ways than she dares think about when he’s so close.
“That you survive this, no matter what,” he says. “When the dust settles, you must return to your world. For the battles to come and the wars yet unwon.”
Never before has the thought of returning to the Source felt so hollow. It is her home, but he paints it as an endless battlefield. He’s not necessarily wrong.
“The final Lightwarden is all that stands between us and victory,” the Exarch continues. “There is still much we must do to prepare, but for now, I will see if there is aught that may remedy the strange affliction which plagues you.”
You have no idea how easily you could cure the more troubling of my afflictions. One word, one touch from you could be enough to end this particular misery.
“I’ll see it through,” she replies, nodding and offering a weak smile. That she is standing here is proof that she has survived everything that’s happened to her so far, and she is not without confidence that she will weather this trial as well, however concerned Y’shtola and Ryne seem to be about the state of her aether.
“Of that I have no doubt,” he replies with a confident smile. “If I had my pick of every reflection’s heroes, I could not have asked for a finer champion.”
Admiration shines through in his words and tone and Iolaine basks in it, ducks her head to try to hide her blush.
Can you see it in my face? My cheeks are burning, and if I turned to the mirror that it would be there in my eyes, glowing or sparkling or whatever fine words poets use to describe such a look. I am suffering, standing quietly before you, desperate for any mote of affection that might move from you to me, something deeper than the fond respect and admiration you continue to show, that wore down my best-intended defenses.
“When the Warden is dead, will your work finally be done?” It sounds so innocent a question and yet she scolds herself as soon as she asks, certain that her own selfish reasons are obvious on the surface of it.
“Yes, I believe it will. Once the tyranny of light is ended, the people of the Crystarium will be safe, and the future that must be shall come to pass.”
There is contentment in his voice at the idea, and she wants to smile with him, yet no smile comes as he speaks of the future, and for a moment he goes quiet, as if lost in his own thoughts.
“I'll not keep you from your rest any longer,” he says, taking a step back from the doorway. “Take as much time as you like.”
Every part of her cries out in unison for him to stay when he bids her rest and turns to go, but she only moves into the hallway to watch him, quiet and calm, biting back all the things she wants to call after him.
Iolaine lingers after the last flash of crimson cloth and copper staff have disappeared around a corner, then retreats to her room. She rests her forehead against the smooth wood of the door, eyes closed as she listens to the pounding of her pulse.
It was an unexpected and not entirely welcomed revelation when she finally put a finger on what was happening to her. At first she’d thought something was wrong, the way she drifted while he spoke, entranced by the sound of his voice and the way the corner of his mouth pulled up whenever he turned his unseen gaze in her direction. She looked forward to their meetings and would linger when they were done, not eager to leave his side. She’d gone for so long with no interest in anyone after she lost Haurchefant that she’d simply assumed that was the state of her heart now, that the possibility of love was lost to her as well. That the Exarch should be the one to awaken it again is a development she continues to find herself poorly prepared to deal with.
She crosses the room to right the stool she’d toppled earlier, then continues on to stand by the open window, looking out over the Crystarium and Lakeland beyond. Her thoughts all but ran away with her when she found the Exarch standing outside her door, and with a few minutes’ separation from it, she scolds herself for how overcome she’d been. Nothing would’ve happened if he’d come inside. He would not have been allowed to stay, not that it matters because he would never have asked such a thing of her.
There is only one Lightwarden left. Now is not the time for distractions such as pondering what he looks like under his hood, what it would feel like to hold his hand, or if his lips are as soft as they appear when he smiles at her. She traces the edge of her lower lip as she thinks of his smile, how he never seems to smile at others the way he does at her.
The cool evening air does nothing to help alleviate the warmth that rises in her and she’s grateful to see that she’s still alone when she turns from the window. Her friends sent her to her chambers to rest, and while she doubts she will find any real peace before returning to their work, she should at least try. They would want her to.
She strips off her armguards and sets them on the armoire, then sits on the edge of the bed to pull off her boots.
I am in love with him. I haven’t even seen all of his face and yet…
She stretches out on the bed, hands folded over her stomach where the last vestiges of the earlier attack linger, a dull ache below her ribs mirrored by the ache behind them. As her eyelids grow heavy she repeats to herself the same assurances she’d made when she first realized what she was feeling.
I love him, and it is entirely my business to deal with. It changes nothing and no one need know, least of all him.