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Ishgard was known for a menagerie of culture in its new age. It failed, however, to showcase every last drop of that culture, of that pride it once had in the rolling green hills of Coerthas. The church’s oppressive fist kept her waiting, beautiful Ishgard, for the day that someone with purpose would settle itself in the rafters of hope and pull her up, up, up into a new age of prosperity.
Aymeric de Borel was that radiant, azure light.
Why wouldn’t he be? A devout to Halone and a paladin of her will kept the church complicit with his leadership, and a young face defying the tyrannical rule of the archbishop kept the commoners happy with their head of state. It was another responsibility thrust upon his shoulders, a young Atlas in the face of a failing nation. To turn brave Ishgard into a republic as he truly wished would take generations, and for now… he found himself the leader of a house divided.
He sits there, alone, in the dead of night in his office, the only other inhabitants of the house slumbering away in bedrooms that he too should be present in but is not. His hand is held in the other, massaging gently at the palm he has been writing with, his fingers calloused and warm. A dripping white candle keeps him awake, the midnight cresting over the open windows providing little for his work ethic. How tired he was, hunched over in this chair like he was wont to do; how tired he had been for weeks.
With the End of Days nothing more than a grim reminder of how small mortality truly was, and the individual responsible for both bringing it and sending it away slumbering in his bedchambers, Ishgard looked to him to make decisions now on what the future would hold. Aymeric did not know what the future would hold, and he did not want to be the individual to decide. He wanted it to be the judgment and the will of the people, else another man of his father’s line would sit upon a throne too sharp to not cut power, wearing a crown far too heavy to hold.
The door opens. Aymeric is too tired to raise his head.
“Beloved?”
The voice of an angel fills the room, accompanied by the meowing of a fluffy, white cat. His gaze raises, finally, to meet black dresses down to buxom form, pale skin glowing in the moonlight, wearing as much as his imagination of her promptly described. He smiles, briefly, and he beholds her wonder, her journey, her scars all in one gaze. The Warrior of Light. The Garlean Scourge. The Speaker and Herald of Nald’thal, the de facto leader of the once great Scions of the Seventh Dawn. To list all her titles would take an eternity, but he does not hesitate to bow before her wills, rising as though he were enthralled by an eikon of her own make. He thinks of all the pet names he has given her over the years, but settles with letting only her name leave him, “ Revre. ”
“It’s three in the morning, Aymeric,” she chides him, as she has chided him before. Aymeric de Borel does not consider himself unfaithful, but perhaps he has had a paramour outside of her and the partners they have agreed upon. Perhaps he is unfaithful to her, as he has been unfaithful to the Fury, a lover to his work, to glorious Ishgard. Her gaze feels as though he is a nobleman, coming home from a night on the town with his woman or man of the night, lipstick still left on his collar. He drops his head, shameful, as if to say I know, I’m sorry. The fluffy white cat, affectionately named Noel, waltzes between their legs, trying to get the mother and father of the house to grow closer. He gravitates towards her without a second thought, bringing her into his arms, ashamed that she even needed to stand, to come after him while she was recovering from her most recent rebirth.
He remembers how broken she looked on that bed, when Thancred called him into the room. Her stomach caved in, a gash across her body, her organs absent. Nald’thal did not abandon her, though, just as the Fury had not abandoned him. He was faithful, he was patient, and while Sharlayan celebrated their triumph over the Endsinger, Aymeric lay quietly next to her, waiting for Revre to return from the city of the dead and join them. She has been in the care of House de Borel ever since, with a promise to make her a member when she recovers. She uses her cane, here, an ornate and sturdy thing commissioned by a Gridanian woodworker, stained black as he knew she would like. Aymeric designed it. Edmont paid for it.
“You’re awake,” he whispers, trying to turn the conversation so she would not reprimand him any longer. His fingers graze across her cheek, and he is gentle, as if the porcelain of her skin was made manifest, and he could break her with his touch. “Why?”
“The bed was cold,” she replies, looking up at him. Revre’s voice is weak still, a tender whisper that carries the voice of the dead. “You didn’t come to bed. Noel can only keep me warm to a degree.”
“Revre…” he speaks again, the shame on his features setting in now to his voice. How he has failed her. He is supposed to be her sword and her shield, and yet… he abandons her to the cold night in favor of harlot Ishgard.
And yet, when he expects Revre to have disappointment in her features, hatred in her brow, she raises her hands, putting the cane to the side. This startles him, and he holds her waist, keeping her upright as she leans it against the doorframe, holding his face in both of her hands. Time stops, in this moment, and all he focuses on is her, beautiful her. She considers herself a monster, with all she has done, but were angels not the first monsters of the gods? Were they not protectors and guardians and wardens? He smiles, because of course he does, and he touches their foreheads together, bending at the waist to accommodate their height difference of over one foot. She forgives him, as she has forgiven him time and time again. Saint Merva the Martyr, or so they have named her in Eorzea. He is blessed. He is grateful.
“Come on,” she whispers, and Aymeric collects her cane for her without hesitation. “Come with me.”
“To bed?” He asks, a smile on his face.
“Something like that.”
“Beloved, it is late—” Aymeric begins, a startled expression on his features, tinged with fear in that he worries that he cannot upkeep the warmth that grows in his viera partner’s stomach near-constantly.
“Not like that,” she chuckles, and she separates from him, beckoning him to follow as Noel quickly joins the partner of her father. A last glance is thrown at the incomplete paperwork, but he knows better than to leave Revre in the hallway by herself. He returns, long enough to extinguish the flame, and leaves, closing the door behind him and quickly pattering off in search of his partner.
Revre walks past the oaken door of their bedroom, continuing on down the hallway, much to Aymeric’s confusion. Noel, fed up with the behaviors of the night, disappears into the master suite, curling up in the embers of Revre’s body heat on the bed. She continues on, though, to the next room over— the master bathroom, and enters. Aymeric’s brow furrows, and he tilts his head, but doesn’t question as he follows her inside.
She approaches the clawfoot bath and leans over just enough to turn the spigot on, hot water rushing through the pipes and into the marble below. Of course, he thinks as he watches her. She’s cold. A bath is a quick way to warm up. But…
“Clothes off,” she commands him, not looking over her shoulder to address him. A captain in the Immortal Flames and an interim commander of the Company of Heroes, Revre speaks on occasion with a militaristic discipline, one earned from years learning underneath the Bull of Ala Mhigo. Aymeric seems to have an instinctual reaction to it, moving to unclasp his coat and put it in the hamper, removing his blouse and trousers, and the undergarments underneath, leaving him in nothing while Revre stands in her nightgown. She adds various things to this bath, oils and the like. It is not made in the usual way she likes her baths made, and Aymeric would know, for his partner is particular about her own self-care, even in the absence of the resources to tend to her. She is spoiled, but only appropriately so, he thinks.
The bath is filled with aromatic oils that remind Aymeric of a green Coerthas, a brave Ishgard, and good friendship. The candles scattered about the master bath, often used exclusively when the lord and lady of the house prolong their mutual bathtime in favor of other pursuits, are lit, and Aymeric wants to fuss at Revre for using her magic for something as mundane as this, but she freezes him with a gaze so cold it could restore her mana.
“Shall I help you out of your nightgown, then?” he asks, and Revre shakes her head.
“This isn’t for me. It’s for you.”
The statement bewilders him. A bath, this late at night, drawn only for him? He sputters at the attentions, and sure, she has asked the sole butler of the house on occasion to prepare Aymeric’s nighttime things, but never like this. Never of her own hand. She moves, with the cane, to collect a little stool, one often used when Revre’s expensive hair care or skincare needs time to set, and she sits in a towel in the bathroom floor, reading or scrolling away on her tombstone, keeping up with friends all over Eorzea. It is brought to the side of the tub, and she collects his soaps and oils from his side of the sink. “Get in.”
“For me?”
“For you. Get in.”
“But I don’t—”
“Aymeric, I’ve asked twice. You know what happens when I have to ask a third time.”
He winces at her tone, one a bit firmer than the kindness she offers him. She means business, and Aymeric doesn’t want to know what happens when she gets to the third request. He nods, obediently, and climbs into the warm water, pretending not to sigh in relief when his muscles meet heat. Revre sets the basket on the ground, the one that contains all of his things, and sits on the stool, scooting it up so that it was even with the head of the tub. Aymeric looks at her, confused, and she gently guides his head to sit even with the tub. Her hands, cold and careful, remove his earring, his necklace, and she places them in the basket. They dip down into the water, collecting handfuls and gently streaming the water over dark locks.
“Revre, you don’t have to do this,” Aymeric laughs, amused with her behavior, but when his eyes open again, he is met with the stone cold gaze of a woman who has had her fill of his selfless acts.
“I want to,” she replies, and she brings more water above his head, saturating the hair as carefully and as fully as she could.
“Why?” he asks, furrowing his brow. He doesn’t understand this, and he never will; he is not one who needs to be tended to in a way like this. He is not the gentle princess in the tower, the fair maiden to be protected by the dragon. No, he is the knight and she, the maiden, and he has saved her from the treacherous beast that is Eorzea, a beast only known to chew her up, melt the silver of her hair down into her body, forging her a weapon of blood and steel. No, she is no weapon; she is divine, she is radiance, she is his savior of the star, and he is her devout worshiper, follower, priest.
“Because I can.” Revre says, and she says nothing more, instead reaching down to pump his liquid shampoo into her hand, working neatly the bubbles into a frothy foam to take to his hair. His eyes widen as she works the soap into his hair, tender and careful, her long and pointed nails scratching at his scalp to work away pain that has existed in this head that carried a burden so heavy for so long. She cleans him, cleanses him, purifies him, and he cannot help but feel two streaks of tears down his cheeks, down his skin into the water below.
He says nothing more, stunned into silence, eyes open and leaking tears he did not know needed to fall until. He looks at her, gaze unwavering, and watches that intelligent expression work away months’ worth of labour collected into his scalp. How tender he feels, here— when was the last time he experienced care in such a way so intimate, her fingers working through the parts at him that only the sun once reached?
Revre had told him once that she bore the burden of the warden Azem, of which the goddess Azeyma was named after. She must be the sun, then, regardless of her preferences for the night and the dark. She must be the sun, for she is radiant and beautiful and kind. This sacreligious baptism continues, and she guides the water from the bath again, anointed with his tears, to remove all of the suds and soap from his hair until he was free of it, and no part of the tired man remained. She is gentle with him as she collects a washrag, and he is paralyzed with this unknown, foreign emotion as she scrubs at his body, gentle and touching only places she and few others have touched. She washes him, no shame in how she moves him, and how easily he moves with her guidance. He does not falter, does not crack in the presence of the hero of Eorzea. Of his Revre.
She does the same thing here, as well, reaching far beyond what her wingspan should allow to gently wash away the suds until nothing was left but foam atop the warm water of the bath she has drawn for him. His body feels anew, and he thinks she must be a goddess, must be a fragment of Azeyma as her Ascian counterpart has claimed. For if she can make even a sinner, a failure, a bastard of himself feel as relaxed and as tender as a newborn babe, there must be magic in her shattered glass veins.
“There we are,” she says, and his Revre returns, sultry and kind and guiding him out of the bath. His robe is in her hands, fluffy and warmed by a touch obviously gifted by the arcane, emblazoned with the seal of House de Borel on the breast. A gift from his parents, before they passed. “All better now. How do you feel? Relaxed? A good bath always helps me when I’m tired.”
“I…” he nods, because he cannot find the words, but he clamors out of the bath all the same and takes his robe from her. He wraps it around himself, and quietly, she pulls the drain underneath him, letting the water disappear alongside his sin and his regret into the pipeworks of Ishgard, to be purified and used anew. How miraculous a thought: sin, to be purified, to use anew.
“Let’s get to bed,” Revre smiles.
Aymeric nods.