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Why do they insist on lingering in this wasted place?
It is a question which has crept upon his tongue numerous times since his first arrival in the heart of Garlemald, but Fourchenault Leveilleur shall never speak it into existence. He knows very well of the duties which bind his teenage children to the land of ice and snow and bitter desolation. He has his own duties to perform here, after all.
Yet, although the hearth is more than sufficient for warming up the icy air, Fourchenault still is utterly baffled by the fact that people have managed to build their lives amidst the dreary landscapes of northern Ilsabard. While Camp Broken Glass provides some shelter to the deployment sent from the united forces of Eorzea, the bitter cold is a far cry from what he is accustomed to in Sharlayan. Even in here, the headquarters of their entire operation, his breath steams up into clouds in the air, no respite to be found from the northern cold no matter how brightly the embers burn.
He shivers, but there is no chill which runs through his bones. Or, perhaps there is; he struggles to name it, for he has never quite felt this intensity of ice-cold disgust directed towards him from across the room.
The sentiment shoots up his spine to great discomfort. Why the other man across the room glares at him so, Fourchenault knows not, but having had far too few interactions with him outside of his immediate role as a Scion, the elder cannot gauge any reason for the other man’s bitterness. Nothing he has done could have provoked the others’ ire.
All which has come to pass this morn is the division of duties between those posted at Camp Broken Glass, the Scions, and the delegates from Sharlayan. Fourchenault’s mind briefly flits back, replaying the scene; as part of the Scions, Alphinaud and Alisaie are back in Garlemald despite his own protests. Although so many others may have stepped forward, his twins had volunteered immediately to clear out fiends and wildlife closer to the capital, all while supporting the rehabilitation efforts of the tempered. I know they are capable, but…
Nothing could have been spoken to them on the issue, however. They are two of the saviours of their realm, after all; and while they had greeted him with cheer, his children had not spared any excess time trading niceties with him. All they had done is share a simple, “Good luck today, Father,” before grabbing their own gear and heading out to fulfil their assignments.
It is a little lonely, in all honesty. He misses their excitement from childhood- constantly questioning, constantly curious, constantly loving. Once upon a time, Alphinaud and Alisaie would’ve jumped upon him, eager to win his approval and praise towards their chosen paths. The distance between them now is no surprise, though; the closeness in their relationship had veritably died once he had begun to dedicate his time to the development of Ragnarok. How many years ago had they stopped showing that kind of joy in front of him?
He knows not. Still, choosing to separate his family from his duty had been a hard choice to make, and he does not regret his sacrifices.
I did what must be done, he intones silently, the words flooding his senses with calm. This phrase has been a mantra for far too long to abolish its use now. They understand.
And they do. Alphinaud and Alisaie are incredible in that way. He knows this. Would he like to be closer to them now? Certainly. However, it simply feels strange to break the status quo. He has reconciled with them, to be sure- his children are utterly incredible, and he feels like a fool more often than not for not having witnessed their growth in person due to his other commitments- but suddenly acting in closeness to his children, independent and respected in their own fields of work, feels almost disingenuous.
So, despite them having no reason to maintain their distance, his conversations with them are brief and to the point. His children do not seem to mind.
Thancred Waters’ glowering ire certainly says otherwise.
As the man continues to glare from the other side of the room, Fourchenault shifts, sighing as he organises the reports which he means to look over that day. Well, if he won’t explain himself, the man thinks wearily, then I should pay it no-
“Why do you do that?”
Fourchenault jumps, heart leaping into his throat. Thankfully, his expression remains fairly neutral, the man biting hard upon his tongue to maintain his composure as he turns upon his heel. “Master Thancred,” he replies dryly, looking at the figure leaning against the door sceptically. “May I help you?”
Thancred shrugs, an air of exasperation settling upon his shoulders like a mantle. “It- ugh. It is nothing,” the Scion murmurs grimly, the tightness of his voice insinuating that it is anything but nothing.
He moves to depart. “Very well.” Yet, although Fourchenault wishes his words were more confident, there is something still so accusatory in the younger man’s gaze; it prompts him to sigh, abandoning his exit and spinning back around on his heel to ask, “I’d appreciate it if you would speak plainly if there is an issue.”
Thancred’s dry, dark glare almost causes the elder to flinch. Then, after a moment of apparent internal debate, the younger comments, “With all due respect, the Final Days are over, and your children are largely to thank for that. One would think that a father would spare his children more kindness than that. ” He gestures vaguely at the empty air, mouth pressed into a disgusted frown.
Fourchenault freezes. Was I unkind? A brief reflection states that no, he had been perfectly civil with his children. “I’m not entirely sure what you mean,” he responds carefully. “My children are professionals- that, I can wholeheartedly admit. I treat them as such. Wherein lies the issue?”
Thancred sighs, shaking his head in apparent exhaustion. “You say that,” he says dryly, “but an onlooker wouldn’t even know that you knew Alphinaud and Alisaie.”
A scoff spills forth before Fourchenault can contain it within. “I speak to my children perfectly well-”
“You walk on eggshells around them,” is the younger’s immediate retort. “They’ve been through more than enough to deserve more love than that. They’re stressed enough as is-” Biting his lip, Thancred releases a long, heavy breath before shrugging. Bitterly, he mutters, “It’s a shame. Didn’t Sharlayan have anyone else they could send?”
His fists clenched tightly by his sides, Fourchenault bites back his snarl and merely lifts his chin, a sourness spreading upon his tongue. “Why not me?” he asks after a moment, voice even and sure. “I was indeed the primary delegate to assist in operations here since the beginning. Is there any reason for my replacement?”
The mixture of emotions upon Thancred’s face is unidentifiable, his furrowed brow and terse lips, ready to split into a snarl, slowly smoothing back into a stifled canvas once again. “I… suppose not.” Then, he adds in a softer tone, “I just hope you don’t give them any more reason to doubt. They’ve had enough solitude in their lives. Hearing you berate them because of Sharlayan’s policies-” he pauses, then holds up his hands in surrender, correcting, “- former policies of isolation, did not do any good to them.”
“It was for a worthy cause.”
“You hurt them.”
Gritting his teeth, Fourchenault swallows down the irritation which has begun to rise up into his throat like bile. The accusations, thick and heavy underneath Thancred’s words, are icy, undeniable. “Everything I have done is for them,” he replies, “and I would do it again in a heartbeat if it would give them a greater chance for peace.”
The younger snorts, the sound digging into Fourchenault’s chest like a knife, mocking and cruel. “That’s why both of them have been through hell and back? Because of your great efforts to protect them?”
The words unspoken are clear. ‘ You never protected them from anything.’
Fourchenault sees red. How dare you! “Do not pretend to know how it feels to spend all your waking hours fearing for your children’s futures,” the elder spits, his voice rising with every word. “From the moment I learned of the Final Days, I did absolutely everything in my power to find a way for them to live on.”
The moment the words had left his mouth, Fourchenault had pushed down the regret and shame of snapping and instead stilled, assuming the younger man would acquiesce. However, rather than stepping back, Thancred baulks in bitter horror before fury grips his visage. “Do not dare speak to me like I do not know!” the Scion cries. “You protected your children, how? By hiding away, never supporting them? Never providing them the skills or tools needed to survive? Thank the Twelve your wife has any sense, but what did you do? Pretending to care for them in order to keep them in your control-”
White-hot rage floods Fourchenault’s veins. “Who are you to say-”
His words die upon his tongue before his phrase is complete, for the other man no longer looks at him. Thancred Waters stares dully out of the window, all fire and vigour gone, eyes painted over in glazed sorrow. “I do know,” he mutters bitterly, but his words are defeated in fatigue. Brow furrowed in twisting torment, Thancred sighs, his tenor so full of weary longing that Fourchenault’s heart aches despite his confusion.
He… he seems serious. How do you sound so sincere if…? Horror grabs a hold and wrenches his gut into his throat. By the Twelve…
Hesitantly, Fourchenault murmurs, “You… have a child?”
Thancred does not speak at first, eyes misting over; now, however, Fourchenault feels a surge of sympathy crescendo into his heart as the younger’s anger finally makes sense.
Running gloved fingers through short-cropped white hair, Thancred lets out a long, weary breath, speaking with a deadened air that ages him far past his years. “She was in the First. The First Shard, doomed to live out her days in a cell for having inherited our comrade’s powers.” From his lips a lonely tale begins to spin into a horrified Fourchenault’s ears; a tale of a young girl who looked far too much like his own lost adoptive sister, a girl whose freedom he spent three years fighting tooth and nail to protect in another world. Thancred’s voice trembles as he recounts vividly of hiding her away, watching her grow with no freedom in sight, their desperation the only thing keeping them away from their pursuers.
At last, he runs out of steam. Pushing off the way, Thancred’s hands run along the hilt of the gunblade slung onto his back, the furrow between his brows deepening. “I did the opposite of what you did for your children. I didn’t simply hide her away- I taught her to fight. We ran and fought for so long that she grew up before we even knew it.” Those self-same hands tremor visibly before he balls up his fists, arms dropping limply at his sides.
“I… I cannot imagine,” the elder whispers, utterly stunned.
Thancred’s smile is empty. It almost hurts to look at it. “I cannot get to her anymore. She’s on the First, and I would not survive the journey again, so…”
The reports the elder had read about the First Shard of Etheirys had indeed told him of the Scion’s exploits in another world, but one thing does not sit right with him. Gingerly, Fourchenault asks, “I know time flows differently, but how could you have raised a child there? There was barely a few months between the liberation of Gyr Abania and the appearance of the primal towers, correct?” The events written in every report he has scoured run through his mind, leading him all to the same question. “How long exactly were you in the First? Was it not merely a few weeks in Eorzea?”
Grimly, Thancred shakes his head. “Three years.”
Three years. Three-
He shivers as the words creep onto his tongue, but he must ask. “And how- how long were my…”
“...A year,” the younger supplies after a moment. “They worked hard in opposite parts of the land- thanks to them, we were all able to survive.”
“That’s… no wonder they’ve changed.” He had read summaries of his children’s exploits, but to think that three years had elapsed during their slumber…
Thancred snorts, grief oozing from every pore. “Children do that. Not the least when they’ve gone on to be a sleuthing diplomat, and a bodyguard and caretaker for an inn in a dying world.”
The elder sighs, his heart aching as his curiosity forces him to ask, “And your child?”
“What about her?”
“What…” Thancred’s weary glare almost silences him utterly, but still, the elder presses on with the question lingering upon his tongue. “What was-” He pales, bile shooting up his throat before it is quickly swallowed down. “What is her name?”
Thancred is silent. He merely remains standing, arms crossed, eyes lost in the distance as he gazes out a window framing a picturesque snowfall quietly drifting upon the frozen earth. Fourchenault shifts uneasily in the silence, wincing as a sudden crackling of the flame reverberates through the room.
Then, Thancred speaks. “Ryne.”
“Pardon?”
“Her name… her name is Ryne.”
The name is foreign, unknown. “I haven’t heard that name before,” the elder murmurs tentatively.
At last, Thancred’s posture shifts. His eyes soften, eyes narrowing and brow furrowed with an intensity that may have scared an unaccustomed man. Fourchenault glimpses the fact of the matter, however, his breath catching as he witnesses the way the man’s throat bobs as he swallows down his heart, eyes glistening, lips trembling before pressing firmly into a thin line. The Scion sucks in a deep breath, shoulders slumping over in exhaustion with the exhale, one side of his body leaning against the windowsill for just a moment of pure, unadulterated vulnerability. “‘Ryne’ means ‘blessing’ in the tongue of the faefolk,” the younger man explains, his voice tight and controlled.
Fourchenault does not speak. Thancred’s words hang heavy in the air, the longing and yearning thick upon both their tongues as their hearts seek out those they treasure more than anything else; as the elder closes his eyes, the back of his eyelids recreate the faces of Alphinaud and Alisaie, their youthful features and wide, adoring eyes-
Those are not the faces he knows, he suddenly realizes suddenly. HIs children are no longer soft, sheltered creatures; Alphinaud is capable of far more diplomacy than anyone Fourchenault has ever met, and Alisaie’s strength and empathy has rendered her a beacon of hope upon any battlefield or within any infirmary alike. His children view him more as an equal with lifetimes of experience tucked away under their belts, their fortitude more profound than he can even imagine-
And Thancred Waters, he finally understands, sees the face of his own child.
“Ryne… is a lovely name,” Fourchenault whispers.
For the first time in their exchange, Thancred smiles. “She seemed to be fond of it,” he chuckles weakly, wryly, his eyes still misted in lonely longing. “Hopefully, it shall keep fate on her side upon the First.”
He can never see his daughter again.
Fourchenault opens, closes, opens his mouth, but no words pass trembling, parted lips. The weight of loneliness at the mere thought of losing his children chokes all the strength he has left.
Thancred clears his throat, straightens, then turns to the door. As he passes the elder, the Scion murmurs, “Be kinder to those two. They’ve saved the world in more ways than one, and I don’t doubt that they’ll continue to do the same, but… they’re not even twenty summers old. They deserve somewhere to go home to without fear of letting you down.” His steeled gaze shares the message his words do not add: They deserve your love, too.
Mutely, the elder nods. His children do deserve more warmth from him, it is true. At the very least, he needs them to understand that, as uncomfortable as it is for him after a lifetime of focusing on the Ragnarok project over them. Before the other man steps away completely, however, Fourchenault asks, “How old is she?”
Thancred pauses. “Around the same age as yours.” He snorts, lifting dark, red-rimmed eyes towards the white, snow-heavy sky. “They’re a handful at this age, huh?”
“Indeed.” A breath. “I’ll keep Ryne in my prayers.”
Thancred looks back over his shoulder at the elder and smiles, gratitude and longing shining from his very core. “I can’t see her anymore… so I’ll look over yours,” he replies, his gentle, rueful expression proof enough that he understands the elder’s changed heart. “As long as I can. Until the Crystal takes me.”
Fourchenault meets that gaze, that warmth, that smile- one father to another. “Thank you,” he whispers.
And he means it, more than anything. Thancred understands his grief. Ryne, Fourchenault thinks once the room is empty save for himself and the crackling of the hearth once more, I pray that you are safe. Your father loves you. Just as Fourchenault loved his own.
It is time for him to leave the Ragnarok behind. After all, his children have done more than enough to build him a future- a future with them. That is all he could ever ask for.
-fin-