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“Ser, their airship has been spotted.”
Aymeric de Borel nearly drops his pile of reports at the sound of Lucia’s voice. She’d just burst through the door of the Congregation, cheeks reddened from the winter storm outside. She looks as though she hurried her way through Ishgard to inform him of the news. He is instantly grateful for her haste and understanding of his previously anxious demeanor, knowing the last thing he’d wanted was to stay in Ishgard as the Warrior of Light and her comrades fought a battle he ached to aid in.
But she’d halted him before the airship took off, a look of understanding and concern etched on her face. Your people need you, her expression had conveyed.
And he understood. He understood, but it frustrated him so. And as he gazed upon those who put their lives on the line for his city, he’d met the eyes of the warrior herself before the fog had taken over.
Gemma’s striking pale azure eyes find his, a mix of fierceness and resolve and… something else he couldn’t quite place. Was it worry? Or dare he’d hope, was it longing? His gaze never left hers until she was no longer in his sight, and his chest began to ache uncomfortably. For what reason, he could only guess or hope, but the thought was far too undeserved, far too inappropriate for the situation they were all in.
They will all return. She will return. He repeated these words like a mantra in his mind while forcing his way back to the Congregation to continue surveying his forces. The dust would settle on this dark chapter of Ishgard’s history, and he would do all he could to bring about the change his city deserved away from the tyrannical rule of his estranged father.
“Lucia…” Aymeric’s voice is low and urgent, his tone leading to a question he prayed she would answer with haste.
Without hesitation, his second in command takes the reports from his hands and gives him a curt nod to the front door of the Congregation. “Go. I will finish going over your remaining reports with your knights.”
“Thank you,” he murmurs while beginning his rush for the door and to the airship landing. Though it looked peculiar for the Lord Commander to be rushing through the city without other knights or at the very least his second in command, he found he did not care. He knew the adrenaline had taken over when he scarcely felt the pain of his still recovering injuries from that fateful day in the Vault.
That day, which haunts his nightmares still.
Everything seemed a blur once she entered his vision at the top of the Vault, rushing along with Lord Haurchefant and Alphinaud as they were chasing the Heavensward and his father. He remembers prying himself away from Lucia’s steadying hands, despite his dizzying head and aches wracking his entire body from the torture he withheld, wishing nothing more to help in some way to stop this madness.
He’d begged for his father to stop. Cast aside any shame or grievance in a desperate plea to end the tyranny before it could be continued. But it was all for naught.
“And tear down the very pillars of our society… our history, our values, everything we have built over a thousand years?” His father had sighed. Disappointment immeasurable. “A fool to the last.”
He had no time to react before Gemma nodded firmly to Haurchefant, and they charged forward to apprehend the Heavensward and his father. But they didn’t see who was lying in wake atop the Vault, Ser Zephirin with a pillar of light aimed directly at the warrior herself. He’d cried out with a warning, yet it was Haurchefant who heard and noticed. Shielded her quickly before she could be fatally struck.
But it was he that evidently took the devastating blow.
He tumbled to the ground beside Gemma, but not before sputtering blood against her chest and face as she desperately tried to grasp for his limp body. Kneeling beside him on the ground, utter fear and shock painting her features whilst looking lost beyond belief.
Nothing else mattered any longer. The Heavensward and his father retreated, and Aymeric weakly limped across the bridge to meet their side, where Lucia and Estinien were already tending to the fallen knight. Still lying on the ground, heaving slow breaths in Gemma’s arms.
He did not last long. As Aymeric reached the group, he heard the dying words of his friend.
“A smile better suits a hero…”
A hand limp in the warrior’s hands, they all lowered their heads in grief. Alphinaud wept softly beside him, his healing magicks pointless in the wake of such a grievous and fatal injury. Estinien and Lucia took Haurchefant’s body from Gemma’s arms, an attempt to ease her suffering and take the burden away from her. To be the ones to present the knight’s body to his grieving family.
Aymeric offered his own prayer to Halone for the brave Fortemps knight, all he could do after his utter failure of a plan. For he felt the responsibility heavy on his shoulders, the fate of Haurchefant all due to his inability to convince his father that tyranny was not the answer.
“Aymeric…”
She hadn’t spoken the entire time. But that soft whisper had come from her lips, and he lifted his head to hers beside him. Eyes glazed over and half-lidded, tired and hurt beyond belief, but with the gentlest of expressions on her face. Covered still with their friend’s blood. A hand reached over to gently caress his arm, her eyes studying him intently.
“You’re hurt.”
His mouth laid agape in stunned silence. He did not know what to say.
“I…”
She was so gentle. And warm, like a radiating sun, as she assessed his injuries. “What did they do to you?”
He huffed an exasperated breath, wondering why she was being so kind in the wake of their friend’s death. His body mere yalms from where they kneeled on the ground. Had she not wanted to grieve? Wanted a moment of reprieve herself, to mourn the life of someone she must’ve cared for dearly, lost now due to his failures?
“I’m… so sorry.” Her voice was like an angel—full of compassion and understanding that he did not deserve to hear, let alone the words of an apology when it was he who should express his regrets. “Pray forgive my ineptness, but… I’ve learned some healing as of late at the Athenaeum. Please allow me to help you…”
He wants to deny her offer. It was the last thing a man like him needed. Not now, when it was he to blame for all that went wrong. But he’s suddenly overwhelmed when she holds his gaze, those empathetic eyes intoxicating his very soul. Ones he could drown in. And he almost wept at the undeniable honesty and compassion in that gaze. Meant for him.
“Of course…” he finally choked out, nearly releasing a sob at the tumultuous emotion writhing inside his heart. And he watched her carefully when her work begins. Gentle magicks coursed from her very fingertips to wrap around his arms, his chest, his shoulders, and slowly he felt the warmth of her aether pressing into his injuries, humming as they slowly eased the pain of the wounds.
And then he simply watched her face, entranced. There was a sadness hidden beneath her demeanor, and she looked like she may release tears of sorrow at any moment. But she is strong. She is a warrior. And she is kind, and understanding, and… so beautiful.
It was with that realization which his heart began surging to the beat of a riveting drum.
He wished to never see that grief upon her face again.
They are safe. She is safe.
Released from his wandering thoughts of that day, Aymeric manages to keep himself from stumbling through the city, at last reaching the airship landing near the Athenaeum Astrologicum. Indeed, he can now see the airship descending, some figures scarcely identifiable on the ship. Already a small crowd was greeting them, and from those he could pinpoint Count Edmont de Fortemps with his two sons, the young Tataru, and the four Temple Knights he’d stationed at the landing.
He barely passed the gates to the landing when figures began to make their way off the airship. Young Alphinaud emerged first, the two Ironworks engineers next, followed by Cid Garlond himself. The last to leave the airship was the miqo’te woman—Y’shtola he believed her name was—and then there were none.
He scarcely had a chance to panic at the thought of the locations of Gemma and Estinien when a grand roar pierces the air around him. He reaches the rest of the crowd now, and they all fiercely turn towards the sky where the airship had come from. A wyrm nearly half the size of the airship descends upon them with great speed, and in a rush the crowd moves away to grant it space. It lands on the stone ground with exceptional force, the air nearly whisking the lalafell off her feet.
As he adjusts himself to the sight, Aymeric suddenly notices a streak of blue hair whisking in the air on top of the dragon. His breath hitches as he catches sight of Gemma, the Azure Dragoon clutching at the horns of the dragon she’d ridden on.
Her face unreadable, she begins to flip her body to one side in order to descend. But something did not appear right—her movements normally quick and confident now appeared slow and hesitant. Before he can ascertain her condition from his position, her hand gives way and she slides down from the back of the dragon. Where she would normally land her jumps with grace and precision, she instead now tumbles to the ground, her knee barely breaking her fall and her arms clutching around her waist. A distinct curse leaves her lips, her tone full of pain he’d scarcely heard before.
Aymeric’s instinct is to rush to her side, but he’s beaten by Count Edmont already taking her by the arms, his sons close behind and reaching down to her level. He can see the Count speaking to her in a hushed voice, and her response is a weak nod. He slowly raises her up, gently guiding her from one side before nodding to his eldest to mimic his actions as well. When Artoirel comes to her side as well, the Count begins speaking to the Temple Knight nearest him.
Aymeric pushes his way towards them and is able to make out the words ‘chirurgeon’, ‘manor’, and ‘at once’ from Count Edmont. His Temple Knight thoroughly obliges, rushing past the Lord Commander to accomplish the task the Count had set himself on.
“Lord Edmont,” Aymeric breathes hastily, then steals a glance at Gemma by his side. His voice trails off and hushes in tone when regarding her. He now sees how her right eye is swelling and dark in color, along with that side of her face from Halone knew what. “Gemma, you are…”
She does not glance up at him. Instead, the Count of House Fortemps answers. “Lord Commander, let us reconvene at my home. I’ve called for a chirurgeon to aid Mistress Blaythid. Her injuries must be treated before we discuss what has occurred in Azys La.”
“Of course,” Aymeric stutters, his gaze shifting once more to Gemma’s comrades who’ve now begun to approach them.
Count Edmont nods in response and gently walks Gemma past him with his son. Aymeric’s eyes are glued to her weak figure once more, starving for a glance from her to give him some sort of answer. I am alright. Everything is fine. He desperately wishes to have this reassurance from her, despite the pained state she appeared in.
He starts to call for her once more, but when she finally looks up at him, his heart drops. What he sees is shame and sadness deep in her eyes, and she hurriedly flashes them away from his gaze.
Wordlessly, Aymeric watches as she’s guided away by the two men of Fortemps. His gaze would’ve never left her back had he not been gently coaxed away by Y’shtola.
“Ser Aymeric, let us soon make our way to Fortemps Manor as well while we recall the events that have just transpired,” she states, nudging her head towards the young elezen Scion.
“Of course,” Alphinaud begins, his arms crossing in thought. “As we had feared, the archbishop summoned the soul of King Thordan unto himself and thence became a primal.”
“But he and his knights are no more, thanks to Gemma.” Y’shtola studies the Lord Commander’s demeanor, gauging his reaction after revealing the events revolving around his father.
Aymeric exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, arching his head up towards the sky. Whether it was a sigh of relief or frustration, he does not quite know. Still, the ache in his chest that’d been present ever since his father’s refusal to reveal the truth of the Dragonsong War to the people of Ishgard begins to ever gently dissipate.
“So it would seem,” he finally whispers, a small but pained smile stretching across his face. “Glad am I to hear that his tyranny has been stopped.”
“Your struggles are not yet over, mortals.” The haunting sound of a booming voice rake their ears, seemingly coming from the dragon before them. Though the language was far from human, Aymeric can still understand the meaning behind the wyrm’s words.
“I—” Aymeric stutters, unsure if the dragon even understands him. “Whom do I have the pleasure…?”
“I am Midgardsormr,” the great wyrm continues. “I have journeyed with Hydaelyn’s champion and observed her deeds in the conflict between man and dragon. I would ask you, children of Thordan, do you desire peace?”
Aymeric’s gaze drops, meeting his own hand clutching at his side. Wordlessly, he gently opens the palm of his hand, expecting to see it stained with blood. It may as well be, he reflects, recounting the countless times he slew wyrm after wyrm in his days as a Temple Knight. Could one such as him, perpetuating the Dragonsong War in his many years, have the right to ask for peace? Did mankind itself have the right to yearn for peace after the bloodshed they’d committed?
He drops to his knee and lifts his gaze once more to the great wyrm. “My people have committed unspeakable atrocities against dragonkind—even against our own. Would that we could undo these wrongs…” He shakes his head, realizing his idealized dreams were but naught. “But we cannot. Be that as it may, the future yet presents a chance to being anew. Our nation has broken free of the shackles of a false faith, and Nidhogg shall lead his kindred against us no more.” The great wyrm twitches at the sound of Nidhogg’s name, but Aymeric continues, his head now hung down. “I doubt not that it will require much effort and perseverance, but ’tis my belief that, in time, Ishgard will again become a place where man and dragon may abide together in harmony.”
The wyrm’s neck slowly cranes up as though in understanding. “I shall remember thy words. Yet be warned: Nidhogg’s soul liveth on.”
Aymeric’s head jerks up in shock, his mouth agape. “How… is that possible?”
“His unbridled rage hath claimed for its vessel the one thou callest the Azure Dragoon.”
The Lord Commander’s stomach flips as he comprehends the wyrm’s words. “What?” he exhales, his voice barely a whisper.
The Azure Dragoon…? Could he mean Gemma? No, she had not appeared possessed or taken as a vessel. But if it hadn’t been her…
“We do not yet fully understand what transpired in Azys La with Estinien,” Alphinaud states darkly, the expression on his face contorting with pain. The young Scion appeared to look up to Estinien as though he were an elder brother. Estinien himself seemed to despise the idea of being idealized by the young boy from most onlookers, but Aymeric would sense compassion coming from his dear friend even through harsh words when he spoke of Alphinaud. It would not surprise him if the boy reminded Estinien deeply of his late brother, though the man would never admit as such.
“You must inform me of what you know,” Aymeric pleads, his voice haltering at the thought of his friend becoming consumed by the great wyrm.
“Gemma was the one who confronted Thordan with Estinien,” the young Scion continues softly. “’Tis my belief that she fully knows what occurred deep in the Aetherochemical Research Facility.”
“Doubt not but that Nidhogg will call out to his brood ere long, nor that they shall answer him.” Midgardsormr’s voice cuts through their conversation once more. “Steel yourselves, for the true test is yet to come.”
Aymeric’s hand grips into a tense fist as he processes the wyrm’s words, mind racing at what he’d just learned. For a moment he feels utter defeat—Gemma’s injuries uncertain, his longtime friend seemingly possessed by a terrifying beast propelled by revenge against mankind. But a gentle hand on his arm breaks him from his grief, and he briefly steals a glance at the youngest Fortemps son, Emmanellain. The young lord gives the commander a meek smile, his other hand gripping Gemma’s lance to his chest.
Estinien will be safe. Gemma will be safe. This I must believe.
Once more, the Lord Commander turns towards Midgardsormr, his head now held high. “Come what may, we will never cease to believe. Upon the souls of they who have sacrificed themselves to pave the way for peace, we will never abandon our cause.”
The great wyrm bows his head in understanding. “A thousand-year war cannot be ended in a day. It may take generations. What thou dost begin, thy children must continue. Entrust unto them thy hopes and dreams, that peace may reign again… and forevermore.”
The wyrm’s wings suddenly rise to the air, creating a gust of wind that caused the Lord Commander and others to shield their faces in instinct. Midgardsormr begins to rise up into the air and parts from their presence once more, flying through the sky and disappearing into the fog.
Y’shtola is the first to speak once the dragon left their presence. “Come. Pray let us hurry to House Fortemps to reconvene with our friend.”
“Yes, of course,” Aymeric quickly agrees, leading the way towards the Fortemps manor with haste.
When they arrive at the front of House Fortemps, he spots one of his knights from before guiding a chirurgeon through the front door. He hurries behind them, quickly nodding to his knight in approval.
Count Fortemps sits on a plush sofa in the corner of the large gathering room past the entry hall, his hands steady on the cane perched in front of him. He briefly greets the crowd that’d just arrived before turning his attention to Aymeric. “My thanks, Lord Commander, for the swift return of your knight and a chirurgeon. One of mine servants is tending to Mistress Blaythid in her room.” Edmont raises his cane in the direction of the hall to his left, his eyes meeting that of the chirurgeon. “Make your way down the hall on the left. She is in the last room.”
The chirurgeon bows quickly and hustles deeper into the manor. Aymeric uses this chance to approach the lord of the house. “Pray tell me, what of her injuries?” He knows from the tone of his voice that he sounds desperate and worrisome, and mayhap it isn’t the best front to display upon such a crowd. As Lord Commander, he is expected to be grounded and with conviction in his orders and work. But even a man as practiced in politics as he could not care to hide his worry in this state of time.
Count Edmont raises his eyes to meet Aymeric’s once more and begins gently tapping his fingers on his cane in thought. “She has suffered some harsh injuries, but nothing a chirurgeon cannot treat. She will be well, of course, with ample rest and care.”
While he could’ve guessed as much, Aymeric sighs with relief still. “Thank you, Lord Edmont, for your gracious care of her well-being. Your house has treated her and her comrades with incredible generosity, and for that I must express my sincerest gratitude.”
Count Edmont nods curtly, a small smile stretching across his face. “Though she began as a ward for our house, we have grown quite fond of Mistress Blaythid. I daresay my dear son has rubbed off on me in his great admiration for her.”
The room is silent for a moment at the mention of the late knight. Nevertheless, the Count continues. “I have grown to view her as a sort of daughter myself, as foolish as it may seem. Though much of Ishgard has still treated her as an outsider, I pray hope she will one day see this manor as a home for her.”
“I can assure you, my lord, that Gemma feels just that,” Alphinaud confirms with a smile.
After a few quiet minutes of idle conversation in the room, the chirurgeon the Temple Knight had returned with emerges from the hall, halting before Lord Edmont. “My lord, she is your ward, yes? I am grateful for your servant’s swift care for Mistress Blaythid before I was able to arrive. If I may speak to you of her condition and how to further care for her injuries without my presence…”
“Very well,” the Count obliges, motioning the chirurgeon to another private room to speak.
Aymeric almost too quickly rises from his seat in anticipation, his body language evident of his want to see Gemma himself. “May I…?”
A small chuckle escapes Y’shtola from somewhere behind him, and instantly he feels the tips of his ears redden at his urgency. Before he’s able to utter a meek apology, the chirurgeon gives him a swift nod, albeit a knowing smirk forming in his expression. “Of course, Lord Commander. She is awake and able to entertain guests.”
Aymeric humbly bows in thanks, and he feels a gentle push on his back. “Go on now, Ser Aymeric,” Y’shtola’s bemused voice comes from behind him. “We may follow soon after to speak with our dear friend.”
As Aymeric slowly makes his way down the hall to her door—the last room, as he recalls from Lord Edmont’s words—he wonders if his presence would be unwelcome and if he should turn back. Surely she would rather speak with one of her fellow Scions? Forgetting the look on her face as he’d held her gaze for that moment at the airship landing would be nigh impossible, though he selfishly desires to be in her company still. Were she to turn him away, however, he would oblige without question.
He gently knocks twice on the door at the end of the hall. “Gemma?”
She responds quickly to his inquiry. “Is that you, Aymeric?” Her voice is faint through the door, though she sounded awake and alert to his relief. He can’t help but feel his heart flutter a bit at hearing his name from her lips rather than his title. At some point during her time in Ishgard, she’d dropped the formalities, much to his pleasant surprise. Before he can respond to her inquiry, her voice comes through again. “You can come inside.”
Though she’d given him permission, he finds his hand lingering over the doorknob for several moments. At last, he commits and turns the knob, slowly walking inside the dimly lit room.
While the Count had said this was Gemma’s room for her stay at House Fortemps, it looked like any other room in the manor. Dark maroon wallpaper lined the walls, a signature of the high house, and a turquoise sofa similar to the one from the front entry room was flush against the corner of the room. The room was thoroughly decorated with armoires and vases full of violet and azure colored flowers found in nearly every Ishgardian noble home, the aroma strong and evident. If it weren’t for Gemma’s dragoon armor carefully placed on a chair and the woman herself sitting upright in the plush bed, the sheets pulled up to her waist, it would’ve appeared to be a room for any typical Ishgardian noble.
It was then, after he’d already made his way partway through the room, that Aymeric notices the coils of bandages wrapped tightly around her chest and stomach, as well as the lack of anything else covering the top half of her body.
“I—” Aymeric sputters, his gaze frantically looking elsewhere as he attempted to discern the exit from his position, though his panicked state made such a simple task frighteningly difficult for him. “I—oh Halone, pray forgive me for coming inside without giving you the ch-chance to—” He clears his throat as he begins to back away towards the door, though as if on comedic timing, he instead nearly knocked over a vase of flowers by the door.
Gemma’s eyes begin widening in exasperated confusion. “Aymeric, what on earth are you—” Realization seems to hit her in that moment, piecing together the Lord Commander’s flustered behavior and his erratic attempts of looking away from her. “Oh, by the Twelve, they are just some bandages.” Though her words seem harsh, she also let out a small chuckle at his ridiculousness.
Aymeric still tries to compose himself, muttering a soft apology as he reaches once more for the door. He hears her shifting on the bed, and then she calls for him again, her tone far more demanding than he expects. He steals a glance at her in response, and notices she’d grabbed a knitted shawl from the chair nearby and wrapped it around her shoulders. She raises her eyebrows and beckons him towards her.
“It’s not for you,” Gemma replies with a teasing grin in response to his relaxing form. “It’s quite cold in Ishgard, you see.”
“Forgive my behavior,” he apologizes softly, cautiously making his way to the side of her bed and taking the seat positioned there. “I feared I’d entered at an incredibly inappropriate time.”
With a wave of her hand, she quickly denies his concerns. “It seems there are never opportune times when it comes to our lives and our duties.”
He nods in agreement, a sad smile tugging at his lips. His eye catches one of her hands gingerly caressing her abdomen, bandages tightly wound around her waist. “And what of your injuries?”
“Bruised ribs was what I’d thought, though the chirurgeon informed me a couple were broken. The healing magicks are working quite effectively now, as I can scarcely feel the pain anymore. My knee has seen better days, though that won’t take long to heal at all.”
“And the swelling of your face…?”
She carefully touches the side of her face at the mention of it. “Ah, it’s true he got a good hit in…” Aymeric does not take the chance to clarify who exactly he was.
The conversation quiets at that point with the two of them never directly looking at the other. There was a strange feeling in the air, though not as easily discernible as tension. An air of uncertainty, and mayhap curiosity, looms around them. It is Gemma who eventually breaks the silence.
“I… must apologize for my rather cold demeanor from before,” she says. Her hands that were now resting on her lap slowly start to twitch, her fingers flicking around one another in an anxious tick. “When we returned from Azys La.”
He ponders for a few moments, choosing his words carefully. “What happened in Azys La?” That made you appear so pained, he wishes to add, but he decides against it.
“Surely, you’ve heard by now from everyone else.” She watches him for a response, and when he gives her none that satisfies her, she sighs in defeat and looks down to her lap. “Aymeric, I killed your father… Despite your strained relationship, how could I look at you, knowing what I’ve done? How could I even begin to explain the circumstances that led to this?”
“The circumstances…?” he repeats, looking at her with wide eyes. “I understood with full certainty what may transpire when you and your comrades followed my—the archbishop to Azys La. His intent to summon a primal and keep Ishgard within his ghastly reign, perpetuated by a lie spanning thousands of years to influenced our faith, was his choice, and his choice alone. Those circumstances warranted your decision, Gemma, and I am eternally grateful for your resolve to end his tyranny. You are a savior to Ishgard, and I could never begin to repay you enough.”
Her eyes are soft and pained, though she didn’t look away from him now. “I understand. ’Tis still… challenging, when you are his son. Forgive my selfishness, but it feels as though I’ve taken the last of your family from you.”
Aymeric feels a small pang of sadness at her words, realizing that they indeed rang true. “I… am unsure,” he simply replies. “Though we may be of the same blood, that man never acted as my father. On the contrary, my foster parents died a few years ago.” A weak smile stretches across his face as he attempts to push back the pained memories of his blood father, and instead thinks of his late adoptive parents. “Have I told you of them?”
“Your adoptive parents of… House Borel, am I correct?”
“They never had the chance to have children of their own,” he explains. “They were older when they took me in as a babe, though they never treated me as anything but their son. I fondly look back at the childhood they provided for me, and cherish the time we had together. ’Tis would’ve honored me greatly if you’d met them.”
“I see.” Gemma’s voice was soft, though he spots a cheeky smile on her lips. “Was it your mother that continuously perpetuated your desire for an ungodly amount of birch syrup in your tea?”
“That is—” Aymeric sputters, his mouth agape and cheeks flushed at her jab. “How could you—I mean, I haven’t had the pleasure to invite you for tea y—”
“I’ve noticed it when Lucia brings your tea to your office,” she states, the edges of her mouth stretching into an even wider smile. “When I saw the amount of syrup she provided for you, I feared for your life! Surely so much syrup would kill the Lord Commander, I thought!”
“Oh, Halone,” he breathes, palming his hand over his face in embarrassment. That earns a hearty chuckle from her. “Well—yes, ’tis true my mother may have let me have my way when I was but a child. I can recall my stubborn whines when she pulled the syrup away, and I would claim it was too bitter. And ere long, she would sigh and pour more into my cup. But, she did not seem upset at me—the opposite, even, though my memory fades over time…” He smiles at the thought of his dear mother. “She spoiled me so.”
“You must miss her dearly.”
“Greatly so,” he says. “And my father—her husband—as well, of course. He was the one who taught me how to wield a bow, and later a sword when I desired to join the Temple Knights. My sword…” Aymeric’s hand rests on the sword at his side. “It is called Naegling, an heirloom of House Borel that my father gifted to me upon my turning of 18 summers.”
“I’ve always thought of it as a lovely sword,” Gemma muses, her gaze wandering along the length of Naegling. “Though this is the first I’m hearing of your skills in archery.”
“It was my weapon of choice throughout most of my time as a Temple Knight. The sword was intimidating to look at, and even more so to wield upon learning its significance to the Borel line.” He rubs his chin in thought, recalling his nerves whenever he would attempt to wield Naegling in his youth. “But mayhap that is why I pursued it so. To wield it was to remember the struggles of my adoptive family, and to make my parents as proud as they could be of their son.” He shakes his head before meeting her eyes once more. “Forgive me, for I have spoken far too long about the memories of my parents.”
“No, I believe we should remember those we’ve lost. ’Tis our duty as the survivors, is it not?” Gemma’s demeanor changes, her shoulders slumping and smile fading. Aymeric can clearly see the pain from her posture, and he patiently waits until she was ready to share. “Ysayle… we lost her today as well.”
This was the first Aymeric was hearing of this, and he feels his heart drop. “Lady Iceheart appeared at Azys La? And she is…?”
“Passed on, yes,” she continues softly. “The Garlean ship made it a grand challenge to dock at Azys La. But from the clouds, we could see Hraesvelgr… and falling from the wyrm’s wings was Ysayle herself. I could barely discern her at first, but she became the primal Shiva once more and stopped the attack. And then she was no more.” She pauses, looking as though her mind was racing at the memory. “We never got to thank her, never got to show our gratitude. And in the end, she was alone, surely still reeling from our revelations discovered in the Churning Mists. I can’t help but feel she suffered alone for far too long.”
“You cannot blame yourself,” he insists. “From your recollection, it seems Ysayle made a choice she was content with in the end. Mayhap she left our world with no regrets, assisting those who would end the tyranny of a man who would perpetuate the war between mankind and dragons.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Gemma muses, tugging at a lock of her azure hair. “Whatever ploy the Ascians had to control Thordan became naught as well.”
“The Ascians are no more?”
“The ones that were present,” she continues cautiously. An odd look of confusion and recognition come across her features now. “I… am unsure of what exactly transpired. We were able to kill Igeyorhm with white auracite shortly before Thordan sealed Lahabrea’s soul in his sword.”
“I recall this Lahabrea from your reports, the Ascian that possessed the body of your fellow Scion. But is this Igeyorhm another Ascian?”
Suddenly, the expression on Gemma’s face changes to one of relaxation and elation. “Yes, and she always loved to bother Lahabrea to bits. It was amusing, given how different they were— akin to ice and fire, indeed.” The way she speaks reminds the Lord Commander of someone speaking of friends and not of sworn enemies.
Aymeric furrows his brow, confusion apparent across his expression as he tries to discern the meaning behind her words. “I did not realize you knew so much about these Ascians.”
He then notices visible confusion stretch across her face once more, and she shakes her head as though to clear her mind. “These… Ascians? I… you are right. I am not sure what I am saying. Pray forgive my musings, Aymeric.” He watches her more closely, unsure of what thoughts plague her now. Her forehead scrunches in contemplation, mouth pressing in a tight line.
Silence falls once more between them, and he hesitates to press for answers about a certain other dragoon. The anticipation starts to eat away at him, though he wonders if Gemma herself was unsure of his reaction to whatever had occurred with Estinien.
She seems to notice his anxious demeanor and gently presses her arms around her chest, almost as though to make herself seem smaller. “You wish to hear about Estinien’s whereabouts.”
Aymeric pauses before answering her inquiry, unsure of how to voice his thoughts. “The wyrm, Midgardsormr, informed us that he’s being used as a vessel for Nidhogg.”
Immediately her head hangs low, eyes casting down upon the sheets bunched at her waist. He has to stop himself from reaching out and grasping her hands. “Gemma?”
“Yes, what you’ve been told is true.” Before he can press for more answers, she gently raises her hand to pause him. “I will tell you what transpired. I promised myself I would.” Her hand falls to her lap again, and she lifts her gaze to meet his. “After the defeat of Thordan, we had both of Nidhogg’s eyes. I didn’t—I should’ve gone for one myself. We both know the immeasurable power of only one eye, but to have them both together was unprecedented. But Estinien was the one to gather them both, and before I could understand the magnitude of what he was doing, I began to hear him.”
“Him?”
“Nidhogg.” Her expression grows pained at the memory. “Such pain and hatred came from that wyrm’s voice. The eyes began to consume Estinien, and I tried… Aymeric I tried, I swear to you. I could see Estinien fading, and I was desperate in my attempt to take an eye away from him. It was all I could think to do, separating the two eyes.” She shakes her head at the memory. “It was for naught. His strength was insurmountable, and as though I were a fly, he knocked me away.” Gemma delicately touches the side of her face, and Aymeric feels sudden nausea at the realization of what she was suggesting. She notices his expression change to anger, and she immediately drops her hand in response. “It was not Estinien, Aymeric. ’Twas Nidhogg’s doing.”
He nods slowly in understanding, prompting for her to continue.
“The wyrm was before us again, vying for revenge once more against mankind. The next thing I knew, Nidhogg took to the skies and left our sight. I am unsure of the wyrm’s… Estinien’s… location…”
“I see,” Aymeric says, his voice barely a whisper. He’s unable to stop himself this time from reaching over and holding both her hands in his own. So cold, he notices. Gemma watches him carefully, her eyebrows gently lifting at his touch and mouth slightly agape. “Rest assured, we will find our friend and bring him back from this monster.”
His voice, now confident and true, earns a gentle smile from her. “Of course. Estinien will persevere, I am certain of this. He cannot leave just myself the mantle of Azure Dragoon, after all.”
“No doubt, indeed.”
Gemma gently shakes her head, a soft smile forming on her lips. “Far too well you have treated me, Aymeric. As well as all of House Fortemps, Lucia, other citizens I’ve met throughout Ishgard... I am naught but an outsider, but so many have welcomed me with open arms into this city. I—” She briefly pauses, wondering if she should continue. “It seems silly, but did you know that I was born under the deity Halone?”
Aymeric’s eyes widen in pleasant surprise. “I did not.”
“Well, she is indeed my patron deity,” she muses. “Though for my nearly thirty summers, I wished to understand what it—what she—meant to me. I came to learn of Ishgard, of course, and how Halone the Fury is worshipped here. But as a child, I cared mostly for the tales of dragons.” She chuckles slightly at the memory. “I don’t think my parents realized that reading me stories of the never-ending wars between dragons and mankind would spur me to feel a sort of kinship with the former; to think that dragoons could fight alongside the great wyrms as opposed to their slayers. It was what inspired me to take up the lance.”
After fully understanding her words, Aymeric feels a pang of shame thinking of the Knighted Dragoons of Ishgard, and how their sole purpose was to slay dragonkind. “I imagine it must be harrowing to find that the dragoons of Ishgard only set their lances against the wyrms.”
“A war cannot be changed overnight.” Her words echo those of Midgardsormr’s, and her voice drops in tone as she answers his thought. “And I won’t pretend to forget that I’ve myself slayed dragons. Perhaps one day, though, mankind and dragonkind alike can learn to move past this war. I can see now, looking back, that my parents always thought it a foolish thought, but they supported my desires nonetheless.”
“You’ve not spoken of your parents before,” he notes, a hint of uncertainty present in his voice. “Pray forgive my inquiry, but… are they still alive?”
“They are,” Gemma confirms, and he lets out a relieved breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Though it’s been some time since we’ve seen one another. I’m not entirely certain where they are at present, but I can count on finding them somewhere in Gridania when the snow begins to stick.” She senses the confused look on Aymeric’s face, and her lips spread into an understanding smile. “My parents are traveling merchants. They are always moving from place to place—well, we would move from place to place. I was used to traveling with them my whole life, until I eventually decided to go my own path some years ago.”
“I hope you have the opportunity to see them soon.” He gently squeezes her hand in his own. “Have you naught the chance to settle down anywhere?”
“As do I,” she answers softly. “And… you are correct, for my family has never truly settled anywhere to call home due to my parents’ work. It is not a feeling I am used to. I don’t think I ever truly understood what home meant until recently. Mayhap for all these reasons—my patron deity, how I’m drawn to the lance, how warmly I’ve been accepted here by yourself and others… mayhap this feeling I have here in Ishgard is what it means to feel at home?”
Aymeric blinks at her choice of words. “You feel at home in Ishgard?”
Gemma purses her lips in response, her cheeks reddening at his words. “I suppose I do… ’Tis a foolish thought, is it not?”
“Not at all,” he presses urgently. “Lord Edmont himself has hopes for you to feel welcome here as well. House Fortemps cares for you deeply, and to hear you feel at home in Ishgard…” It is Aymeric’s turn for his cheeks to redden. “It pleases me greatly.”
“Oh.” Her eyes gaze deep into his, neither daring to look away. Aymeric can feel the heat rising in his chest at the subtle journey of emotions her face is taking, and he swears he sees a similar phenomenon of flustering occurring in her as well. It does not escape either of them that they hadn’t let go of each other’s hands, though neither still made a move to change it otherwise.
“Pray forgive our intrusion, but we had hoped to converse with our dear friend as well.”
Both Aymeric and Gemma jump at the sound of a third voice from the door, and are shocked to realize they hadn’t heard the door open at any point. Alphinaud and Tataru watch them with amusing smiles on their faces, and Y’shtola, who’d been the one to speak, is up front with an even greater smirk.
It was then that the two flushed individuals pull their own hands towards themselves once more, looking away from one another with reddened faces under Y’shtola’s rueful gaze.