Chapter Text
As the incessant snowstorms that battered Camp Dragonhead finally began to settle in the low hours of the day, the Lord Commander of the Temple Knights of Ishgard arrived with little fanfare. Accompanied only by his second in command, most of the camp’s laborers simply continued about their work as they passed, until a single guardsman approached to lead them to their final destination.
“Right this way, sers. Just through that door.”
As the knight guiding them took his leave, Aymeric paused before the entrance to the council room.
Before his departure from Ishgard, he had been thoroughly briefed on what awaited him. He was to meet with Lord Haurchefant, upon whose trusted word had the Temple Knights been persuaded to arrange this introduction. Alongside him, the mastermind behind Eorzea’s newest peacekeeping outfit, the Crystal Braves—a boy of no more than sixteen summers, he was told, though he could hardly believe the fact. It was the third and final attendee to the meeting, however, that captured his strongest interest. A woman whose exploits had made her a household name. A woman with many titles.
The Lance of Limsa. An adventurer from humble beginnings in that distant port city, or so the rumors would have it, though it seemed the story of her origins changed daily at the whim of the gossip columns. The Azure Dragoon. A dragoon—a foreigner, no less—that was worthy of the title which had only a single bearer for the last thousand years; the title held most recently by one of his own closest friends. Heretic. Of course, there was no shortage of skeptics among the company of the Temple Knights. Descriptions of her ferocity in battle enthralled many a weary soldier in the late hours of the watch, as did the whispers of her bestial appearance. Jagged horns, fang and claw honed to deadly points, scales that could deflect any manner of mortal weapon; no doubt the result of unholy union betwixt dragon and man, or so the chatter of the barracks would have him believe.
But all of these titles paled in comparison to the one that echoed in hushed tones throughout every corner of the continent, both with reverence and with fear. The woman that felled primals with naught but a spear and a wicked smile on her face. The adventurer blessed by the heart of the star itself. The Warrior of Light. If even half of the stories about that particular title were true, Aymeric would have quite the report to author when he returned to his office.
Eager to sate his curiosity, the Lord Commander pushed through the doors and entered the intercessory.
The first thing the Lord Commander noticed about the Warrior of Light was that she didn’t particularly look like she wanted to be there.
Perhaps it was her curt nod in response to his enthusiasm regarding her reputation. Or, maybe it was the way her face contorted into a scowl each time he began to refute one of her comrade’s requests. In fact, if he didn’t know any better, he might have suspected she was hardly listening to what he had to say at all.
The second thing he noticed was her stature. It wasn't that she was small (although, he would admit, she was quite a bit shorter than the tales of bestial fury would have him believe), rather, quite the opposite. Despite shrinking into her chair, making her displeasure with politics quite obvious and encouraging a few apologetic smiles from Haurchefant, her presence completely filled their dimly-lit meeting place. It wasn't just the bright red-gold of her hair, or the pearlescence of her scales, but the whole of her being that seemed to illuminate the room. He was beginning to understand why they called her Light. She could have authored the concept.
After a few rounds of back and forth discussion, a sudden thought crossed Aymeric’s mind. His eyes drifted over to the Warrior seated on the opposite end of the desk, as they had done absentmindedly for much of the evening.
“By the Fury, I do apologize,” he interjected, attempting to lighten the mood with an amicable smile. “I do believe I’ve forgotten to ask your name. I’ve heard so many different titles, you see, yet somehow the rumors never seem to catch that important detail.”
The Warrior of Light looked up to meet his gaze, and Aymeric felt a shiver run down his spine. The look in her eyes made him feel as if he was the only person in the room.
“It doesn’t seem to be that important then, does it? Considering you’ve forgotten to ask.” She spoke with a voice that commanded attention, and nearly made Aymeric sit up straighter in his chair. Despite the bitterness of her words, though, he could see a faint smile on her lips.
“Well,” he started, “I–”
“Tsubame.”
Aymeric fell silent. A moment passed, and then the smirk he noticed before widened into a grin, and then—a laugh. Locks of her short, fiery hair spilled into her face as she covered her mouth to stop herself, but it was too late. Her amusement was infectious, and Aymeric couldn’t help but mirror the gesture.
"Sorry," she added, once her giggles had subsided. "Just wanted to watch you squirm a bit. I don't really mind if you know my name or not."
“Alright, then,” he replied, his eyes reflecting her captured humor. “Tsubame, the Warrior of Light.”
But as soon as the words escaped his lips he knew they were wrong. He looked at her again, finding himself still just as curious about her as he was when he first stepped into the room, yet perhaps…
He shook his head.
“Perhaps, just Tsubame.”