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After everything that had happened in the Vault, Sizhu Jakkya no longer felt comfortable staying in Fortemps manor.
She had spent two sleepless nights there, then almost got killed by walking herself off a cliff in the Sea of Clouds and landing a flock of gaelicats, of all things. Only her ongoing training as a dragoon kept her alive...though it made her think of him, her most recently lost friend, and how much he’d done to protect her. How he’d always protected her at every opportunity, and always by placing himself at her back and fighting alongside her, aiding her--never trying to rescue her like some helpless princess, never questioning her martial capabilities, never seeking to take the brunt of the attack for her.
...At least, not until the Vault.
After her particularly foolish brush with fuzzy, winged death (which would have rendered his sacrifice ironically pointless), Sizhu made a snap decision. Once she’d completed her few remaining errands for various folk in Coerthas, she didn’t return to Ishgard, to the oppressively bleak Fortemps manor, to the downcast faces of her best friend Korsica and Count Edmont and the rest. Instead, she whisked herself off to Limsa. Limsa, because Momodi or Miounne would’ve taken one look at the Miqo’te girl’s pale, drawn face and asked well-meaning questions that she didn’t even want to think about; but while he’d certainly notice the change in her bearing, Baderon knew when to let well enough alone.
Sure enough, the weathered tavern-keeper’s eyes were trained on her from the moment she stepped foot in the Drowning Wench, but though he was clearly curious, Baderon didn’t press the issue. Within seconds that curiosity shifted into understanding, and Sizhu didn’t doubt for an instant that he knew exactly what sort of demons--or ghosts, rather--she was fighting to escape at the moment. Even so, he didn’t call out to her, or even wave her over. Instead, the retired sellsword just gave her a sympathetic smile and a meaningful look that said he was there if she decided she needed either an ale or a listening ear, then went back to getting three new initiates to the Adventurer’s Guild signed up and sent off to visit the main aetheryte, the markets, and the guilds of their choice.
Sizhu hoped he wouldn’t mention to Mikh’a that she was in town. She wasn’t in the mood to deal with her brother’s taciturn nature, or to chase his circular conversations around and around as she usually would.
On reaching her room, she closed the door behind her and went to stare out the window, pressing both hands to the cool glass, her gaze going unfocused as she watched the hypnotic movement of the sea and whispered a quiet prayer to her patron deity, Llymlaen.
What am I even doing here? she wondered, resting her forehead against the glass as well and closing her eyes. Other than running away again, that is. I just...I can’t face them, any of them, especially not Korsi... Because...because it was my fault. If we hadn’t tried to rush the Archbishop, if I’d just--if I’d just pulled him back and told him to wait... The tiny Keeper of the Moon squeezed her eyes tightly shut, fingers flexing against the windowpane, and bit her lip until the salt-and-copper tang of blood filled her mouth. I deserve it. This guilt, this pain... Everything I’m feeling right now...I deserve it.
Because, terrible as she felt and as much as she missed him already, how much worse must it be for Korsi, who hadn’t so much as left her room in Fortemps Manor after-
“As once did this very realm, from the darkest depths of unseemly ugliness shall you rise anew. Prepare yourself!”
The bombastic voice was familiar, but still unexpected. Sizhu jerked around, turning a wide-eyed stare on the flashy, peach-and-lilac-haired, pink-clad Elezen standing in his customary theatrical pose just inside the door of her room.
Jandelaine? But why is he...
Her eyes drifted over to the crystal bell beside the door, and realization dawned. Thinking back, she had accidentally bumped it as she’d entered, hadn’t she, and just hard enough to make it ring...
Her first impulse was to send him away. It was true that she certainly looked a mess, but she had absolutely zero interest in polishing or pampering herself, or focusing on anything so shallow as her appearance at the moment. (She didn’t deserve it.) But as her mouth moved to form the words, Sizhu reconsidered the matter, and the dismissal died on her lips. Jandelaine had come running, as he always did whenever she called. She had no idea where he’d been before this, but she didn’t want his journey to be for nothing.
She had already proven to be a terrible companion to so many of her friends and acquaintances. No need for her to be terrible across the board, especially when all she had to do in this case was sit back and let the Aesthetician work. Paying 2,000 gil for a haircut she didn’t want was a pittance compared to causing someone else any unnecessary unpleasantness.
Releasing a near-silent sigh, the Miqo’te girl moved away from the window, coming to sit in the chair beside the room’s round table, her back to both the door and her visitor.
Silence stretched between them for one minute, two. Jandelaine continued to hold his ridiculous pose, and Sizhu toyed with the ragged ends of her long silver-white hair, until finally-
“...Jandelaine. You’re from Ishgard.”
It wasn’t a question. Both knew that Sizhu was aware of his original birthright: he was a Dzemael heir, a lord of one of the High Houses. Jandelaine gave an affirmative hum, alongside a cheery, “Of course, darling! You do know more of my past than most! Ah, but I don’t doubt for a moment that my secret is safe with you!” ♥
Sizhu didn’t turn around, didn’t really even acknowledge his comment, other than to bow her head a bit more.
“...Do you and Guillesfresne keep in touch? Has he...does he keep you informed about what’s happening in your homeland?” Or do you even care, she wondered, though she didn’t give voice to that third question.
The Aesthetician seemed to pick up on it nonetheless--one didn’t spend as many years as a hairdresser as he had without learning to read one’s clientele--and his usual confident smile faded somewhat as he eased into a less dramatic pose, taking a few steps closer as he did so, intentionally putting himself on the outer edge of her line of sight.
“I do hear bits of news from my brother here and there, though--alas!--both of us have a wide variety of responsibilities which make regular correspondence something of an impossibility.”
Sizhu was quiet for another long moment, her face so closed and expressionless that even someone as adept at discerning the thoughts and emotions of others as Jandelaine found it difficult to tell what she was thinking.
“...When did you last hear from him?” she said at last, eyes trained on her hands, and the dark, silvery-looking bauble she was twisting in her fingers. “What news from Ishgard?”
“Nothing for half a fortnight or more, darling.” The peach-haired Elezen studied Sizhu a long moment more, his expression growing surprisingly shrewd and ever so slightly cautious before he added, the words quiet and almost reluctantly spoken, “...Something important has happened, has it not? Important to you, at the very least, if not important to the realm as a whole. Either way, I would hear of it, should you feel inclined to share.” He brightened a bit, his smile returning somewhat as he gushed, “That is, after all, part and parcel of the ages-old arrangement between aesthetician and client! Tradition isn’t something I stand by in the vast majority of cases, but in this one, it’s something I swear by both profoundly and profusely! For after all, who better to listen to the trials and tribulations and innermost turmoil of your heart than the one to whom you’re entrusting your face and features, the very outward essence of your presence as an individual?” That manic energy subsided again somewhat as the ostentatious Elezen added with noticeable gentleness, “...And in addition to that, Ishgard is my home, despite the fact that my heart lies elsewhere other than solely inside it. I would hear whatever news of it you carry, and are willing to share.”
For a moment, Sizhu wavered, worrying her lip until a fresh rush of blood from the cut there flooded her mouth. Jandelaine was a friend, and while it was true that she trusted him enough to allow him near her with worrisomely sharp objects, she still wasn’t certain that she should burden him with her current issues.
She’d very nearly decided against saying anything when Jandelaine stepped up close behind her. Before she could ask him what he was about, the Aesthetician produced his comb with a flourish, gathered up one of her long, fluffy pigtails in his hand, and began to carefully, methodically work the tangles out of her silver-white hair.
And that small, simple act of familiarity and support was all it took to break her.
The story left her in a rush, and it was a struggle not to cry, not to let the tears she’d held back for so long fall from her eyes as thickly and swiftly as the words of her tale fell from her lips. And yet, just as she held back her tears, so too did she hold back certain parts of the story--namely what her own personal feelings regarding it all had been, and were.
Through it all, Jandelaine was quiet, save for a comforting murmur here and a consoling hum there...though when she’d spoken about what had happened at the Vault, his delicate, always-gentle touch momentarily went rough, and he’d given her hair an unintentional jerk. His hands had stayed still for several long moments afterwards, and Sizhu wondered if--or, perhaps, how well--Jandelaine had known Haurchefant. If so, had they known each other very long? Had they been friends? Haurchefant had been more than a little out-of-tune with the rest of Ishgard; he would doubtless have taken a liking to someone like Jandelaine, who had his own style and way of doing things, ridiculous as they could be at times. It was something they’d had in common.
...Perhaps, Sizhu thought to herself with a sudden flash of insight, perhaps Haurchefant had even helped Jandelaine get out of Ishgard in the first place...
The Miqo’te flinched, one hand rising to her forehead as the sharp and sudden heartbeat-like twinge that came with the Echo blossomed behind her eyes. Intense pain throbbed through her head for a moment, then everything went white before a scene tinted in sepia swam into fuzzy focus...
The location was immediately familiar: it was the war room of Camp Dragonhead. An Elezen who could only be a younger, much less flamboyant Jandelaine stood before the camp commander’s desk--and Sizhu felt her breath catch in her throat as her attention fixated on the figure behind that desk.
Haurchefant.
They were talking, she realized, and it was doubtless important, though it was difficult to concentrate on anything but the sight of him sitting there, right where he belonged, where he should have always been, where she’d never expected to have the chance to see him again.
“-Heard tell that you are finding it somewhat difficult to find your place here,” the silver-haired knight was saying as Sizhu forced herself to pay attention to the scene unfolding before her.
Jandelaine--who scarcely looked like Jandelaine at all, with his hair a natural color and his attire nothing but plain, standard-issue chainmail--wavered visibly, and for a moment, Sizhu couldn’t help but wonder if he was going to go into one of his melodramatic fits of gasping helplessness. After a moment, however, the young Dzemael heir swallowed hard and gave a nod. “Y-yes,” he half-squeaked, self-consciously clearing his throat before trying again. “Yes! That is, I...I do n-not think my place is truly here at all.”
From his usual position--leaning slightly forward with clasped hands resting on the desk before him, like an alert bird of prey poised to strike--Haurchefant studied the young lord with interest reflecting in his keen blue eyes. “Indeed? And where, mayhap, is it then?”
At that Jandelaine seemed to collapse in on himself, deflating into a flustered, wordless ruin, looking about him in both muted and mute panic.
“What is it that you wish to do?” Haurchefant prompted him after a moment, his tone firm and a bit demanding, but not unkindly.
Jandelaine glanced nervously at the other knights busy at their various tasks around the room, then ducked his head and stuttered something inaudible.
Haurchefant, however, had leaned forward far enough to catch it, and now sat back beaming. “Ah! How marvelous! While not the same sort of battle as the ones we fight here, it does seem a worthy cause! At the very least, it seems worthwhile to you, which makes it something you needs must pursue forthwith. When can you be packed and ready to go?”
The Dzemael heir’s amber-gold eyes went wide, and he blinked several times with obvious disbelief, unable to grasp what he was hearing. Instead of harsh words or kitchen duty or even imprisonment, this strange man was… “...Go? You’re just...letting me go?”
The silver-haired lord of House Fortemps give the gaping lordling a warm smile. “Indeed, I am. After all, it’s not as if you’re deserting--certainly not! Our current policies on such matters are quite strict, but I fully believe that reaching out to the members of the Eorzean Alliance is an honourable endeavour. And what better way to do it than this, to provide a service that the rich, famous, and important will all clamour for? Why, you’ll have the ears of many in positions of authority who might provide us aid in times of need, which makes this a justifiable investment on both our parts, does it not?”
Haurchefant’s smile went a bit sad, his eyes lowering to his clasped hands, and he continued before Jandelaine felt the need to answer his rhetorical question.
“...A knight whose heart is not in his work is little better than a dead man anyway. Were I to force you to the frontlines, into the wearying rigors of endless battle, I have no doubts that I should soon find myself writing yet another letter expressing my condolences for the loss of a young knight fallen long before his time.” Rising from his chair, Haurchefant turned to the side, tucking his hands behind his back contemplatively as he mused, “And for what, if not situations like this, was I given this rank and position?”
Jandelaine’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly several times before finally going slack and hanging open just slightly, not unlike an orobon’s. He hadn’t considered the political applications of his unique set of skills at all until this very moment, but now…the idea that he might be able to do as he pleased and also be useful to his homeland at the same time was quite an attractive one. One that made something warm blossom in his chest; something that felt suspiciously like hope.
“If you like, I could write that letter of loss anyway,” Haurchefant continued cheerfully, making no comment on the younger lord’s flabbergasted expression. “It would cause your family undue grief, of course, but it would also prevent them from sending anyone after you in the hopes of convincing you to return here...”
The scene flickered again, the rest of Haurchefant’s words lost in the hissing rush of blindingly white light as the Echo loosened its grasp on the tiny Keeper of the Moon. As always, it took a moment of slitted eyes and owlish blinking before Sizhu was certain that the vision she’d seen had faded back into reality.
“...Oh! Oh, gracious me! Whatever is the matter, darling? Shall I fetch assistance?”
Still rather bleary-eyed, Sizhu turned her gaze upwards to find Jandelaine hovering over her like a particularly worried pink-and-yellow bumblebee.
“Are you quite alright? It’s just, for a moment you seemed not at all yourself...”
He trailed off, for now that her eyes were clear, she couldn’t help looking Jandelaine in the face--and this time, she couldn’t hold back or hide her rising tears, because she knew for certain that here was another person who understood. Another person Haurchefant had sheltered, had saved. Another whose life he’d changed so much, and so much for the better, simply by being himself and making his own decisions, regardless of what Ishgardian policy was.
Another who deeply appreciated the loss of a good man, and felt the full force of the terrible blow they’d been dealt.
Sizhu didn’t say anything, just looked up at the Aesthetician in silent grief, misery plain in the pair of tears that escaped to slip down her cheeks; and even without asking, he could tell from the anguished twist of her mouth that she knew everything. For a moment, he looked stricken, his usual showy façade dropping away to reveal a matching grief, the sudden desolation of the heart when bereavement first sets in and stakes its claim.
But only for a moment.
Then, with a bright smile, Jandelaine’s mask snapped firmly back into place, and in an instant he was all bustling energy once more, tut-tutting about fixing her makeup and rattling off a list of items to reduce the swelling around the eyes after a good long cry as he went back to brushing out her pigtails, though not before delicately dabbing away the salty streaks her tears had left on her face with an impressively frilly (but exquisitely soft) neon blue pocket handkerchief.
Still Sizhu watched him in silence, her gaze steady on his face, which now betrayed not a hint of its former expressions.
He’s coping the only way he knows how. He’s trying to be strong, and put on a good face for me…
She watched Jandelaine ask himself a question about which color eyeshadow would look best on her, then answer it almost immediately, explaining what look was popular in each of the three major cities at the moment, his countenance animated and his eyes bright...a bit too bright, really.
But...most of all, he’s trying to find something else to think about, because thinking about it hurts too much right now.
However wrong it felt to push aside their memories of that person, even temporarily...in this moment, they couldn’t help it. They had to. They’d drown, otherwise. And here was Jandelaine, throwing her a lifeline, a temporary escape for both of them, a chance to focus on something else: the much-needed distraction of a makeover.
When she thought about it that way, Sizhu certainly wasn’t going to turn him down.
“...There now, that’s all those horrendous tangles out of your hair! Now let me freshen up your eyeshadow--shall we try a slightly darker color on a smaller area?--then I’ll set to work trimming up those unsightly split ends! Ah, mayhap a shampoo and conditioning are in order as well, or even a hot oil treatment!”
As he chatted away, cheerfully speaking about nothing to fill the air between them with the warm comfort of words, Sizhu let herself really think about her hairstyle for the first time in a long while.
She’d always worn her hair pulled back in twintails, ever since she was a child. The style had changed somewhat over the years, but the basic similarity remained. Now, with Jandelaine’s watchful gaze trained on her, she tucked away the bauble she’d been clutching before (an Elezen's ear-clasp), then unfastened the delicate silver clips holding it back and shook her hair out, fingering the silky-soft silver-white strands thoughtfully.
Her initial impulse was to hack it all off, though she just as immediately reconsidered. Haurchefant had been her friend, not her lover, so cutting it that short would be inappropriate. (There was only one person who had the right to do that, and thinking of her made the little Keeper of the Moon clench her fists, fighting back sorrow and frustration at her own helplessness and the prickling beginnings of further hot tears.)
She might get away with a medium-length cut, but that didn’t seem right either. Visualizing herself with shorter hair, pulled back in the usual way...she looked even more childish.
It was the whole style itself that was the problem, she realized slowly. Twintails were a little whimsical. Somewhat childish, even.
This loss, the death of her first true Ishgardian ally--and what was more, her first true Ishgardian friend--was the ending of an era. It marked the termination of her lighthearted escapades and her cheery sponsorship from House Fortemps. And more than that,, it marked the end of her ability to consider herself any sort of child.
The time for games was over--no, it had been over already ever since she’d been forced to flee to Ishgard, or rather ever since they’d lost Moenbryda. She just hadn’t been ready--able--willing to accept as much. Not until now, when she couldn’t have denied it even if she’d wanted to.
And she didn’t. Everyone had to grow up some time. And since she couldn’t go back and force herself to grow up sooner, and in so doing perhaps prevent that foremost of losses in the first place, now was as good a time as any. Better, in fact. Maybe if she approached things as a mature adult, she could prevent any further crippling losses.
Maybe. Just maybe.
It wasn’t enough, and it would never be enough, but it was all she could offer.
It would have to do.
“Jandelaine,” she said, turning to face her pale reflection in the window straight-on once again. “It’s time for a change...”