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“It might behoove you to begin writing a letter of your own instead of standing idly by,” A voice calls out from behind her. “Just a suggestion.”
Mignonette whips around to stick out her tongue. “And you could use to trim your hair.”
He fiddles with a strand between his fingers and starts for a moment before Mignonette interrupts.
“Kidding! I’m only kidding. I know how much you like the rugged look.”
“I mean it,” Thancred rolls his eyes, “I can’t always be at your beck and call to translate that flowery script of his. And I'm sure he's champing at the bit to hear from you.”
His words have some truth to them– letters are a back-and-forth affair, she thinks. Mignonette’s lower lip sticks out before she pivots on her heel. How it pains her to indulge him.
It isn’t that she dislikes the practice of writing letters. There's the smoothness of the paper, the option to douse her work in whichever scent she fancies at the moment, the sensation of a pen in hand-– Trepidation comes with the blank page in front of her. Lack of immediacy. For someone with the gift of gab, the concept feels… stifling. She twirls the pen between her fingers for a moment, his earlier correspondence regarding her across the desk.
The letters were nigh impossible for her to make out the first time. She recalls Thancred’s smug expression as his eyes skimmed the page.
“He’s awfully smitten.”
“So? So?” She stretched herself as tall as her short legs could manage to peek over his shoulder, “What's it say?”
“He misses you. Enough to liken you to myriad poetic things, apparently. I knew he possessed a silver tongue, but this puts even me to shame.”
Leaning above her to trace the curves and swoops, he dictated as she followed. Until they were spoken the words seemed no more than scribbles.
Dearest Mignonne,
Arising bereft of your warmth, I see an expanse of a mattress where once there was none, in a room which no longer serves merely as a place to rest my head between duties. Yet, despite this lingering absence, you are omnipresent-–
In the stall at the Jeweled Crozier that sells lilies in bright ivory, in the blush tinted skies which shine through the window of my study, in the shimmering reflection of knights' glistening steel. Though all of these things cannot replace your presence, they remind me you are not far.
Notwithstanding the foregoing, all is well at home. While many still are hesitant to accept a new republic overnight, I imagine they will not soon forget your heroism, and I am reassured once more that we shall endure.
I extend my warmest regards to the Scions, as well as my gratitude on behalf of Ishgard once more. I hope you and yours enjoy a much-needed respite. And to whichever view you awoke this morning, I hope it was picturesque, in its own right.
Yours, dutifully,
Aymeric
Mignonette sighs and crinkles the edge of the sheet of paper before her. Another reckoning of her discomfort with letter writing— Words seem a poor substitute when they bring to mind how he selfishly steals glances when he's speaking to a room full of people and she happens to be in attendance, and how when he's wrapped around her, all six-and-some fulms, fresh winter air and the rich scent of whatever it is that's in his tea fills her lungs.
Righting herself, she makes the best effort she can to crack her knuckles, because that’s how she imagines all great writers setting to work. The noise it produces is so pitiful it renders her useless again. Gods. Frustration claims her as her head thuds onto the desk.
Without warning, something prods at her hair. It isn’t Thancred, she thinks. The touch is delicate, yet firm.
“Mimi….? I certainly hope you haven't perished of boredom.”
She smiles at the inquisitive blue eyes staring back at her. “Not yet, at least.”
“Who's it for?” Alisaie leans over to peek at the page, a single “Dear” scrawled at the top in chocobo scratch. “Wait— don't tell me. It's the one who mistook me for Alphinaud while I was ilms from the lifestream.”
Mignonette sighs, “Thancred thinks I should write him. But what he doesn't understand is that I can’t say to him what I wanna say when we're face-to-face. It's so.. different.”
“Why don't you just.. pretend? Close your eyes and think of what you'd say if he were here right this very moment,” She clears her throat, “If it were only the two of you, I mean.”
Mignonette leans over to give Alisaie a squeeze that lifts her at least a fulm. She's stumbling over her words as such that she can't make any of it out besides a “quite welcome”.
“That's exactly what I'll do, Ali! When you see me again I'll have just sent it away!”
Eyes shut tight, she envisions him before her in the Rising Stones enveloped by dim light. Her hand is unsteady, unpracticed. The ink bleeds at first, yet she pushes the nib into the paper anyhow.
One could assume there might be a desk beneath all the paperwork swallowing Aymeric whole. A gloved hand sweeps through his fringe as he scrawls his signature with glazed-over eyes.
“Lord Commander?”
Plucked from his wilted state in an instant.
“A missive has come for you,” The white-haired woman hands over an envelope dripping with the scent of vanilla and musk. “You might guess who it's from,” She adds, pinching the bridge of her nose.
He fails to mask his joy. Miserably. The corners of his mouth seem stretched beyond comfort so taut he stumbles over the sentiment. “I— My thanks, Lucia.”
“I shall leave you to it, then. Good day.” A knowing gleam sparkles in her eyes as she utters the latter.
“Aye. Very well.”
Aymeric lets go of a breath he's been holding onto for the last bell after the wood and iron doors clank shut. His hands tremble as he reaches into the drawer for a letter opener.
Rip.
The severing of the envelope is deafening amidst the spacious emptiness.
It smells like her. Exactly like her. Even the sweat.
Teeth sink into his lower lip as if to ground himself. He can't think too much about that right now. This is his office. He has paperwork. Stacks and stacks of paperwork.
Aymeric straightens himself and squints his eyes— and they widen again all on their own. The letters themselves seem excited, almost a far cry from language itself— yet somehow, he can make them out. It's impossible to stifle a bright, genuine laugh. He wonders if this is how it feels to read his letters, written in the very same hand politicians write official decrees in.
Dear Aymie,
First of all, I wanted you to know I couldn't stop reading your last letter. I miss you way more even if I can’t put it into words the way you do!
I struggled to write this because it didn't feel enough to tell you on paper. What I miss most about you is being with you, face to face– listening to your voice and feeling your warmth. None of that is possible in a letter, which is what makes it so hard! But I did receive some good advice.
I'm imagining you opening this letter. Maybe Lucia has brought it to you, and you're having your morning tea (Even though I prefer to imagine you at home, still in your pajamas, with your shirt unbuttoned!). I hope you're smiling--that's one of the things I miss the most. Your eyes smile just as much as your mouth does! Hopefully, you're laughing in your usual way. It fills the whole room, and warms it too.
And then you're hard at work again. It makes me sad sometimes. You give so much to a place that gives you so little in return, but then I remember that's another thing I admire about you. Remember to love yourself when I can’t. Think about me when you try and skip lunch to sit at some table and argue with a bunch of old men.
Yours, no matter what,
Mignonne
P.S.
The Scions were happy to hear from you! They all say hi.
As for the view, I can only describe it to you: shards of crystal towering as high as the buildings in Ishgard, gleaming in the midday sun. The same shade as your eyes. I hope you'll get to see them someday.
P.P.S
Sorry about the big splodge of ink!
It was a mistake to read her correspondence at work, he thinks, but it can't wait. If it means he can give her a proper reply, he's willing to pull another night working into the wee hours of the morning. So, fresh parchment in front of him, he's fast at work. Taking care that the letters aren't too narrow and the swoops aren't too big.
Tossing around on the stiff cot in the back of the Rising Stones, she's writhing in her sleep.
Aymie…. Aymie…
“Mignonette.”
I love it when you say the whole thing…
“It's not that politician of yours. Sorry to disappoint,” Thancred nudges her at the side of the bed.
She extends her limbs with wild abandon and lets out a massive yawn. Thancred hisses as one of them happens to kick him square in the stomach.
“Sorry!,” She yawns, “What's up? Something must be for you to come and wake me when I was having such a good nap.”
“Thanks. I know you aren't.” He clicks his tongue.
“You're stalling!”
“I wouldn't say anything is amiss, per se.. It's— Come and see for yourself.”
He's not usually one for surprises. Not pleasant ones anyway. This gives her pause.
“Come in.” He says sheepishly.
“I'm here to deliver a letter addressed to a Mignonne Chalco. I have been told she's rather busy.”
Her breath hitches in her throat as the door creaks open.
It's those hopeless blue eyes. Smiling, real, and right before her. Far better than any dream could capture.
“I'll leave you two to it,” Thancred winks.
Mignonette flies at the towering Elezen with open arms before he can speak another word.
“Would you not like to hear it?” He asks, laughter punctuating his words.
“I can listen from here just fine!”
“If you're certain,” He clears his throat.
“My dearest,
As ever, it is a joy to hear from you. One I spend entire working days anticipating.
I regret to inform you that the former scenario was true when I received your correspondence.”
She giggles into his chest.
“But I laughed, and laughed, as I do now. And hopefully, you will be glad to hear I did not return to my duties so soon. Instead, I requested (‘pleaded’’ may be a more apt term) Lucia take them on for a day— which is where you find me now, Fury willing.
I promise to care for myself as you would. I promise not to forgo a meal (You would be right, by the way– many of them are up there in years and frustratingly set in their ways for it. It would behoove me to take my repast before I listen to them.)
But you must promise me the same. My love for you is too great to permit otherwise.
P.S.
If time affords us, will you show me those crystals you spoke of?
Yours, always,
Aymeric.”
He scoops her from her place at his chest and leans in. “May I?”
“After all this time, you still ask! …That’s a yes, by the way.”
They sink into an embrace, deeply, fervently, as if no time has passed. Their lips haven't forgotten the rhythm, nor have their tongues. He moans into her mouth and doesn't care to make a note of it like he has so many times before. It's the same hungry kiss she remembers. One which utters: I may not see you tomorrow, but I will return to you all the same. I will always.
“So you really weren't sitting home with your shirt unbuttoned?” Mignonette pulls away to chirp. “Bummer.”
“I take it you mean to suggest we postpone the sightseeing.” Aymeric's ears are tinted a deep pink up close.
“You can't do this in a letter after all!”
He chuckles, and takes her in his arms with a spin, and plants kisses all over.
For a moment, it isn't lonely.
For a moment, neither of them has to think of what to say.
So she'll hang onto it– and commit it to paper when next she misses him. And he will respond in kind with a moment of his own etched in ink.