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forgiven-whimsy · 3 years

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5 favorite recent writing bits

So @kunstpause tagged me to share 5 recent writing bits I enjoyed and am proud of. Under the cut for length, with Ao3 links to the complete piece.

In no particular order: Wicked Apology Emet-Selch/Azem 5.3 and Tale from the Shadows spoilers, set right after the grape incident. Rated E

He followed her, slowly, stretching, missing her comforting heat and circled her with a self satisfied smirk, knowing full well her obeisance would take convincing, counted on it even. He snapped his fingers. His robe blinked from view leaving him in a simple tailored button down shirt and trousers. “If you are quite done with your impertinence, I might speak of consequences.”

A quick flick of her wrist divested Astrea of her outer robes, and Hades nostrils flared at the sight of her, she’d anticipated his game. She wore a short black skirt that was sinful in the way it hugged her hips and the flare of her bottom. Above she wore a corseted blouse, The neckline bordering indecent. Nestled between her veritable heaving bosoms was an amethyst pendant of deepest violet on a thin golden chain, a gift, a promise of forever. It was infused with his aether that she might have a piece of him regardless of how far her travels took her.

“And what does the esteemed Emet-Selch have to say pray tell.” She gave him a sweet smile that was anything but, matching his mischief as only his lover could.

“Restitution has been demanded of you from the convocation, and your duty demands your acquiescence. Lahabrea requests repayment for his good faith, to which you have agreed, and you have even freely offered repayment to Elidibus, though he demands nothing of you.” She followed him with her midnight eyes until he circled behind her. Delicately his fingers traced along the golden chain that held his pendant, goose flesh puckered the pale skin of her breasts. “And yet, dear heart,” he spoke directly into her ears, and though she fought it there was no hiding the fluttering of her pulse or the sharp inhale when he tugged the pendant free, body warmed, and thrumming with power. “You have offered nothing to the architect of your deliverance, your soul’s mate, whom you have wronged most gravely.” He pressed his lips to the shell of her ear and she swayed, leaning against his chest. “Whatever am I to do with you?”

From Shadows Estinien/WoL, set after 5.1, long fic, friends to lovers, roommates, PTSD. Rated E.

The exchange was a fortnight ago, but the guilt lingered, thoughts circling back to Shiloh time and again. His feelings towards her were complicated, a tightly wound knot he didn’t know how to start untangling so he ignored it, and avoided her. Watching her from afar was easier than facing her head on. Estinien rankled at his own cowardice. He cared for her far more than he would ever let on, admitting only that she was a dear friend, and he was fiercely protective of those he considered friends. He swelled with pride whenever he heard of her exploits. He was grateful to her for saving his life, he found a measure of peace since she’d rescued him, rediscovered who he was in the absence of revenge and hate, and the person who had emerged, though damaged, wasn’t a person he disliked.

And yet there was a current of resentment and anger. When nightmares gripped him, she was a chief player in the terrors his subconsciousness visited upon him, and he had killed and been killed by her more times than he could count. When a dark mood would plague him, which was, frustratingly, often, he cursed her name, and the second chance at life she and Alphinaud had gifted him. Estinien had asked Shiloh, specifically, to kill him, and she’d denied him that release. And always, always it all spiraled into guilt and shame, the guilt of surviving when far better people than him had gone to Halone’s halls, people Shiloh had loved. No, better to keep his distance, better for him, and for her. She was more than capable, the Warrior of Light didn’t need him. Let it Snow Aymeric/Wol, Self indulgent Starlight Fluff/smut. Rated E.

The wind howls through the tunnels connecting the Pillars to Foundation. The snow, if the tiny icy knives can be called snow, fall sideways, cutting into exposed skin. The air is heavy and damp, seeping directly into any unfortunate traveler's bones. It’s the kind of weather that aggravates old wounds, and old joints, the kind that claims the lives of the unwary. Halone’s own fury batters the city perched atop the peak of a mountain. Shiloh squints against the onslaught, each step through the heavy snow slow and measured, there’s ice beneath the snow, and unfortunate falls were not uncommon in Ishgard under these conditions.

There’s no turning back, her destination and her starting point stood at equal distance, so she soldiers through the snow drifts piling up throughout the tunnels. The Warrior of Light is bundled in what was an almost comical amount of layers, tail and horns wrapped in custom made knit scarves. Golden eyes and a bright red nose poke past her knit hat and the scarf she has wrapped around her face. Mittened hands clutch a small blue and silver box, fingers nearly gone numb, her toes not faring much better as they tramp through the ever deepening snow blanketing the city streets. Lord Edmont’s urging for her to change before leaving rings in her ears, and she regrets ignoring his advice. When she emerges from the tunnels she’s not sure if the wind is worse or better. The snow renews its attempt to bury her, or transform her into a snowman, her pace slows in the heavier accumulation, but at least now she can see her goal.

The doors to the congregation are flung open with a deafening slam, Shiloh turns and struggles to close them. The blowing snow eager to claim whatever space it can. Gone are Handeloup and Lucia, gone are the scribes, and the chirugeons, gone are the Temple Knights, all but one. It was Starlight eve afterall, and the Lord Commander insisted that those under his charge be with their loved ones, out of the cold on Ishgard’s most sacred night. That he didn’t apply the same compassion to himself fuels Shiloh’s frustration and gives her the additional strength she needs to finally close the heavy wooden double doors against the storm. A sigh puffs from her lips and she slides down the rattling wood, a draft flitting through the bottom cracks, she’s too drained, too cold from her trek to move. Aymeric runs into the congregation's main chamber, sword drawn, only to be met by the sight of Shiloh’s half buried figure, more snow then Au Ra, sitting on the floor.

“Shiloh?” He sheaths his weapon and hurries to her side. “What are you doing here? You should be with the Fortemps.”

“So should you.” Shiloh lifts the small gift she’d clutched to her heart in an effort to protect the shiny blue wrapping paper and delicate silver ribbons she’d taken such pains to get just right. “Happy Starlight?” She tugs the scarf from her face, and wills her lips to stop chattering long enough to give him what she hopes is a sweet smile.

Clamor ffxivwrite2020 prompt fill, Gaius and WoL. Rated T.

The smoke from the Ultima wreckage stung her eyes, and made it hard to breath. Shiloh secured Thancred to Maggie, checking his pulse again, checking his pupils, he was alive, unconscious but alive, and given the circumstances it would have to be enough. The metal of the decimated castrum creaked, and she was acutely aware that she was on a broken elevator. She moved quickly, ready to mount up and get out, only to be met with a long echoing groan. She froze, knowing it was Gaius Van Baelsar.

“Seven hells.” She muttered harshly under her breath before she stepped away from the magitek armor and sprinted towards the fallen Garlean.

She couldn’t find a pulse or even properly assess him with all of his armor in the way so she searched for a latch that would release his helmet. A click and a hiss later, she was pulling the metal horns from his head, his third eye shone amidst the blood and sweat marring his otherwise strong, dark features. She set to work, pushed her Aether into his body stopping the worst of the internal bleeding. She didn’t need magic to see that he was concussed, his pupils were pinpricks in his hazel eyes, but he was awake, and that was promising. After a tense moment he breathed deeply, a pain eased.

He tried to get up but Shiloh pushed him back down, “stay still.”

“Your mercy is a weakness.” The gravel of his baritone having lost much of its strength.

Shiloh kept working, focusing her energy on repairing a bleed close to his lungs.

“This isn’t mercy.” She spoke without looking at him.

“If not mercy, then what?”

“Justice.” Slowly she sat him up, keeping a glowing green hand close to his abdomen lest her delicate work be undone.

“One would think that dying among the castrums flames a fitting justice.” He winced and she slowly pulled him to his feet.

“That fate is far too kind, given your crimes.” Shiloh was diminutive next to Gaius, still she put one of his arms around her shoulders, letting him lean on her as they slowly made their way back to the waiting magitek armor. “Besides, long before I was a warrior or champion, I was a healer, I made an oath to offer succor to the sick and injured.” She glanced up at him, “even if the injured is my enemy.”

War of Hearts Zenos/WoL Arranged Marriage AU, long fic, enemies to friends to lovers, Rated M.

It was absurd, laughable almost were it not happening in real time. Before her stands Varis, not a priest of the Twelve, to her right stands the man she was marrying, not the love of her life, not even someone she might like, no, to her right stands her most hated enemy. Zenos Yae Galvus. And Shiloh stands stock still, in a gown of shimmering gold, trimmed in red, the three interlocking diamonds, symbol of her long standing enemy embroidered into the delicate fabric, the same colours repeating in the bouquet she holds. She’s surprised any flowers at all deign to grow in the northern waste that was Galremald. Strange that she can still be surprised considering the outrageous betrayal that brought her here. She speaks the words of fealty, words of love, words of promise, and dutiful to the last, she places her hand over Zenos’s and Varis twins the red and gold cord around their hands. The weight of the ring on her left hand itches, as if the metal had been tempered in acid.

Shiloh had been many things in the preceding years, weapon, symbol, and now, bribe. She was the cost the Eorzean and Doman Alliances have paid for peace. She is the concession, by giving her to Garlemald, Varis has effectively disarmed his opponents, not that he hadn’t given back, the castrums in Eorzea and Doma are being dismantled as the farce carries on. The leaders, for their part, had done a good job of wringing their hands in a show of contrition and regret, but ultimately their people had to come first, even the Scions, her friends, or so she’d thought, had said it was for the good of the realm. No one, not a single one, had thought to put her wants, or her needs first. They were present, all of them watching as she turns, watching as Zenos, towering over her, takes her chin in his hands and bends to kiss her. That she doesn't recoil, or fill his mouth with bile is a miracle, likely her last. Hydealyn is ever silent, even as the crowd claps for the royal couple. She is named princess, and a gaudy Garlean crown is placed on her head. Absurd. Shiloh is in the seventh hell.

When the ceremony ends she takes Zenos’s arm and is led to the grande reception hall. He even pulls the chair out for her, ever the polite monster. They sit on a raised dais, course after course of food brought before them, and each tastes like ash in her mouth. Garlean nobles and Erozeans alike present gifts, one after the other the alliance leaders declare their friendship and present a gift that would remind her of home. She does not smile, she does not pretend, let the alliance leader's final memory be of her disdain, she hopes they choke on their guilt. If she could have burned the gifts, she would have, sadly thurmaturgy was not her strength, though she knew enough to light the entire pile on fire, were it not for the aether dampening shackles she’d been given upon her arrival in Garlemald. They appeare to be nothing more than golden bangles, but they were narrow enough that they could not be removed, and removing them required a controller. A controller Varis held. The emperor had cited safety, knowing full well she was present under duress, knowing full well the destruction she was capable of. He promised he would unshackle her when he knew he could trust her not to kill them all while they slept. She supposed she would be wearing them until her dying breath.

As for who I would tag, Everyone I would have, has been tagged, so if you see this and would like to participate, consider yourself tagged.

#whimsy writes #whimsy words #ffxiv #choosing 5 was hard...I wish I could have chosen a passage from a later chapter from From Shadows...but it wouldn't make sense #cries in multishipper #Shiloh is busy #Also there are pieces here that arn't actually part of her canon #but I just like writing her #one day I'll write a piece for Sofi too

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atropaazraelle · 6 years

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A Spell for Happiness: Ch. 5

Continued

Also available on AO3

Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.

The crackle of burning logs made the room feel less expansive. Ignis could feel the heat from the fire on his face, turning his head this way and that, feeling the temperature shift across his cheeks, kissed by the fire's heat in one turn, and the cooler air of the library in the next. Gladio's footsteps were light across the hard floor as he approached, and then he sank onto the seat next to Ignis, so close their thighs brushed. The dip of Gladio's weight on the cushion tipped Ignis sideways, toward Gladio, and he fought to right himself with a smile.

Gladio's arm slipped around his shoulders, and Ignis felt the touch ripple through his skin, pleasant and comforting. “Sorry,” Gladio said, shifting his weight a little so Ignis could sit up straight once more, but when he settled back down, more slowly, their legs still touched. “It's a bit small for two,” he explained. “There's a bigger one further back, or I could sit on the floor?”

Ignis only shook his head. “It's fine.” He settled into the small sofa, enjoying the radiating warmth of the fire and the heat of Gladio's presence. The arm retreated from around him, and for a second, Ignis missed it. Then Gladio's shoulder nudged up against his and stayed there, pressed in close, and with a smile, Ignis gave in to the temptation to lean against it. “What did you choose to read?” he asked.

“It's a collection of poems,” Gladio said, with an unusual trace of nerves in his tone. “Didn't wanna force you to listen to me reading something long if you think I'm flat.”

Ignis turned his face away from Gladio at the confession, his lips drawing into a smile. “You sound lovely when speaking. I don't expect you'll fail to do a book justice.”

There was a stillness in the air that followed, and Ignis got the distinct impression he was being watched. He kept his face turned away, and hoped Gladio would attribute the glow in his cheeks to the heat of the fire. After a tense few seconds in which Ignis could almost count his heartbeats, he heard Gladio open the book, and the rustle of leather and paper as he leafed through pages to find one to his preference. Then Gladio cleared his throat and began to read.

“When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning Sunk chill on my brow— It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame; I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame.

They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o’er me— Why wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee, Who knew thee too well— Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met— In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee?— With silence and tears.”

Ignis listened to Gladio recite the last lines and drew in a shaky breath. The warmth of the fire was still there, but the room seemed cold somehow, pricking across his skin. “You read that beautifully,” he said, his voice soft in the near silence.

He heard Gladio inhale too, before he breathed out slowly through his nose. “Byron's one of my favourites,” he said.

Ignis found a question at the edge of his voice and realised he wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer, but he also couldn't bear not knowing. “Have you ever been left by a lover like that?” he asked, and then bit his lip, unsure what answer he'd prefer.

Gladio laughed, though the sound was awkward, and brief, and self conscious. “No,” he answered, and Ignis felt a lessening of the weight he hadn't been aware was pressing on his heart. “It's just the idea of it, you know? Loving someone like that, and watching them walk away because...” His shoulder shifted with a shrug, and the movement tipped Ignis further in against him. “...you can't be together, or they're not as in love as you are? It really gets me.”

“I think I understand,” Ignis said, tilting his head so it rested against the back of the sofa.

“Have you ever been in love?” Gladio asked, and Ignis felt as if every ounce of the man's attention was on him. He daren't move for it, even though it made his chest tight and his stomach flip.

“No,” he answered in a whisper. “Though I'd like to be, one day.”

“You don't think it's scary for someone to have the power to hurt you that way?” Gladio asked. Ignis felt him shift, so slightly, and it made his skin tingle and his breath catch.

“Yes, it is,” he admitted, feeling something in the air as tangible as magic. It felt as if his fins were curling, as if his scales were flashing with their own magical signals in response. “But to be able to trust someone to hold such power would be worth the risk.”

The weight next to him shifted again, and Ignis listened to his own thundering heart for a little too long. “Maybe you will find someone you can trust like that,” Gladio said, mere inches from Ignis' ear.

Ignis lifted his head slowly, the indescribable magic prickling all along his senses and his skin, making him feel breathless and giddy, like he'd raced to the ocean floor and back again too quickly. “Such trust has to be earned, and learned,” he said. The place where Gladio's leg touched his seemed to be aflame, and Ignis didn't want to retreat. “Perhaps meeting someone who wants to earn it will be enough for now?” he asked, finding the words coming hesitant and quiet.

“It's a start,” Gladio said. Fingertips brushed against Ignis' hand, finding his palm before enclosing it in a warm and gentle grip.

Ignis swallowed, dizzy with the throb of magic in the air—the magic coming from Gladio. It stole his breath away, and he squeezed the hand that held his own. “You've already been so kind,” he murmured. “I wouldn't wish to be taking advantage.”

“You're not,” Gladio insisted, his hand squeezing in return.

“You know so little about me,” he said. How could he talk of trust earned and learned when Gladio didn't even know the truth of what he was? He did want to trust Gladio; he just didn't know if he could.

“I know you're proud,” Gladio said, “and stubborn.” Ignis' breath caught as a thumb grazed over his cheek, not over the scars he'd learned were there, but over the unblemished cheek below a sightless eye. “And whatever you've lost isn't a burden I want you to bear alone.”

Ignis felt his eyes sting again at the statement, and he turned his cheek into Gladio's fingers, feeling them cup his face and then slowly sink into his hair, leaving a thumb to brush over the crest of his cheekbone. “It's not what I've lost,” he said quietly, “it's that even if I found a way back, I'm no longer sure I'd want to take it.”

“Iggy,” Gladio said, his fingers sinking into the soft hair at the nape of Ignis' neck, “no matter what happens, I promise you'll always have a place here.”

Ignis felt the words settle in his chest, encircling his heart and snaring it with its temptations. “Thank you,” he said.

“You're welcome.” The fingers lingered on his cheek and in his hair, and then they gave one final brush, as if to kiss farewell before Gladio's hand withdrew. “I guess it's later than I thought,” he said, settling back into the seat beside Ignis. “Might not have time to get through many more.”

“Yes,” Ignis agreed, feeling the pull of magic recede, even though the hand that held his own didn't. “Read the others for me tomorrow? If you would?”

Gladio gave a short huff, and Ignis felt his hand pulled upward until something soft pressed against his knuckles. Coarse hair tickled his fingers and the back of his hand, and Ignis held his breath as Gladio answered, “Sure thing.”

*****

The morning sun no longer lit up Ignis' world, but there was a discernible difference this morning. It wasn't just the brightness of the sun, the warmth of it laying gentle lips on Ignis' skin in aching reminder of Gladio's mouth against his knuckles. There was something else. Ignis compared it to magic in his head, but the more he thought on it, the less accurate that seemed. It wasn't magic, wasn't a spell woven in the air that settled over his mind. It was something altogether more comfortable, and comforting. It was like song. It was his heart being buoyed by the music of another after hearing it for the first time. The beat of his heart in his chest tapped out a rhythm that belonged to a melody he'd only just realised he was hearing.

They'd finished Lord Byron's poems, and Gladio had moved on to Shakespeare's plays. He loved the comedies, he'd said, and his smile twisted his voice as he recited passages for Ignis, delighting in the smile he won in return, and sharing in the laughter it elicited.

His clothes had arrived that morning, wrapped in thin paper and handled with care, and Ignis had taken longer to get dressed as he'd picked his way through the selection available. He'd chosen a cotton shirt, the tailor having thoughtfully marked a stitch in the back of the collar so Ignis could distinguish the colours by touch. It was a vibrant purple, according to the mark, and the trousers were black, sharp lines at the front sitting smoothly against Ignis' skin. They were soft and sensuous to wear, hugging his hips and caressing his thighs as he moved. The shirt draped across his shoulders like a friendly arm, but Ignis left the top buttons unfastened, finding the feeling of having something so close around his neck to be uncomfortable.

There was a jacket, too, lined with what he recognised to be silk, and Ignis drew it up his arms and over his shoulders, taking in the textures of it all. He'd assumed, when he'd first seen humans, that they were wore their wealth all the time, but one day in a human body had taught him a susceptibility to cold he'd never known before. Still, human clothes served a decorative purpose as well as a functional, and the feeling for Ignis, dressed for the first time in clothes that were fitted to him, was the same as when he’d donned pearls and silks for royal functions. He took the time to comb his hair, sweeping the strands back from his face before he ventured out to find Gladio.

Gladio was not hard to find. The sound of his voice echoed through marbled halls as Ignis approached. He was calling words of encouragement to someone, and there was a clang of metallic objects striking one another. Ignis was suddenly taken by how normal all these things were beginning to seem.

He opened a door, and the sound of metal bashing against metal grew louder. It continued for a few seconds after he opened the door, and then he asked, “Gladio?”

There was one final collision of metal on metal, and then a thud, and a yelp. Gladio's voice erupted with a pained cry.

“Are you all right?” Ignis asked.

At the same time another voice asked, “Are you okay, sir?”

“Fine!” Gladio replied, a little loudly. “I'm fine,” he repeated, followed by a hiss. “Just put it down on my foot, I'm fine.” This was followed by the slightly stilted sound of footsteps moving toward Ignis, one foot definitely being used more lightly than the other. “You look,” Gladio began, and then trailed off into silence, leaving Ignis hanging on the end of the sentence.

“Do I pass muster?” he asked, and then a thought occurred to him. He flew his fingers over the buttons of his shirt. “Have I got the buttons right?”

“Yeah, you—” Gladio said quickly, only to trail off again. “You got them right, you—” Ignis got the impression he was being taken in, and pored over. “You look good.”

“Thank you,” Ignis said, turning his face up, toward where he knew Gladio's would be. “For the clothes as well as the compliment.”

“It's nothing,” Gladio replied. Ignis heard another shuffling footstep as Gladio came a little nearer.

“You really are limping quite badly, aren’t you?” he said, concern coming through his voice, just as he knew it would show on his face. “You should get it looked at.”

Gladio made a noise that sounded like he wanted to argue, but knew he shouldn't. “I promised Prompto I'd head to the markets with him today,” he said with a tinge of regret.

“Were you taking him for something in particular, or is it just for the company?” Ignis asked, his head tilting ever so slightly. His unspoken offer to go with Prompto lay just below the surface of the question. He'd never been to a market before, and the opportunity sounded enticing. It would be full of food, and wares, things new to Ignis that he could never admit were new without having to fall back on the use of amnesia as explanation.

Gladio seemed to consider his options. “He just likes having someone to chatter at. You don't have to go with him if you don't want,” he said, clearly operating under the belief that Ignis was offering out of kindness alone.

“Nonsense,” Ignis replied. “It sounds like he'll be an ideal guide, and you can rest that foot.”

*****

Gladio, it turned out, had not been exaggerating when he said Prompto liked having someone to chatter at. Ignis found himself guided to the soundtrack of a constant litany of descriptions, first to one market stall, and then another. Ignis paused at a stall that smelled thoroughly intoxicating, taking a deep breath of all the aromas tantalising his nostrils and tongue. There were so many, and while they melded into a single smell that almost had a physical presence, with concentration Ignis could pick out each individual note in the symphony.

Nutmeg, cumin, fennel. Each was named for him as he browsed the spices on display, letting his nose guide him. Scents didn't travel like this in the oceans, they didn't mix and merge to tempt the taste buds, and merfolk had nothing, nothing, that smelled like thyme, or paprika, or lemongrass.

“Enjoying yourself there?” Prompto asked, his boundless enthusiasm wound in for Ignis' sake, but still present below the surface. He still felt familiar to Ignis, there was still that lingering sense that reminded him of Noct, as if something about the boy was tickling at the edge of Ignis' perception.

Ignis adjusted his hand around Prompto's arm and answered, “Immensely.”

“Thought I was gonna lose you in the spice stall,” Prompto said, cheerful and teasing, but he stayed fixed to Ignis' side, as attentive as Gladio himself. Ignis couldn't help but wonder if Prompto had been told to keep an eye on him.

Ignis turned his face up to the sky, feeling the warming rays of the sun on his cheeks as it began to dip toward the horizon. “I suppose you don't appreciate how precious your senses are until you lose one,” he said.

“Yeah,” Prompto said, and Ignis felt the hesitation in the line of his shoulders as he shifted his arm in Ignis' grip. “You're doing okay, though, right? Gladio's taking good care of you?”

“He's been very hospitable,” Ignis answered. There was something off about the line of questioning, and he wondered where Prompto was taking it, and why.

“Good! That's good,” Prompto said. “So you're, like, happy, right?”

Ignis stopped, letting go of Prompto's arm. He heard Prompto walk on, not expecting Ignis to let go, and then he stopped and turned to look at him. “Prompto,” Ignis said, using the same tone he used when he was about to start interrogating Noct about the dogfish pup found in his rooms. “What were you doing down on the beach that night?”

“What night?” Prompto asked, his voice hurried, the words betraying an awkward attempt to keep from telling a lie before the speaker was ready.

Ignis did his best to set his face into stern disapproval, though he worried the effect might be lost if he couldn't make eye contact. “You know which night,” he said.

Prompto grumbled and huffed, as if trying to squirm out of the line of questioning, before he surrendered with a groan. “He told me not to say anything.” Ignis got the distinct impression he was being sulked at; it was a familiar feeling. “He wasn't kidding about you.”

Ignis let his shoulders drop. “I don't believe I need to impress upon you the importance of your silence?”

“Hey,” Prompto said, his ebullient energy returning now he'd had the confession forced from him. “My lips are sealed.”

Ignis gave a defeated sigh. Noctis had been consorting with a human, despite all the trouble he had already caused. “Do you see him often?” he asked, dreading the possibility that the answer might be yes.

Prompto made a small noise that Ignis knew better than to take for a no, although it certainly wasn't a clear cut yes, either. “Not so much now,” he said. “I know you and he are the ones who rescued us,” he said, and his voice fell to a whisper. “He just wants me to make sure you're safe.” There was the sound of Prompto reaching up, his clothes rustling, and then Ignis felt the wash of Noct's magic surge upward. “He gave me this,” Prompto said.

“Put it back on,” Ignis said. “I know what that is.” Noct's charm, tied to Noct, and Noct's life, and a way for merfolk to repay a debt. “Did he explain it to you?”

The swell of magic dissipated as the charm came to rest against Prompto's breast once more, and Ignis breathed a little easier, but he knew it wasn't really gone. Small wonder Prompto had seemed so familiar; Ignis had been sensing Noct's connection to this boy. “He just said it's magical,” Prompto said, and Ignis could just picture him shrugging.

He pursed his lips. “Guard it with your life. Were that to fall into the wrong hands, Noct would be in grave danger. Merfolk do not give up our charms easily for that very reason.” Of course, in the right hands, it was protection, and an increase of their power, but Ignis certainly wasn't about to advertise that fact.

“Will do,” Prompto said, as if Ignis hadn't just attempted to impress upon him the mortal risk Noct had taken by handing it over. “And Specky?” Ignis scowled at the nickname. Clearly Noct had done quite a bit of talking while Ignis was incapacitated if he’d managed to pass along that little tidbit. “You should tell Gladio you like him.”

Ignis huffed at the meddling in his personal life, especially since he wasn't sure if this was coming from Noct or Prompto. Perhaps it didn't really matter if they were forming a unified front. “He knows,” Ignis said, thinking of lips kissing his knuckles, and a thigh pressed against his on a sofa that was much too small for two grown men.

“No, I mean,” Prompto pressed, “you should tell him.”

“I don't require your interference,” Ignis said, a little more sharply than he'd intended. “Or Noct's,” he added, trying to soften the blow.

Silence bloomed and flourished in the time it took Prompto to reply. “He hasn't told you, has he?”

Ignis felt something cold and unpleasant slough over his insides at the way Prompto said it, as if there was something big and important that Ignis was missing. “Told me what?”

The flourishing silence budded, and grew flowers, and Ignis found his heart beating an uncomfortable staccato as he waited for the answer.

“Gladio's getting married, Ignis,” Prompto said. “To Princess Garnet.”

#ffxv #final fantasy xv #gladnis week #gladnis #gladnis week day 7 #fantasy au

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