#this ended up being way longer than intended

Pre-relationship wolmeric. Post-Vault. Violent ideation, descriptions of PTSD, and aftermath of torture. 4k words.

“Ser Aymeric, please. Be reasonable!” The man’s tone was wheedling; he sounded like he was at the end of his tether.

Eyn'ara turned the corner to see a gaggle of people gathered outside the Lord Commander’s door. She recognized the butler, Elbault, as well as the Temple Knights’ healer, whose name she couldn’t remember. She heard a muffled reply from inside the room that served to frustrate the healer further. He turned and saw her approaching, and his face broke into relief.

“Ah! Warrior! Thank the Fury, maybe you can talk some sense into him. He’s been refusing all treatment since your departure, and his wounds are such that—”

Eyn'ara had heard enough. “I’ll speak to him,” she said. “But it might be best if you withdrew for now.”

The healer — Whitecape — was already nodding. “As you say, Warrior of Light.” He held out a small clay pot. “If you can at least get him to use some of this, if he will not accept magic, I would be much obliged.” He left without another word, clearly eager to wash his hands of the matter.

Eyn’ara gripped the pot with one hand and rapped gently on the door with the other. “It’s me,” she said, before he could respond. “No one else.”

There was a pause, then the click of the door unlocking. Eyn’ara pushed it open.

Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim light. Aymeric stood there, wrapped in a heavy brocade coat. The fire in the hearth could generously be called embers. Eyn’ara shivered.

She locked the door behind her. Aymeric’s stance relaxed once it was clear she was not followed by a bevy of healers. His eyes zeroed in on the pot she held.

“I said no healers.” His voice was a thin rasp, a far cry from his usual smooth eloquence. Eyn’ara scoffed.

“I’m no healer,” she said, her voice nearly as gravelly as his. “If I was, maybe…” She shook her head. “But I’m not.” She placed the pot on a side table, considering him.

“Can you even see?” she asked. She wasn’t sure how her eyesight compared to an elezen’s.

“Yes,” he said defensively, but she noted how carefully he moved, retreating from her. She rolled her eyes, knowing the motion would be hidden, and went to stoke the fire.

Aymeric made a sound, quiet, but still perfectly audible to Eyn’ara, who froze. It took a moment for her rational mind to catch up; she knew instantly the sound of fear, but struggled to apply it to Aymeric, whom she had never known to be anything other than cool, calm, and collected. She took in once again the state of the room, thought about Charibert and his flames, and swore vehemently under her breath. She was not equipped to deal with this. If a problem couldn’t be solved by hitting it with her axe, it was someone else’s problem.

But he’d let her in, allowed her to see his vulnerability. She bit the inside of her cheek, drawing blood, trying to keep from swearing again. She would have to be careful, and she hadn’t the first clue how.

“I’m a Seeker, not a Keeper,” she said. There was tense silence at her non-sequiteur. “My eyes are good but I can’t actually see in the dark.” She turned, but he wasn’t looking at her.

“Aymeric.” She tried to gentle her voice. “It’s me. I’m the fucking Warrior of Light. If you get hurt in a room with me I might as well pack it in.” She hadn’t really expected a laugh but the tension in the room did lessen a fraction. She let the point sink in. “Will you let me tend to the fire?”

Aymeric considered, then gave a jerky nod. Eyn’ara let out a breath. “Thank you,” she said simply. She busied herself about her task, trying not to make any sudden movements. Truthfully, a room of this size needed a roaring fire, but she contented herself with only a log or two. The light rose and she shivered again as the heat hit her.

When she looked at Aymeric again, it was to find him staring into the flames, his face worryingly blank.

“Hey,” Eyn’ara said, a bit sharper than intended, and his eyes snapped to hers. She fought to keep her expression neutral. “Look at me.”

The light did him no favours. He looked awful; his face haggard and drawn, his eyes bloodshot. Despite the rapidly warming room, he kept the coat wrapped tight around him.

“I’m not going to let any harm come to you,” she reminded him. “Do you believe me?”

Aymeric nodded again. “Yes,” he said, a bit stronger than before, though his voice was still rough.

Eyn’ara allowed herself a half-smile. “Good,” she said. “Now sit down, before you fall over.” 

Aymeric gave her a look, but did as she said, in the chair furthest from the hearth. Eyn’ara didn’t mind, as it put him closer to the salve. Locating a water jug, she poured a cup and left it next to him. 

“When did you last eat?” she asked. Aymeric just shrugged. Eyn’ara wanted to scream, but she also knew from experience how hard it was to let people take care of her, and tried not to push.

She went to the door, tapping on it from the inside, wagering that the butler would be hovering. 

“May I be of assistance?” The response came immediately, and she hoped Aymeric appreciated his staff, even if he wasn’t in the right state of mind to do so currently.

“Would you mind sending up some soup when you get a chance?” she called.

“Right away, my lady.” Footsteps hurried away down the hall. Aymeric was staring at her with something like reproach; she spread her hands. 

“If you’re not going to eat, I am,” she told him. She picked up the pot of salve. 

Aymeric crossed his arms tighter across his chest. 

Eyn’ara put her hands on her hips. “Really? You expect me not to do anything after you let me in here?”

Aymeric muttered something along the lines of “regretting it.” 

“Tell me to leave, then.” She lifted her chin, challenging him. 

Aymeric looked away first. He didn’t say anything.

“Right.” She uncapped the pot, and the sharp, medicinal scent of aloe and other herbs that she couldn’t name filled the air. “Will you let me see?” 

She held her breath. This was the big one. He was perfectly within his rights to hide the marks of his trials from her. But she prayed that by letting her in he might be willing to share them with someone. 

She watched him swallow, the bob of his throat partially hidden by the high collar of his coat. She stayed perfectly still. 

“…Very well.” The words were a sigh of defeat she tried not to read too much into. Slowly, as though the motion pained him, he uncrossed his arms, peeling back the layers he was wrapped in. 

She tried to steel herself not to react, but her breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t help it. The first thing to be revealed was an angry scar across his throat, the burn of a rope pressed into his pale skin. She clenched her fingers around the pot of salve to keep them from balling into fists and held back an angry hiss. Theyhurthim. She abruptly wished they were all twelve — thirteen — of them alive and in front of her so that she could kill them again, slower this time.

But there was more. His torso was a map of half-healed cuts and burns, like some kind of sadistic canvas (and she had a fairly good notion of who the “artist” had been, fixing the image of splitting his head with her axe in her mind to keep herself from reacting). His chest was also swathed in a layer of bandages, which were spotted with blood, indicating that the wounds below had reopened.

She took a deep breath. “Okay,” she said, when he was revealed down to the waist and it became apparent he would go no further. “Those should be changed.” She nodded at his chest, feeling her crisis brain take over, and she surrendered to it with relief. She needed to be clinical about this, couldn’t give into the other part of her screaming for bloody vengeance. Screaming that it looked like he’d barely seen the touch of healing magic at all.

She pondered logistics. What she’d said was true; she was no healer, but she knew field medicine. It was impossible not to, after the number of battles she’d come through. The number of first aid tents. Properly, she wanted to get him in the bath to soak the bandages off, but she didn’t want to risk putting him in such proximity to heat, not to mention give him time to change his mind.

“Do you have bandages?” she asked, receiving a noncommittal response. She bit back a sigh. Fine, she’d have Elbault bring some after he brought the soup. 

“I’ll have you know I’m not above tearing up your bedsheets to make do,” she informed him.

That, at least, garnered her a wan smile. “I don’t doubt it,” he said.

“It’s not like you use the damn things,” she called behind her as she went to the ensuite. She rifled through cabinets until she found what she sought: a clean rag and a basin, which she filled with water and set next to the fire to warm.

A knock sounded at the door; it was soft, but Aymeric still jumped. Eyn’ara bit her lip and walked to the door, placing herself bodily between the opening and where Aymeric was sitting.

“Thank you, Elbault,” she said, taking the tray from him. “Could I trouble you to bring some bandages too, please?”

“No trouble at all, miss,” Elbault replied promptly, his eyes holding hers and exuding gratitude. She smiled at him and closed the door, locking it once more. She set the tray down on the side table, the steam rising from the simple barley soup making her mouth water.

She hurried to the water basin, pulling it away from the heat and testing a drop of it on the inside of her wrist. It was just barely warm, which was the most she wanted to risk. If she’d had her druthers, she’d be able to use hot water to reduce the chance of infection, but hopefully the salve would do that on its own.

She returned to Aymeric, who hadn’t moved. “Right. I’m going to soak the bandages so they’re easier to take off. This might be a bit cold.”

She started at his shoulder. He hissed, but otherwise didn’t react.

“Why bother?” he muttered.

Eyn’ara scowled, her ears flattening against her head, but she refused to let her hands falter. “Because, as hard as it might be for you to understand, there are people who care about your well being and don’t want to see you in pain.”

“I don’t deserve—”

“Bullshite.” She dropped the cloth back into the basin with a splash and glared at him. “It’s not a question of deserving. If you think I’m just going to sit here and watch you waste away and do nothing, you’ve got another think coming.”

He glared back at her. “It’s my punishment,” he said. “My penance, for causing so much pain.”

Eyn’ara could feel her eyes growing hot. “Don’t be stupid!” she snapped. “If you think I’d mourn your loss any less than his, you’re an idiot.”

Aymeric stared at her. Self-conscious, she looked away, wringing out the cloth to start on a new section.

“I’ve lost too many people,” she said, almost to herself. “People who were killed because of me, or for the crime of not being me. It never gets any fucking easier. Every time I always make the same vow, that I’m not going to lose anyone else, and whoever’s in charge of such things laughs in my face. Lean forward.”

Aymeric did so, moving with obvious stiffness, but without complaint. Eyn’ara moved his coat out of the way and started on his back, which had clearly seen the whip, odd burn patterns that suggested fiery lashes. Gods, Aymeric, what did they do to you? She swallowed back her impotent rage. 

“The worst part of it is feeling helpless,” she said, proud of the fact that her voice shook only slightly. “I’m a warrior. I’m supposed to take the blows. I don’t need protection. But in the end, all I could do was stand there and do nothing.” She took a deep breath, unsure when this had become herconfession. “We all of us knew the risks,” she said at last. “We all of us decided it was worth it.” You were worth it. “You don’t get to decide that it isn’t. It’s an insult to his memory.”

She pulled back. Aymeric looked strangely at her. “You’ve thought a lot about this,” he said.

Eyn’ara shrugged, replacing the cloth. “I’ve had to,” she said, sounding a lot surer than she actually felt. It was easier, faced with his pain and her attention divided. “Now.” She eyed the bandages critically. “I think I need to cut these off.” She said it with care, faced with the lacerations and the likely reason his bandages had not yet been changed. Aymeric’s jaw was clenched, but he didn’t balk. She placed her hand on the arm of the chair, close enough to touch, but not quite daring. “Do you trust me?”

Aymeric shifted his hand the slight distance enough to touch hers. “As no other,” he said simply. “Do it.”

Eyn’ara swallowed and nodded. “I’ll be quick,” she promised, drawing her boot knife. She pulled the bandages as far away from his body as she could, a task made easier by how sodden they were, and severed them with a snick, as Aymeric held very still. “Done.”

Aymeric let out a breath. Eyn’ara peeled the fabric away as gently as she could. What she saw beneath made her gasp.

She’d told herself not to react, but it was impossible not to, when confronted with a series of cruel, calculated cuts spelling out the word LIAR blazoned across his chest. She now understood where the lion’s share of the healing had gone, and why. The wounds were half closed, weeping slightly. With the salve, and, hopefully, another application or two of healing magic, they were clean enough that they likely wouldn’t scar, though it was a near thing. Her hands itched, but she knew no spells to use.

“Has anyone healed you since Alphinaud?” she demanded, both knowing and dreading the answer. When Aymeric shook his head, it was all she could do to keep from chucking the basin across the room. Understanding perfectly whydidn’t make it any easier to take.

“Please let me call the healer,” she begged, gripping his hand in both of hers. She told herself it was because of the risk of infection, but really, she couldn’t bear the thought of him having to walk around with that brand for the rest of his life. She shuddered inwardly at the thought, and added another resurrection and death to the tally for the members of the Heavens’ Ward. One death had been too good for them.

He shut his eyes. “…Will you stay?” he asked, as if there could be any question of her leaving.

“Of course,” she said, relief washing over her in waves. “I told you I wouldn’t let any harm come to you, and I meant it. I’ll smack the healer if he tries anything.”

Aymeric covered his face with his hands and let out a shaky breath. “Gods,” he said, muffled through his fingers. “You must think me pathetic.”

“No,” Eyn’ara assured him past the lump in her throat. “I’m thinking I killed the ones who did this too quickly.”

The way Aymeric raised his head and looked at her made a blush rise to her cheeks, though both were saved the trouble of responding by another knock at the door. Elbault had returned with the bandages, and the healer was behind him.

“Forgive me,” Elbault said, as he handed the bandages over, “for taking the liberty. I dared to hope…”

Eyn’ara jumped up to kiss him on the cheek before she realized what she’d done. “You jewel,” she said sincerely. “I was just about to call for him.”

The older elezen blushed, holding his cheek and looking away.

“Then he has consented?” Whitecape asked.

“With the caveat that I stay in the room,” Eyn’ara said.

The healer tilted his head quizzically. “Very well.”

She looked back at Aymeric. Upon receiving his nod, she stepped aside to allow the healer to enter the room.

“Just him for now, I’m afraid,” she told Elbault, who was smiling.

“Of course.”

She closed and locked the door. The healer was looking around the room at the banked fire, the soup on the sideboard, and the basin of water. He nodded at her approvingly, but said nothing, and thereby shot up in Eyn’ara’s estimation.

“If you’ve no further objections,” the healer said, though his tone was not as acerbic as before. “Then I’ll begin.” His hands began to glow with healing magic. Aymeric’s face in the pale light was drawn. Eyn’ara planted herself firmly in his line of sight, giving her a front row seat to the healer’s work as seconds made do for days. The worst cuts began to fill in, but even more importantly, the red of inflammation dissipated. Eyn’ara breathed out a careful sigh.

The strength of the light faded slightly, and the healer stopped, passing a hand over his brow.

“That’s all I can do for now. I was forced to spend most of my efforts fighting off the infection that had taken root.” He gave her a knowing look. “I trust I can leave the rest to you?” Eyn’ara nodded, showing him to the door.

“Ser Aymeric is fortunate to have such friends,” he said quietly, before taking his leave.

Eyn’ara stood at the door for a moment after she locked it, giving her emotions space to breathe before she returned to Aymeric. Infection had been her greatest fear, and she knew how near of a thing it had been, convincing him to summon a healer. She turned around only when she knew her face was back under her control.

Aymeric was watching her. “I’m sorry, for causing so much trouble,” he said quietly. Eyn’ara grabbed the salve and started applying it to the worst of the burns, letting the bandaged area air out for the time being.

“If you’re sorry, then get better,” she said ruthlessly. “I can’t lose you, too.”

She watched his throat work as he swallowed, but he said nothing, and Eyn’ara worried she’d said too much. Too late to take it back now, if so.

Then he cleared his throat. “Understood,” he said, and if his voice was gravel Eyn’ara didn’t think it was from his injuries.

Applying the salve meant that she became intimately familiar with every single mark that marred his skin. It was a map of scars, both old and new; the tale of a life lived at war. She wanted to kill everyone who had hurt him.

“Ah—” At Aymeric’s sound, she stopped immediately.

“I’m sorry,” she said, cursing herself for becoming distracted.

“No, it’s…” He hesitated. “You’re… growling.”

“Oh.” Once Aymeric mentioned it, she realized she had been growling, a deep, rolling rumble in her chest. “I’m— It’s not directed at you.” She didn’t think she could explain her fervent desire to kill dead men without sounding unhinged. And the low grade headache that she’d just noticed had been building didn’t help matters.

Hydaelyn, if you’re actually listening, you’re on thin fucking ice. I still haven’t forgiven you for taking Minfilia. I don’t need to see what obviously happened. He doesn’t need to feel guiltier than he already does. Just… don’t, today. Okay?

And it seemed Hydaelyn was listening, or else the headache was just a headache, as she was not forced to relive Aymeric’s torture.

The soup was probably cool enough by now. She capped the salve.

“I didn’t know miqo’te could growl?” Aymeric sounded hesitant. 

“I’ll tell you if you eat,” Eyn’ara said pointedly, placing the soup by his elbow. She sat nearby and gulped her own; it was lukewarm, and taking longer to eat it wouldn’t help matters. Aymeric glowered, but out of the corner of her eye she saw him take a tentative spoonful. She shrugged, putting her own bowl down.

“We can do most things coeurls do. Purr, growl. No meowing, though, unless someone’s being a shit.”

Aymeric looked startled. “Noted.”

“I don’t, usually,” Eyn’ara continued, “though I can’t speak for others. Miqo’te get compared to animals enough without acting like them.”

He nodded. “Unfortunately true.”

Eyn’ara went to get the bandages from the sideboard; it was time to wrap those awful cuts before they could start bleeding again. “Anyway, I didn’t realise I was doing it. Sorry if I freaked you out.”

“No, not at all.” Aymeric hastened to reassure her. I apologise, for bringing it up. You should… be as you are.”

Eyn’ara’s hands faltered unwrapping the bandages. She’d never felt it a loss, suppressing her more vocaltendencies since coming to Eorzea; she blended in, by whatever means, until that was rendered impossible. Y’shtola did the same, and she took her cue from her. She’d relegated that part of her to the past, just the same as she had her use of Huntspeak. Nor had she ever envisioned a scenario where she might not want that to be the case. And yet…

This was something to think about later. She shook herself, unrolling the bandages properly and setting about her task, making sure they adhered to the salve and didn’t chafe. She secured them over his right shoulder, noting how he’d been favouring his left.

“There.” She leaned back, inspecting her work; surely someone properly trained could have done it better, but it was good enough.

Aymeric shifted. “I—” He looked away awkwardly. “…Thank you.”

Eyn’ara rose to her feet, dusting off her hands. “You can thank me by getting some fucking sleep. You look like shit.”

He huffed. “Yes, all right.” But she didn’t miss how his eyes darted to the door.

“Oh, I’m staying,” Eyn’ara said, with as much confidence as she could muster. “I’m going to make sure you don’t jump out of bed the second my back is turned.”

To her surprise, he relaxed slightly. “Very little jumping will be happening, I assure you.”

Eyn’ara raised her eyebrows. Had that been a joke?

Seeming to realise what he’d said, he grimaced. “I shouldn’t ask more of you…”

Ah, back to normal.

“Which is why you’re not asking. I’m tellingyou that no harm will come to you while I’m here, and when I say something, I stand by it.”

Aymeric opened his mouth to respond and was interrupted by a yawn. He blinked, looking faintly embarrassed. Eyn’ara just stared at him. Averting his eyes, he began the process of manoeuvring out of the chair. Eyn’ara stepped back, not wanting to look like she was hovering. She’d had enough of that from her friends whenever she’d been on the receiving end.

It was a slow, laborious process that created more rage for her to push down deep. But eventually, he was standing, and walking to the bed under his own power, if carefully. She occupied herself by stacking the basin and dishes on the sideboard and throwing the soiled bandages on the dying fire. By the time she returned to the room, Aymeric had made it to bed. She crossed her arms.

“I draw the line at tucking you in, however.”

Aymeric sniffed. “That will not be necessary.”

Eyn’ara wandered over to a bookshelf. Reading wasn’t her preferred pastime, but it would be less awkward than just sitting watching him sleep.

“You… truly don’t have to stay.”

While her back was turned to him, Eyn’ara rolled her eyes, unsurprised he’d managed to get another protest in. She faced him with her chosen volume in hand. “Then tell me to leave,” she said again, less forcefully this time.

Aymeric hesitated. She waited.

“I should,” he said. Eyn’ara folded her arms.

“That’s not the same thing,” she replied. “I’m staying because I want to. If me being here is going to help you get some decent sleep for once, then that’s what I’m going to do.”

“Why?”

If Aymeric had sounded any less baffled she would have responded far more harshly. “You’re making me repeat myself. I’ve lost too many people. I won’t lose anyone else if it’s within my power to help it.”

Aymeric was quiet for a while after that. Eyn’ara lit a candle and settled in near the door. She might not have had her axe, but her boot knife was easily accessible.

“Is there yet no news of the Scions?” The question was heavy in the darkened room. Eyn’ara fought the urge to kick something.

“Nothing.” She couldn’t keep the bite of frustration from her voice. “Every day I’m not out there looking for them feels like a failure, but there’s nothing to look for. The longer we go without news…” She let out a harsh sigh. “It’s not like we’ve exactly made a secret of our presence in Ishgard. If they were still out there, somewhere… You’d think they’d come find us.”

“No word might also be a good thing,” Aymeric suggested, with a strain in his voice as he shifted positions.

“Mm.” Eyn’ara had considered that angle too. “Yda and Papalymo held off the Braves in the middle of the damn Chamber of Rule. The fact that no one saw anything…” It boggled the imagination. It wasn’t much, to hope that your friends weren’t dead because no one was flaunting their corpses, but it was all she had.

“Means there may yet be a chance,” Aymeric finished. Eyn’ara grimaced.

“But that’s something for me to worry about,” she said. “You should be sleeping.”

“No god would be so cruel as to take everyone from you.” Aymeric’s words were slurring with exhaustion. Eyn’ara stilled in her chair, knowing the words were not ones he would have said when he was more awake. She swallowed and took a deep breath before responding.

“They won’t, if you get some damn rest.” Her voice was no more than a murmur, and Aymeric did not respond again, the sound of his breathing deepening into sleep.