#wondroustailsofffxivgpose
Post-5.5, emeto mention, hurt/comfort, 1k words
Back at the Rising Stones, in the whirlwind of the aftermath, partings and reunions, the Scions rousing at last, Eyn’ara was an emotional wreck. She was just trying to keep herself awake long enough to be sociable when the door opened again, and Aymeric walked in. She’d been in no state to call him, and had no idea who had (good money was on Tataru), but as their eyes met across the crowded room, Eyn’ara froze.
That was the trouble with using her inner beast to dodge her memories; they tended to surface at the most inopportune times. The instant she saw her beloved, she remembered exactly how it had felt to cut him down; the sound her axe had made as it rent his flesh, the way the silk and leather and furs had parted before it, the shudder through her hands as the blade struck home. The coppery scent of his blood gushing out, staining her axe with the colour of his life. The way his eyes had dimmed as he gasped, swayed… fell.
Eyn’ara clapped her hands over her mouth and ran for Dawn’s Respite, locking the door behind her. Giving into the bile roaring up her throat did nothing to suppress the parade of visceral images on loop in her mind. Aymeric. Alphinaud. Y'shtola. Thancred. Aymeric.
Soon enough she had naught left in her stomach — she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten — but she couldn’t stop, dry heaves indistinguishable from her deep, wracking sobs. Somewhere far away there was a pounding on the door, but she could hardly hear it over the sounds of her body seeking to turn itself inside out.
“Get the key.” That was Aymeric’s voice, brooking no argument; Eyn’ara despaired, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. All she could do was curl into a ball on the floor, hide away where she would be as harmless as possible.
Then there were arms around her, and though she protested, curling into herself ever further — if I can’t use my hands I can’t hurt anyone — the arms were implacable, holding her so carefully.
“Forgive me.” Aymeric’s voice again, so near. Eyn’ara shuddered and squeezed her eyes more tightly shut, tears cascading afresh down her cheeks. “But I could not listen to you in such distress and do nothing.”
She was exhausted, from grief and from battle; without energy to sustain them, her cries tapered off into whimpers. Beneath them, she could hear Aymeric humming tunelessly, stroking her hair in the soothing way that grounded them both. He held her against his chest, his heart beating strong and steady beneath her ear. She pressed closer, the sound the only thing that held any meaning in the world. Alive. Alive. Alive.
She breathed to the beat, wanting to attune her entire existence to the sound, to the proof that what she so vividly remembered wasn’t real.
“I never would,” she murmured, her throat raw and aching, the words ripping out of her. “Never.”
“I know it,” Aymeric said, calm and certain. “And I will never forgive these Ascians for making you doubt it of yourself.”
He was dressed down, not in his Commander’s garb, and Eyn'ara reached a trembling hand to his shoulder, his chest, feeling whole, warm skin.
It was one of the strongest parts of his armour, the massive pauldrons and the dragon gorget. They’d been like paper before her axe.
Aymeric caught her hand, bringing it to his lips. “Lady Y’shtola told me what happened,” he said gravely. “You are unhurt?”
Eyn'ara barked a bitter laugh. “None of you— them, I mean, the shades— none of them could even touch me. Three at once, four. It didn’t matter. I was unstoppable.”
“Good,” Aymeric said, gathering her close as she shuddered and clung to him. “Those of us who are real, and love you, are very glad to have you here.”
Eyn'ara would have wept at that, but she had no tears left. Instead, she just let herself be held, let his hands and his warmth and the oak and bergamot scent of him empty her mind.
It had been a verylong day.
“I wanna go home,” she said at last, her words slurring with exhaustion. “I don’t want to sleep here.”
Aymeric, bless him, didn’t ask which homeshe meant, or whether she had enough residual aether to teleport. He merely kissed her temple.
“You go on, then,” he murmured. “I’ll make your excuses and follow right behind. I promise.”
Eyn’ara was too tired to argue. She began casting Teleport where she sat, images of their room at Borel Manor and its feather bed filling her mind.
When she arrived, it was late enough that the servants had already taken to bed. She bent her entire will on putting one foot in front of the other, thankful that she didn’t have to keep up appearances for anyone any more. The weight of G’raha’s soul weighed heavy on her, but her friend had been sleeping for years; she doubted he would begrudge her this moment of rest.
Divesting herself of her armour piece by piece as she walked, she left a trail of her clothing to the bedroom. Aymeric could scold her for messiness if he wished, though somehow she thought he might let it slide this time. Reaching the bedroom door, she pressed it closed with her body and remained slumped against it for a long moment.
It was finally over.
She flopped face first into the soft, welcoming bedspread, not even bothering to tuck herself in, and this was how Aymeric found her. Time had drifted as she dozed but she didn’t think it had been long.
“Darling…” Aymeric’s voice permeated through the haze surrounding her, suffused with fondness and relief. “Am I to be banished to the sofa tonight?”
Eyn’ara grumbled as she rolled over, making grabby hands at her husband, who laughed softly. The bed dipped as he climbed in next to her, and with a bit of expert manoeuvring, covered her with the duvet. Eyn’ara immediately cuddled up next to him, pressing her ear to his chest to listen to his heart once more. Alive. They’re all alive. Everyone is safe.
Aymeric pulled her closer, pressing his lips to her hair. Lying boneless and secure in his arms, finally at rest, Eyn’ara heard his voice rumble on the edge of sleep.
“Welcome home.”
