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Chapter Text

Night has well and truly fallen by the time Thancred heads back to the clearing.

The woods is quiet. Tall pines stretch to the heavens, black against a star-strewn sky. The air is light and cool, humming with the buzz of insects and the chirp of distant birds, and the underbrush shakes as nocturnal creatures chitter in the greenery. Commonplace sounds for a commonplace woods, nothing he is unused to after his time in the Dravanian Forelands.

He pauses, casting a quick eye down the path. Despite everything the past year and a half has thrown at him, he can’t rid himself of the sense of unease that comes with being on Imperial soil—former Imperial soil, that is. Too much time spent scouting, he supposes. The Garlean Empire may have crumbled to dust, but his instincts still scream that he is in enemy territory and should prepare for the worst.

South is the way he came. To the north, nothing but trees and thickets, and the meandering path. To the east, the faint outline of a cliff and the sound of rushing water as it flows over the edge. To the west, a yellow glow rises through a gap in the trees, outlining the crest of a distant hill. Terncliff will be alive and bright tonight, bustling with activity as the shops close and the taverns open. The city has changed much since the incident at Werlyt, a gradual turn from a somber, anxious place to one of cautious optimism as it defined itself on its own terms.

They could have stayed after their guided journey through the Ghimlyt Dark, but Aureia insisted on departing at once. She didn’t say it, but he has his suspicions—she will do anything to avoid running into Gaius van Baelsar. The former legatus-turned-mercenary can often be spotted on Terncliff’s walls, watching the sea whilst deep in self-reflection. Thancred is keen to avoid him, too. He has little to say to him, and anything he could say would be overshadowed by the oddity of their history. What happened in the Praetorium is near a decade past, but to Baelsar he bears the face of an Ascian.

That aside, Aureia is easily recognizable. Once she was capable of slipping unnoticed through a crowd, but the noose of her celebrity has slowly grown tighter and tighter. As the invisibility of roaming busy streets is no longer afforded to her, she prefers solitude and privacy over bustling city life. Even if it means forgoing an inn room to camp in the woods.

Suits him just fine.

He steps over a fallen log, the hem of his coat catching on the jagged wood. Cursing softly, he twists around to free it and a branch cracks beneath his boot. The sound echoes through the woods like a gunshot, sending the hidden critters scampering away.

Some fulms away, Filo clicks his beak with warning—a warning not for anything in the woods, but a warning for him.

Thancred sighs wearily and glances over his shoulder. The bird is little more than a yellow beak and glaring liquid eyes, his black feathers blending into the night. As if to reassert his point, he rustles his wings and stalks forward a pace, pawing at the ground. 

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, for the love of the Twelve, who do you take me for—?”

Filo chirps and scrapes at the fallen log, gashing a strip in the wood.

“Aye. I know. I am readily aware of that—”

Filo hisses and shakes back and forth, the movement threatening to shake off his saddlebags.

Thancred gives him a flat stare. “Keep on with that, be my guest, but you risk losing all our water,” he says. Aureia emptied their flasks when she declared she was making soup tonight, then sent them on their way. Considering she is perfectly capable of creating more water with ice-aspected aether, he suspects she had ulterior motives for throwing the pair of them together. “And then what will happen, hm? It will be you and me, out in the woods once more, back to that spring. Not a pleasant situation for either of us now, don’t you think?”

Filo falls still, as if contemplating his words. Then, without warning, he surges forward and butts his beak against his arm.

“Ouch! Hey—”

The bird hisses, fluttering his wings.

“Has it not occurred to you that the only reason we are walking to and from our destination is because a certain someone would be appalled to have me as a rider?” Thancred snaps, gesturing sharply. Thinking better of it, he withdraws quickly and folds his arms, stuffing his hands protectively in his armpits. Best not risk his fingers getting too close.

Not that Filo would bite him, Aureia would be very displeased if he did and there is nothing this overprotective, overgrown chicken hates more than seeing her upset. It is the only reason he deigns to tolerate him. But he never knows with Filo; it’s been near eight years on from the incident that put him on the bird’s blacklist and at this point he’s certain he is never getting off it.

“If you are dissatisfied, it is more your fault than it is mine.”

If looks could kill, he would be a dead man.

“All right. Point taken. My apologies. Off you go.”

He steps to the side, gesturing for the chocobo to take the lead. Filo chirps and bats him in the face with a restless wing as he trots past. Sighing heavily, he runs a hand over his chin as he watches the bird disappear down the path. He gives him a moment, reaching behind him to check that his gunblade is secured while he waits, then trudges after the bird.

The trek through the woods is uneventful—as he suspected it would be—and it isn’t long before he spots the flickering light of a fire that marks where they made camp. Thancred emerges out of the woods, a small smile on his face as he spots Aureia.

The Warrior of Light sits on the ground with her back against a log by the campfire, dark hair unbound from its customary tail and flowing loosely over her shoulder. She balances a leather-bound folio on her knees, brows narrowed with concentration. She pauses now and again to stir the pot without taking her eyes off the page, tsking and tutting in disagreement with whatever she is reading. A brilliant white carbuncle snuggles beside her on the log, its eyes closed, its ears flopped over, its tail whisking back and forth.

It is rare to see her so peaceful.

Not that she is unprepared. Her gunblade lies within arm’s reach, propped up against the log. She gravitated towards it immediately when they decided to travel light, arguing that her staff is too much of a hindrance. She is never without her magic, not truly. He has no doubt she could rain hellfire down on her enemies, staff or no staff. And he knows with certainty that she stuffed her nouliths in her pack, and has a couple spare daggers strapped to her leg and stuffed in her boot. Aureia can never be accused of underpreparing. Overpreparing, on the other hand…

Thancred ducks out from the thicket and stalks through the thick grass. Their tent is already pitched on the far edge of the clearing, their belongings stowed for the night. Filo lies curled beneath a tree, relieved of his saddle and his saddlebags unpacked. He seems to be sound asleep, a wing covering his head.

“You’ve been busy, I see,” he says, coming to a stop by the log. He unstraps his gunblade and sets it next to hers.

A smile tugs at the corner of her lips. She doesn’t look up. “And you took your time, I see.” She wets a finger and turns a page, making a face as she reads. “I thought there was a stream nearby?”

“Oh, there is. Take it up with your chocobo as to why we didn’t go there.”

She snorts. “You shouldn’t let Filo get under your skin.”

“I’m not letting him under my skin. Though I suspect he dreams about doing so in the literal sense more often than not.”

“You’re going to have to learn to get along.”

“I am not the issue here.”

She lowers her folio and fixes him with a look, an eyebrow arched.

“I am not. I am more than content to tolerate him, he is the one who has it out for me—”

Filo’s head pops up and he lets out a loud chirp, his dark beady eyes eyeing Thancred with blatant dislike. So much for being asleep…

Aureia throws her head back and laughs. Throwing her folio aside, she rises to her feet, brushes grass off her trousers and pulls him in for a kiss. Any further arguments evaporate, forgotten in an instant. Her lips are soft, her fingers warm where they press gently into the back of his neck. The scent of simmering broth and cooking seafood cling to her, the side effect of her hard work. It’s funny how much she has gravitated to Doman cooking after years of claiming no interest in the skill. Raulf and Anzu’s influence played a role, but they aren’t the only reason.

He will never tell her this, but he suspects it has something to do with casting off her Garlean roots. The memory of years spent living on tasteless military rations replaced with flavour and spice.

The smell of something burnt strikes his nostrils.

Aureia pulls back. “Oh, hells,” she curses, dropping to her knees by the fire. She grasps the spoon and stirs quickly, making a face as she scrapes something on the bottom of the pot. “I think I burned the bottom…”

He chuckles and takes a seat on the log, stretching out his legs. It’s good to finally sit. “A little burnt soup will not hurt either of us—”

“Yes, but—”

“Aur.”

“Yes?”

“You do recall I once lived in the woods, aye? I assure you this is a veritable feast compared to what I fed myself then.”

She meets his eyes and makes a face. Brushing hair out of her eyes, she stubbornly lifts the pot off the fire and places it on a rock to cool. His gaze wanders as she fills their bowls, his attention drawn to the folio tossed and the carbuncle nestled above it on the log. Such a small, frail colourless little thing, and yet blinding white if you look at it from the wrong angle. A runt, a librarian at the Noumenon remarked. Summoning has never been her forte, though Alphinaud—in his well-intentioned, bright-eyed excitement—pushed her to experiment. She has yet to use it properly in combat, yet she is fiercely protective of it all the same.

He frowns, his gaze passing from the carbuncle to the folio and back again. “Aureia,” he says as she thrusts a bowl into his hands. “Did you summon Nox just for a reading light?”

She wets her lips and flops onto the grass, taking care not to spill her own bowl. “…no.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Fine reading material?”

She grimaces and stirs her spoon round and round her bowl. “Y’shtola’s letters, notes from the Noumenon… I am grateful G’raha compiled them for me before she set out, but gods I feel like I am either twelve steps behind or twelve steps ahead and on a completely different path. I do not understand where her head is at.”  

“In what way?”

“You tell me. Are all Archons this dense and convoluted, or is that just one of our dear friend’s charming merits?”

“‘All Archons…’ you speak as though you haven’t spent the past decade in the company of several.”

“Pfft.” She blows out a puff of air, ruffling her long, sideswept fringe. “I’ve never prided myself on being observant. Here I was counting on your insight, considering you’re an Archon yourself.”

She lets her spoon fall from her grip, shoots him a teasing look from beneath her lashes, and raises her bowl to her lips, the rim obscuring her smirk. 

He sighs and scratches the back of his neck, uncertain whether he has it in him to keep up with her at this time of night. Chances are no matter what he tries, she will find a way to make an utter fool out of him. Not that he minds—not when it’s just the pair of them. Besides, if he were to inquire about her current work he would soon find himself outmatched. He is acquainted enough with basic aetherology, but Aureia and Y’shtola’s current subject is far beyond him.

Admittedly, he feels like a simpleton trying to follow their lines of thought. If Aureia is confused by Y’shtola’s theorems or findings, then Twelve know where that would leave him. Still, her frustration is palpable. Y’shtola is a demanding partner, and does not always consider that others may not follow the same leaps of logic she does.

Aureia lowers her bowl, her brows drawn together as her earlier humour evaporates. “I don’t know if I should have gotten into this,” she admits. “I don’t know if I can follow.”

“You can and you will,” he replies firmly.

“Thank you for the encouragement, but I am being serious.”

“As am I. Have you considered that perhaps tackling a subject as expansive as travelling freely between Shards isn’t best done on an empty stomach after a day’s worth of travel?”

She fixes him with a look. “I do so hate when you’re right.”

Thancred chuckles and spins his spoon around his bowl, unearthing what he suspects is crab meat. He isn’t certain what she has put in here—there is far more than he expected—and for a moment the pragmatist in him compels him to worry that she has gone overboard and used too many of their best rations on the first night.  

His survivalist instincts may disagree, but he knows this is a good sign, coming from her. There was a time in her life when she had no choice but to skimp on rations, when she ate only what was required to keep her body moving and nothing more. Food was never something to be enjoyed, but fuel not to be squandered. Such was the environment she was raised in as a disposable member of the Garlean military.

Not so different from Sharlayan, he remarks to himself. He has suffering through too many servings of archon loaf not to see the similarities. How Fourchenault would hate that comparison.

Back to the point at hand. Realistically—should they happen to run out—resupplying is no trouble with her as a travel companion. He has no right to worry when she can very easily teleport to a city of her choosing, buy what they need, teleport back to the closest aetheryte, then fly the rest of the distance on Filo. Alternatively, they could hunt and gather together; they’re both accustomed to time in the wilderness, and though she swears she is horrible at it, she has an eye for botany and has become a passable fisher.

Warmth floods his chest. A byproduct of drinking the soup, of course. It’s a stray thought, but imagining traversing the wilderness with her, finding what they need from the land, is far more appealing than—

“Thancred.”

He blinks.

Aureia stares at him, an amused expression on her face, and nudges his foot with hers.  

He flushes. “Ah, my apologies,” he says, clearing his throat. “I, uh—”

She maintains eye contact and slowly drinks her soup.

He coughs. “Well. What I intended to say—”

“Intended?”

“If these notes are so troubling to you, why not contact Y’shtola by linkpearl? I am certain she would be happy to explain her thought process in detail—”

“No.”

“No?”

Aureia makes a face—the kind she makes when she knows her gut instinct may be overreactive—and sets her empty bowl in her lap. “It’s stupid,” she mutters, head bowed. “But if I ask her for clarification, I’ll feel like I’ve failed. I should be able to understand this on my own.”

Ah.

Funny how one’s worse insecurities have a habit of coming back around unasked when you least expect them. He has seen her kill fiends and monsters, duel Garlean legati, slay Primals, even dispatch the embodiment of Despair itself, and yet for all that earth-shattering confidence she still crumples at the thought of being uneducated—at least compared to Y’shtola. Magic is her domain and she has an innate understanding of the Void befitting of any black mage. She was so proud of her skill and talent, an easy show-off in the Thaumaturges’ Guild, only to have that all come crashing down the moment she met someone who knew more than she did, and had the confidence and poise to go along with it.   

It has taken her years to see her and Y’shtola’s skills as compliments, rather than competitors, to each other.

Knowing there is little he can say to assuage her, rises to his feet then stoops and takes her bowl from her lap. He refills it silently and proffers it, giving her an insistent look. She smiles gratefully, a faint flush on her cheeks, her fingers brushing his as she takes the bowl from him.

“I’ll think about it,” she says as he treads back to his spot. “Not tonight. I need time to sit with this and think it through when my mind is clear.”

He smiles. “I know you. You of all people will figure it out.”

“There’s another reason, of course.” She meets his eyes. “I’d rather not use the linkpearl for some time. Perhaps a week. Or two.”

“Oh?”

“Barring emergencies, of course. But I think it would be good… nice, even… to have some time to ourselves without opening the possibility of being barraged by our friends from a distance, well-meaning though they are.”

A pause. She wets her lower lip, hesitant with the conclusion she has arrived at—as if by asking him to forgo linkpearl use, she is taking him away from his responsibilities. His duties, whatever those happen to be now that the Scions of the Seventh Dawn have disbanded. Perhaps she worries she asks too much of him. Perhaps she has forgotten what drew them out here in the first place, a topic he himself is hesitant to broach.

“…is that all right?”

He returns her gaze. Firm, solid, sound in his certainty. “Aye. It is.”

Aureia nods, a wistful expression on her face, and looks to the fire. The light of the flames dance across her face, illuminating her in a soft orange glow. The faint laugh lines, the mole on her upper cheek… features thrown into prominence as much as the intensity of her ruby eyes or the sharpness of her jaw. A few strands of silver mark her dark hair, woven between the flashes of deep red. True silver this time, not like the time on the First when light-poisoning poached the colour from her hair. She is not as young as she once was. Neither is he, for that matter. They have left youth behind, faded and scraped away by time and circumstance and survival and death and grief and love.

By life.

He has always thought her beautiful. His insides cringe at the memory, but it was the first thing he took note of when they met in Ul’dah all those years ago. This pretty, fierce black mage with a keen eye, a sarcastic wit, and a combat intuition of the likes he had never seen. He recalls thinking how distinct and becoming her features were, and a number of wandering thoughts indicative of the kind of man he was back then. Had she been receptive to his advances then they would be in a very different place.  

He doubts their friendship would have had a chance to grow naturally, for one. She would have been a conquest in a long line of conquests, a list Urianger is more than happy to remind him of when he feels compelled to embarrass him. And he would never have fallen in love with her, for another. Without that friendship, without the years he spent kicking himself for not recognizing what he felt sooner, without the time they spent apart on their separate paths…

They had so much growing to do. Painfully. Slowly. Independent of each other.

Was it worth it?

He thinks so.

Chapter Text

Something rustles in the grass.

Filo raises his head and lets out a shrill kweh, wings rustling to and fro in warning even though he does not see fit to stand. Aureia turns sharply, brows drawn together, balancing her bowl in the palm of her hand as she searches for the source of the disturbance. Thancred sits up straight, muscles tensed, and follows her gaze. One hand reaches of the hilt of his gunblade. Beside him, Nox slumbers on, the carbuncle unbothered by the commotion.

The grass ripples, swaying back and forth in a zigzag, coming closer and closer—

It stops.

Aureia frowns, eyes narrowed. “That’s enough.”

The grass shudders, chittering. If he didn’t know any better, he’d assume the grass was laughing. 

“I’m serious, that’s enough—”

An acorn pops up out of the grass, sails in a long, wide arc, and lands squarely in his bowl.

Plop.

Thancred curses as broth sprays upwards and splashes over the edge. He shoves the bowl into his opposing hand and shakes the other one out, grimacing at the offending grass. To neither his nor Aureia’s surprise, a familiar, furry grey thing emerges from the grass and flies across the clearing. It leaps and clings onto his leg, clambering up at great speed. Its claws dig into his wrist as it flings itself at his bowl, seizes the acorn and springs off, landing adroitly on the ground and before scampering off to the far side of the campfire. Only then does it pause, triumphant in its retrieval of the acorn, bushy tail waving back and forth.

“Twelve take me…” Thancred passes a hand across his forehead. “So, that’s where you’ve been hiding—”

The grass rustles again and out pops a blur of white and yellowish fur. It streaks round the fire and seizes the acorn, its long, fluid body twisting over a log and disappearing to the far side. The nutkin’s ears flatten, its nose wriggling as its dark, liquid eyes seethe. The whittret wriggles back and forth, its head popping up one moment only to duck down the next as it searches for a way out. It holds the acorn close, clutching it to its chest.

“Oh, for the love of—”

The nutkin pounces. The whittret reels back. They roll together in a clump, wriggling and chitter, throwing dust in the air as they bat the acorn back and forth between them. Filo snaps his beak and goes back to sleep, covering his head with a wing. Nox stirs, his floppy ears perking up, and squints at the scuffling pair. He bears his fangs (until this day he did not know carbuncles could have them), hisses once in warning, then curls up on himself.

Thancred lets out a weary sigh and glances at Aureia, only to find her sitting cross-legged in silence, peacefully finishing her soup as if the commotion did not exist. A moment later, the nutkin and the whittret run off into the grass and chase each other up a tree, taking their dispute to further heights.

He watches them go, a hand pressed to his open mouth, and slowly runs his palm over his chin. “I have some regrets about this,” he says finally. “Many regrets, in fact.”

Aureia snorts with laughter. “They would have followed us anyway—”

He gives her a sour look.

“—and even if they didn’t, did you really want to leave them in Old Sharlayan? So close to the Noumenon. Could have chewed through countless priceless books.”

He grimaces and sets his bowl down by the edge of the fire. For some reason he has lost his appetite. “When I imagined what married life would look like, camped malms outside Terncliff surrounded by a merry band of creatures characterized by varying degrees of bad attitude—”

She grins.

“—was not part of the equation.”

Her eyes sparkle.

He rolls his own.

Still chuckling with laughter, Aureia gets to her feet and takes his bowl, stacking it with hers. She pats Nox fondly on the head, then murmurs a thank you and an incantation, dismissing the carbuncle for the night. “Castor and Nutkin are a handful, but you have to agree they do make the days more interesting,” she continues as she sets about cleaning up.

“We certainly have collected a strange following, aye.” He folds his arms and sinks into the log. She was never much of an animal person, at least not back in Ul’dah. Neither was he, come to think of it. Funny how things change. Filo and Castor chose her as surely as Nutkin chose him and now they are constants in their lives whether they like it or not.

(It’s a point of endless amusement to both of them that she chose names for her chocobo and whittret, even her carbuncle, and yet the nutkin remains distinctly—and untheatrically—Nutkin.)

“May I help?” he asks after a moment.

She shakes her head as she scrapes the bottom of the pot, dumping the burnt and crusted remains into the fire. “Oddly enough, I like this part,” she replies. “So I hope you don’t expect me to summon a host of familiars to do the task for me. I’m sure Matoya is a fine instructor, but some leaves are best left in their books.”

“Aye. Between you and me, I’d rather not wake to a horde of poroggos and enchanted brooms, or—gods forbid—nixies.”

“Careful now. Wouldn’t want me to pass that on to Y’shtola.”

“I’ll brave the danger.”

She laughs, flashing him a grin as she fetches water from their flasks and cleans the pot and dishes. The firelight flickers over her hands, her pale skin glowing in its warmth. It strikes him as a peculiarity. She may have unparalleled command of fire-aspected aether and create fireballs out of thin air, but it’s rare to see fire and flame as something other than a destructive force. Her hands are calloused, worn and reddened from the work. She has forgone most of her customary rings, all save two: a black and silver ring that was a gift from Nanamo long ago and the ring he gave her a week before their wedding. Not a wedding band, per se—neither of them would call it that—but still significant.

It is one of the few personal belongings she has brought over from the First.

“But I must ask,” she adds after a moment, pausing to brush hair out of her eyes. “When you envisioned what married life would look like what was part of that equation?”

The question is simple. Direct.

He pauses. For a moment there is nothing but the sound of crackling flames, clinking dishes, and the wind in the trees.

“You,” he says finally. “Only you.”

Aureia catches his eye. Exhaling a long breath, she sets the dishes aside to dry and settles into the grass, legs curled beneath her, hands clasped on her knees. She seems hesitant to speak, whatever thoughts going through her mind lost to the seconds slipping by.

He remembers when he asked her to marry him. A different time, a different place, a different world. It was during their first night camping in the Empty when the thought occurred to him. Ryne and Urianger had already retreated to their tents and gone to bed. Her head was tucked in the crook of his neck, his fingers tangled in her light-poisoned hair, their eyes trained on a little sliver of moonlight shining white against the aether-starved wastes. The idea occurred to him then, dropping on him as if from nowhere, the realization of how content it made him taking him by surprise.  

So he held her close and murmured the question without hesitance, without fear. He had already wasted so much time playing the fool. He couldn’t anymore. There was no thought given to what would come after, for in that moment it was the only thing that felt right.

“That was the problem, wasn’t it?” Aureia says finally, her voice gentle.

He closes his eyes. Those few months on the First—between the defeat of Emet-Selch and the downfall of Elidibus—were like a dream. Despite the challenges they faced becoming a very real living nightmare, it was a dream nonetheless. Life was easier in Norvrandt, sequestered away as they were from the pressing matters on the Source. Simpler. Straightforward.

Returning forced them to wake up.

Back then it was unfathomable to think their marriage was a blunder. But now he knows it was a mistake—a sweet mistake, but a mistake. They rushed headlong into it, blinded by love and impulsiveness and the fear that if they did not act now, the chance would pass them by. He wasn’t ready for it. Neither of them were.

They couldn’t know what was in store for them.

“Aye,” he says finally. “Far the from the first time I can shoulder the blame for not thinking things through, but…”

She pauses. “Do you regret it?”

Thancred opens his eyes. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Aureia regarding him, her ruby gaze open and honest. A reminder that she sees him for what he is, flaws and all—just as he sees her. He could say yes and know she will not judge him for it. It is the answer she expects, after all. They were married too soon, too quickly. That is the truth, plain and simple—but his feelings on the matter?

Not so easy to untangle.

“There are times where you have all but broken my heart, Aureia,” he begins. “To foist the fault solely on you would be a disservice. I am certain I have done the same to you, stubborn fool that I am.”

“We don’t have to go over this—”

“I would like to, if that is amenable to you.”

Her lips twitch. “I suppose I did ask the question and open the floodgates. I’m listening.”

His eyes flick upwards, meeting hers. “To think what these past months have done to us… You and I both know better than most what it means to solider on. To be the first on the front line to shoulder the burden and carry the weight so others do not have to. But when you stand that far forward, who is there to carry your weight when you fall? Who protects the protector?”

He exhales a breath and folds his hands together, resting them on his knee. Why is this so damn difficult? She is the one person whom he trusts more than anything, more than himself, with whom he knows he can be outright honest, even when that honesty hurts. “I have never been angrier with you than that night in Garlemald,” he continues. “When we…”

“Separated. You can say it, Thancred.”

A lump forms in his throat. “I did not know what was happening to you. I did not know how to help. I have never felt more helpless than the moment I watched you walk away to storm the Tower of Babil.” The words are coming in a rush now, like ripping a bandage off a freshly healed wound. “Perhaps I held onto that anger. Let it boil into resentment. I should not have said the things I did that night before the Ragnarok’s departure, and I cannot take those back.”

“And I can’t either.”

“When I think on it… I am afraid I have failed you, in ways I never should have.” He exhales again, his breath shaky. “Perhaps we have failed each other.”

She nods quietly, a little too quick to agree. Some part of him wishes she would refute it, but she must have come to this conclusion months ago and made her peace with it. How could she not? This is the crux of the matter, the thing neither of them dare voice. They journeyed to Ultima Thule bristling, furious with each other, their conflict unresolved—

And then he died.

Survive, he commanded as he gave himself up for her, for all of them. Survive, he said, even as he was torn asunder and his essence scattered across the stars. His last word to the woman he loves, his need for her to live on bleeding through whatever anger and resentment remained in his heart that day.

The rest is a blank. His resuscitation, the return of their friends, their journey through the Dead Ends. He let her go, to fulfill her final duty—the Endsinger and then Zenos—without him.

And then she died.

How does a marriage come back from that? How does one pick up the pieces of a shattered life and put them back together again?

The wind whistles, rustling the trees. The woods hums, alive with singing insects and chittering creatures and a birdcall or two. Beside them, the fire crackles and pops, burning at last down to its embers. They will have to add more firewood to keep it going.

Neither of them move.

“You haven’t answered my question,” Aureia says. “Do you regret it? Marrying me?”

Thancred smiles. “I don’t know,” he replies. “If we had waited for a better time, a better place, we could have very well waited forever. Risk is a part of life, is it not? To take a chance, a leap of faith, even if nothing comes of it in the end. But this I do know—I do not wish to die with any more regrets, Aureia. Once was enough.”

Her expression softens, barely visible now in the dim light. Slowly, she unfurls from the ground, moving with that preternatural grace a lifetime of combat has gifted her, and closes the distance between them. She stands before him, the tips of her fingers trailing across his cheek, brushing hair from his forehead. Then she cups her hand to his jaw and tilts his head up, bending down to press her mouth to his.

Her lips are soft and warm, her kiss more sweet than bitter. There are a thousand hurts to mend, but they are mending—with patience and understanding and compassion, and most importantly, with time.

He trembles. His arms wrap around her as if they have a mind of their own, his fingers twined in the fabric of her coat. He clutches her to him, a sob resonating somewhere deep in his throat, and kisses her back—deeply, avidly, the warmth of passion ignited in his chest.  

They could live a life apart if they had to. They could manage to say goodbye. It would hurt worse than any wound either of them have suffered—perhaps worse than death, which sounds dramatic until one remembers it is a state both of them have experienced—but they could manage it. They can press on.

It’s what they’re good at.

And it is not what either of them wants.

The Gridanian bards have more than one song about lovers destined for one another. But it is a fantasy. A nice one, true, but a fantasy is still a fantasy. It is not what they have. Love is a choice, one they make every day. And they have chosen that this is not the end.

It is work. It will be work. But he has never once taken the easy path in life and he doesn’t plan to start now.  

Thancred kisses her again, fiercer this time, his mouth hot and firm against hers. She murmurs something, the words lost, and her knees buckle. He grips her tight and slides off the log, sending them tumbling to the ground. She gasps in surprise, loose hair in her eyes, her laughter ringing across the clearing as she curls up beside him.

It is as though they have not just had one of the most difficult conversations of their lives.

He stretches out, his back to the log, holding her close. She responds in kind, her lips parting as she kisses him deeply, and hooks a leg over his thighs. It’s easy enough to pull her into his lap and she settles there freely, her arms around his neck. His hands roam her back in idle patterns, fingernails scratching the thick leather. Her weight adds a comfortable, enticing pressure.

Too enticing.

He shivers, a burst of goosepimples running down his spine, and it is not from the cold. His mind wanders, distracted by her touch, her kiss, and the idle fantasies they cultivate. The two of them entwined in the grass, hair unbound, clothing dishevelled, breath hot and skin aflame as the starlight blossoms above them. The music of her voice, the touch of her hands, the feel of her above him—

Gods, how much he needs her. How much he wants her. How easy it is to be lost in her.

His heart clenches, desire already clouding his mind. A pace away, the campfire burns, the dying fire warmer than a hearth on a cold snowy day.

He draws back, his teeth scraping his lower lip as he sucks in a breath, and presses his forehead to hers. “Shall I get more firewood?” he murmurs. His fingers brush her jaw, trailing up and up, over the point of her ear to tangle in her hair.

She pauses, her fingers tightening in his hair. “No. It’s late. We should let it burn out.”

His other hand wanders across her back and up her side. “It will be cold if it burns out.”

“Yes.” She inhales a shaky breath as his palm brushes her breast. “Perhaps.”

Encouraged, he tugs at her shirt, eager fingers searching for buttons. Her hips roll as he presses a kiss to her jaw, her neck, finding his way to the hollow of her throat. The gasp he elicits strikes him to the very core.

They haven’t slept together since before Ultima Thule. There has been no time, no opportunity. Her recovery left her somber and listless, and in desperate need to escape the suffocating concerns of the Scions and their extended friends. Three days in and she fled to Ishgard, seeking out the steadfast company of Sidurgu and Rielle, then travelled to Mor Dhona and crossed over to the First.

It stung him to know she had to go so far away to heal. But it was for the best. He wasn’t capable of giving her what she needed. But her time with Ryne—her daughter in all but name—and in Lakeland—the only place she wishes to call home—was.

“Thancred…”

Her voice is soft, murmuring in his ear.

He undoes another button. His palm slips beneath her shirt, skimming across soft skin.

Her fingers rake through his hair. “Thancred…” 

He stops, cradling her, his face still buried in her neck. He knows that pause—the catch of her breath, the sudden tensing of her body, the shift of her weight. The subtle signals, whether she intends them or not, that she has changed her mind. Even after a year and a half of marriage, of learning the unspoken language of her body, he still cannot follow how quickly she shifts from “yes, and” to “no, not now,” her boundaries changing as rapidly as the tide.

He doesn’t understand it, this push-pull between desire and disinterest. She has tried to explain it to him, how she does not feel attraction in the same way most do, nor to the same degree. But he doesn’t have to understand. All he needs to do is listen.

“Aur,” he murmurs. “Are you all right?”

She sighs. Slowly—almost apologetically—she wraps her arms around him and holds him close. “I’m sorry,” she says, brushing her lips against his forehead. “I can’t. Not tonight.”

He closes his eyes. Were this a story—or one of those songs those damnable bards sing—there would be another conclusion. All wounds can be healed with love, and love… well. Too often it is taken as a synonym for physical intimacy. A younger version of him would have believed it, attempting to resolve their issues with sex. He did a fair amount of that once, using the company of others to numb himself to his problems. But Aureia is not like him, her limits in a much different place than his.

It has done him some good, he thinks.

“Is that all right?” She sounds so small, so distant, even when he is in her arms.

He raises his head. Though he feels a flicker of disappointment, he cannot know what is running through her mind or why she declined—only that she did. “I am content to be with you,” he says, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

She smiles. Kissing him gently on the cheek, she rolls off his lap and settles beside him, legs curled beneath her, her head on his shoulder. They sit together in silence, watching the flames die down. The moon has come out, its half-crescent brilliant against the night sky’s deep indigo. Filo’s outline has disappeared into the black of the trees; Castor and Nutkin have long since vanished. They will return come morn.

“I do want to,” Aureia says after a moment. “But I think… I think I still need time.”

He puts an arm around her. “You do not need to explain yourself to me.”

She slips her hand into his, twining their fingers together, and raises her head. “Just know that several ideas have come to mind,” she adds, catching his eye. “For the future.”

“Oh?”

“Ilsabard is a large continent. We’ll be on the road for months. There’s plenty of time to… well. Let’s just say that I’m not opposed to a starlit adventure or two.”

“Not moonlit?”

Her nose wrinkles. “The moon is far less romantic once you know what’s actually on it. Rabbits who talk your ear off for one. A giant abyssal hole for another. Allagan spaceships. Carnivorous extrastellar fungus.”

“Hm.” He makes a face, a horrid thought occurring to him. “Point taken. In fact, I would rather not consider the manner of adventure you just proposed when there is a high possibility that Urianger is up above.”

“…did you have to mention that?”

“If it came to my mind, then I must put it in yours.”

“You ass.”

“Naturally. Only for you, Aureia darling.”

The campfire burns, the last of its small flames licking the ashen remains of the firewood.

“I’m glad we came,” Aureia says. She has curled even closer to him, her head on his chest. “Did I tell you the proposition Tataru gave me?”

He kisses the top of her head. “No.”

“She has procured an island in the Cieldalaes. Uninhabited, private, somewhere that could be a home away from home.”

He pauses. This talk of home feels… odd. Off. Unnerving. Perhaps it’s because they already have a home, an apartment in Mor Dhona, as Tataru knows full well. Just as she knows full well that it has become little more than an uninhabitable storage room and filled with useless junk. Or perhaps it’s because he struggles to think of Aureia with a home. They are wanderers, the pair of them. This campsite could be as much a home as any Ul’dahn estate or Crystarium residence or island sanctuary.

“What did you say?” he says finally.

“I told her I would think about it.” She sighs. Her fingers grip his hand, unwilling to let go. “She means well, of course. And I would be lying if I didn’t say the idea is appealing. Good weather, sun and open sea… a whole island to myself. But I don’t think it’s what I need. I can’t sequester myself away, Thancred. The twins may be in Tertium, but there are plenty of other places across Ilsabard that need assistance.”

She swallows hard. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about what defecting from the Empire meant. What it still means. The provinces… the former provinces… This land was once my home. I could have helped these people, run an underground resistance, used my knowledge and my skill to do something to help them. Instead I turned my back on them. Thinking only of myself and getting out.”

“A harsh assessment, don’t you think? You, of all people, have done more—”

“It’s not about who has done more, who contributed the most effort, who has done enough to prove that they were always on the right side, that they cared enough.”

Her tone is sharp, pained. It still grieves her, years later, that she took as long as she did to defect. This is a constant sorrow, one she will perhaps carry for the rest of her life. No matter what she does, no matter how much she sacrifices—even going to the ends of the universe—it will never be enough to make up for the circumstances she was born into.  

She is not alone. There are thousands—hundreds of thousands—like her. Hyur, Elezen, Au Ra, and more, born in the Garlean provinces after occupation. Born not knowing anything else. How many died resisting? How many lived complying? How many were like Aureia’s mother and father and brother—or even like Fordola—who joined the Garleans personally because it was the only path they saw forwards? And where does it all leave them now?

There is much to recover from. Not just the Final Days, but from the broken shackles of the Empire. Somehow burning skies and Blasphemies and lethal despair is easier to recover from than decades of imperialism. How did Erenville put it?

The Final Days came and went.

“There’s work to be done, Thancred. People to help. And not in the way that the Alliance or the Forum can. Leave the politics to the politicians, to Aymeric and Hien and—gods help me—even Fourchenault. I am thinking smaller than that. The village herbalist who can no longer gather the herbs she needs because fiends have moved in. A travelling merchant who needs an escort because their companion died and they no longer have the funds to hire another adventurer. The local alchemist the next town over who is raising his best friend’s infant daughter because her parents are dead.”

He pauses, his hand rubbing her back. “Thavnair hit you harder than you thought it did, didn’t it?”

She presses her lips together, a shaky breath caught in her throat. “I went back to Palaka’s Stand recently,” she says. “Yezahn and Pasareen are doing well.”

“…and the baby?” He feels odd asking. He’s uncertain why.  

“She’s well, too. Tiny little thing, but growing fast. When they let me hold her I thought she would break in my hands. My arms hurt afterwards like I had just spent three hours training with Estinien. Yezahn says it’s because I was tensing, I was so scared of hurting her.”

“It… didn’t occur to me that could happen.”

“It didn’t occur to me, either.” She pauses, relaxing, the stress of the moment passed. “I don’t know what help I can give. I don’t know the state of these lands, I don’t know what’s going to happen to them. But any help I can give… if I can give it, then I want to. Not because I am asked, not because it is my duty, not because I am the only one capable—but because I want to.”

Despite the weariness in her voice, her determination is fierce, unyielding. This is how she is—once an idea has come to mind, she commits to it wholly. He is proud of her, for coming to this conclusion. A sign that she is finally ready to heal.

Thancred lets out a long breath and kisses the top of her head, running his fingers through her hair. Drowsy though he is, he has little desire to move. Her weight is comforting and warm against him, a contrast to the lumpy log he is leaning against. He eyes the fire, the embers burning at its base.

Soon there will be naught but ash.

“Aur?” he asks.

“Mm?” She is falling asleep.

“I am grateful for this. Grateful for you. I want you to know that.”

She squeezes his hand. “Let’s go to bed.”

He could not agree more.