Chapter Text
It had only been a day, a single one, since Iris watched Zenos take his own life. She traveled almost continuously, through the afternoon and overnight. It wasn’t until the early hours of the morning when she stood on the doorstep waiting for the familiar warmth of Fortemps Manor to spill from the open door that she realized what she wanted. The comfort of home.
Exhaustion was etched permanently into her bones; all her sadness, confusion, and anger too close to the surface. As close as the void sent that crackled just under her skin. She sat on end of her bed, picking at the fine blue wool of her Ishgardian formal dress, eyes unfocused, staring at the fireplace. The flames died behind the ornately wrought metal screen, but she didn’t see them. The wind and ice raged outside, but she could barely hear them. The cotton quilt under her fingers was crisp and clean, but she couldn’t feel it. Her side ached with the bruises of battle, but she didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, she saw the spurt of dark arterial blood spray across her vision. She brushed a hand across her cheek, wiping away the warm droplets she swore she could still feel.
She sat there, second after second. Minute after minute. Hour after hour.
“He called me his first friend,” she said, the draft from the opening door making her turn. Edmont de Fortemps stood in the frame, leaning heavily on his walking stick. Her adopted father always looked the same; the same old fashioned long hair, the same fur collared coat, the same comforting smile. Only now, she could not see it. “His only friend.” She looked back to the dying embers behind the screen. She wiped at her cheek again, and then her jaw, swearing she could feel the heavy slide of Zenos’ blood over her skin.
She pushed from the bed and crossed to the windows. The delicate lace pattern of the frost along the edge of the glass melted underneath her fingers, making her skin stick to the glass. “He should have stood trial. Faced some form of justice. It would have given catharsis to the people he subjugated. The ones he tortured.” The words were slow as she forced them out.
Her father walked to the fire. The screen squeaked as it was opened. Ash susurrated in the fireplace as he broke apart the embers.
“I do not think I could have watched that happen.” She closed her eyes for a breath and shook her head. “Not when that would have ended in the public spectacle of his death.”
“There was no way for him except death,” he said, bending to throw more wood into the dying fire as she watched his reflection in the window.
She nodded. And for the first time since it happened, tears fell, tracking silently down her cheeks. It couldn’t be called mourning. Not truly. There was deep sadness there but it was not tied to his loss. But the waste of him. There was something else there too. A sadness for herself.
She rubbed the tears from her cheeks, pressing her knuckles hard into the bones. “Why do I feel this way for him? I should be like Lyse, celebrating his death.”
“Because you are human,” was his reply. His words filled with warmth and understanding. “You are a woman of great compassion for all that you wield a blade, my dear daughter.”
“I tire of wearing deaths mask. All I leave behind is a trail of blood and bones in my wake with nothing to show for it.” She bent her head, hiding her face in her hands as she sobbed, they wrenched her frame and ached when they stuck in her throat. There was such a tempest in her heart and mind. Zenos death was confusing, heartrending, and infuriating. In equal measure. In truth, it made her look too closely at her own actions.
The wind spattered the window with ice as it swirled the snow in the vast empty white space in front of the arched roads and towering spires of the city. The raging wind and the tinkle of the ice made a lovely melody. It was soothing and lulled her into a sense of calm, the tears eventually stopping as her mind emptied. It was one of the things she loved best about Ishgard, that waltz and swirl of wind. It reminded her of the swirl of dancers in the city’s grand ballrooms; twirling and glittering.
She ran a finger along the bottom edge of the circlet she always wore. “I was ten when he was born. The country rejoiced. The Galvus line would continue. There were celebrations in the street.” She traced her fingers through the curling, furling frost dendrites on her window, following the pattern absently. “My mother and I went to them. I had a new dress and I was so excited to wear it. It had lovely, sharp, angular lace all around the hem. She tied lace cuffs with a ribbon on my wrists before we left the house. I felt so grown up, like such a lady.”
“You always enjoyed that feeling, even when you were small,” Edmont said with an indulgent chuckle.
A small smile started as she shook her head. “Emperor Solus had the parade grounds turned into a park for children. Which, thinking about it now, it was nowhere near the palace for the young prince.” For a moment, the swirl of colour, the exuberant laughter, and the sounds of a military band playing bombastic music crowded her mind, her memory.
“You’ve not eaten yet today, my dear daughter. And I doubt you ate yesterday,” he said, putting gentle pressure on her shoulder to turn her. “Aguillard has made your favourite for supper; the rest of us will have to suffer through lentils and chestnuts.”
She nodded, smoothing her hands over the fine green wool of her dress.
“You have made changes in the world,” her father said, winging his arm at her as he leaned heavily on his walking stick. For years now, he’d been able to divine the course of her thoughts. His love and care made close observation of his children a priority in his life. He understood how they suffered, what plagued their dreams, and occupied their thoughts.
“Not enough,” she said, taking the arm he offered, wondering what it might be like if Aymeric did this rather than ignore her suffering and send her out in the world again dressed as death. He patted her arm, as they left her room, walking through the sumptuous corridor lined with family portraits, floral arrangements, and benches with well-worn upholstery that tempted a person to curl up and sleep.
“Ishgard is no longer at war and that is a significant change.”
“Yes, I negotiated peace because I still hide when I hear the roar of a dragon overhead.” Her voice turned watery.
“You need rest and food, my dear girl,” he said, infusing his words with command she had become used to since childhood. Since those early days in this house after he found her wandering alone in the frozen Coerthan Highlands.
“You will spoil her, Father,” Artoirel said, joining them as they walked down the curved main stairs. Edmont coughed out a sharp laugh. “Although, today, you could do with some pampering.” She knew, her brother examined her closely as they walked down the stairs to the foyer, seeing the dark shadows under her eyes and her pallor, her skin almost translucent with exhaustion. She saw it herself in the mirror. They were things she couldn’t hide from someone who cared. To her eyes, he looked well; his long, dark hair was more fashionably worn but his features had become shrewder, sharper, since he had taken his seat in the House of Lords.
“I just need a bit of time away from death and destruction.” She winced slightly as she stepped onto the first of the stairs, the fresh bruising along her side more than painful now.
“Your choice of profession, my dear sister, would leave much to be desired on that score.” His voice was dry but there was concern embedded deeply within his words.
There was a draft that drew their attention to the manor door, cold air swirled into the foyer with Ser Aymeric de Borel, his black, wavy hair tousled by the wind. Despite the sadness and confusion that assailed her earlier, her heart kicked a little at seeing him handing his gloves to the House Steward.
“I hope I am not intruding,” Aymeric said, looking up the stairs at her. He walked across the polished wood floors to the bottom of the stairs, his sure step echoing in the vast space. It made her cheeks tingle and flush. “The reports I heard from the front lines in Gyr Abania were odd. They said you abandoned the front.”
She blushed, her cheeks a painful red with the shame of his implication. “I needed time,” she said, her voice quiet. “And comfort.” She looked down at him with expectation only to be met with his slight frown.
“You are just in time to join us for supper,” Edmont said, clearing his throat.
Edmont and Artoirel continued to the dining room, leaving Aymeric and Iris alone in the foyer. She clasped her hands in front of her as she walked down the last of the stairs. She’d expected him to hold out his hand or offer his arm, just like he used to, in the early days of their relationship but he seemed occupied with other thoughts as he looked at her. “You seem well enough,” he said, his expression turning stern.
Over the last few years there was a widening gulf between them. And it had only deepened since she’d seen him installed as Lord Speaker. They’d never spoken of it. Never addressed it in any way. But she felt it in her heart with each fresh sight of him. He used to smile when he saw her and her heart used to race. But now, it was the demands of state that took his time and the requirements of war had depleted her to almost nothing.
And he no longer noticed her at all.
He cleared his throat and gestured her ahead of him.
There was no comfort to be found with him tonight, she knew. There hadn’t been for months now. Almost a year. Iris sighed as she walked next to him, hoping that politeness, or even the affection they once shared, would have him touch her. “I will have to travel to Gyr Abania tomorrow,” he said, the disappointment in his voice made her flinch because she knew he would never say certain things, like she failed in her duty, while in this house. “The Alliance Leaders have called a conference. We need to repatriate the crown prince for burial,” he said as he looked at her.
And now, she would not even have the comfort of family for as long as she would like or needed. “I have this evening,” she said, swallowing against the tightening knot in her throat. Her voice wavered more than she would like.
Exhaustion pulled at her edges, straining the weave of her emotions. Everything was still so raw, so ragged. “What time will we need to leave?”
Relief was in his sigh. But not that of a lover, more a person who was glad not to have to lecture a recalcitrant child. “Early, before the fires have been laid in the morning.” He walked through the dining room doors, leaving her alone in the corridor. Breathing in deeply and straightening her shoulders with her hands clasped in front of her and feeling very much like a chastised child she walked into the dining room.
“We really must do something about it,” her father said, continuing his conversation with Artoirel, as she took her seat. “We cannot allow this situation to go on.” He settled himself in his chair at the head of the table. Edmont de Fortemps may have retired from public life and passed the title to Artoirel but he was still the unequivocal head of their household.
“We are searching for an engineer. That is all we can do. None of us could install that heating system, ceruleum processing beyond even Iris’ considerable capabilities,” Artoirel said, his chair scraping across the wooden floor as he slid it away from the table. It earned him a reproving look from their father, as it had since he was a child. “Yes, I know, I have scratched the floor.”
“As you know there are other priorities at the moment. We have decided that focusing on the needs of Ala Mhigo serves Eorzea better.” Aymeric shifted in his chair, making sure his coats would not wrinkle. “They require greater assistance from us and we shall focus on interior matters when we have the resources to devote to it.”
“We shall have no one left to feed the front,” Artoriel said with a snap of his serviette. Iris detected a new strain in his voice. She had not realized before now that relations between the two men had deteriorated. “Lentils and chestnuts.” Artoirel pushed at the stew with his fork near the edges of his soup plate. “Can’t your favourite dish be more substantive?”
“I did not ask for it,” Iris said, attempting to breathe steadily against the ache in her side as she shook out her serviette before laying carefully across her lap. She smoothed out the wrinkles as she pulled her shoulders back. Primly perfect and poised to make a retort. A childish rejoinder was just on the edge of her tongue. And oddly, there was comfort in this. A reminder that some relationships stood the test of time.
“Children, we have had this same discussion for twenty-six years now. Do you not grow tired of it?” their father said, looking at each of them on either side of him.
Aymeric was silent as he took a bite of his supper.
The rest of the evening continued in a similar fashion. Her father and brother carrying the majority of the conversation. Until exhaustion started to pull at Iris, making her slow and heavy. She and Aymeric had never said good night with passionate kisses. At least, she could never remember a time when there was more than just a soft press of his lips. Tonight, though, there was nothing. It left her feeling empty. As she climbed the stairs to bed, something Zenos said before he took his own life caught at the ragged edges of her mind. “Transcendent joy such as he had never known,” she whispered, pulling herself up the stairs the heavy length of her skirts in hand. She shook her head as she winced against the pain of her bruised side.
Nothing he said should strike a chord.