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peacemillionTitle: Fool's Errand
Author: Dùlin
Pairings: Terence/Dion
Fandom: Final Fantasy XVI
Rating: T
Warnings: Post-canon, Angst, Character death reference (but are they really dead???)
“Sir Terence.”
Terence gives a start. He did not hear her arrive. He also has not heard this voice in…. he does not want to try counting how many years. The last time he saw her was in Dion’s reception chamber in Twinside, only a few hours before Ultima’s assault on his prince’s only weakness made Bahamut go berserk and forever altered Dion’s destiny.
“Lady Jote.”
She has barely changed at first glance, and yet… Her hair is longer, braided and wrapped tightly around her head. There are a few lines at the corners of her eyes, still as brown and soulful as he remembers. Even her traveling robes are almost identical to the ones he remembers her wearing back then, and that is a small oddity that gives him pause. He has never really interacted with Rosaria’s Undying that he is aware of, but he knows that after Origin and the disappearance of the Phoenix, the group slowly disbanded, each member finding their own path to follow until nothing officially remained of the formidable network that had protected the Rosfields from the shadows for centuries.
But she is still wearing her robes, and her mouth twitches when she notices him staring at them.
“May I join you?” she asks. “I was not expecting a familiar face so far from Sanbreque.”
He hears the unspoken question in her words, but first things first. He pulls out a seat that she slips into and catches the attention of the tavern’s maid, asking for more ale and an extra portion of the meal he is having for his guest. And he waits until she has been served to answer.
“Unfortunately, I am traveling for business and not pleasure. If that were the case, Dhalmekia would not be my preferred destination.”
He has never been one for the heat here. He is not wearing full armor, but even the light leather plastron feels too stifling in this climate.
“You have inherited your family’s domain.”
That is not a question, and he does not know if he should be surprised that she is still so well-informed, or worried that she might have been keeping tabs on him. But it is not like it is a secret either, and he nods.
“I have, and being responsible for it means finding both suppliers and people willing to buy what it produces. And some merchants insist on talking to the one in charge and will not hear from an envoy, especially here.”
The Dhalmekian merchants that have survived the sack of Randellah have not grown softer as the Republic crumbled, quite the opposite, and Terence has never liked the long palabrums required of commercial negotiations, but there are lives that depend on him now, and he needs to do what he must to provide for them.
Jote sips her mug of ale as she listens to him, then puts it down slowly, putting both of her hands around it as if bracing herself before she looks up at him again.
“… Have you been well?” she asks.
Her voice is soft, barely above a murmur, but Terence knows the strength it took her just to say the words. Most probably, her throat feels as tight as his does as he tries to find the words to answer.
How long since anyone has asked him that question as more than simple pleasantry exchanged with no real intent to know? Kihel doesn’t ask him, because she does not need to. His former comrades-in-arms… those that still live let Dion’s absence wash over them like a shroud, and they do not mention his name when Terence is there. At first, it was simply not to add to his grief, or their own. It was too hard for all of them accept that their prince was gone. And then, it became habit, the words ever stuck in their throats whenever they gather.
But she knows what it means to ask this. And he does not know how to answer, and he lets the silence stretch as he tries.
He is not sure how long has passed before he hears his own voice, sounding unnaturally loud in his own ears.
“I have… been doing my best to carry out the last orders my prince gave me. I do not know if I have succeeded, but as long as Greagor gives me breath, I shall endeavor to.”
“… I see.”
He takes a swig of ale, and it burns unpleasantly as it goes down. The taste has turned sour, somehow.
He squares his own shoulders, and nods towards the robes she wears.
“What about you? I thought your order had… ended their mission.”
She grimaces half a smile.
“The Undying do not exist anymore, indeed. And His Grace tried to relieve me of my duty to him, but I do not consider myself free of it. Not until I can be certain that …”
She doesn’t finish, and he frowns. He doesn’t want to be callous, or insensitive, but… everyone saw what happened, that day and while he can see her resolve, he does not think she is delusional to the point of not understanding that. And yet…
“You are still looking?”
“Are you not?”
Her question knocks the breath out of him all of a sudden, and he has to put down the mug of ale because his hands are shaking too much.
“It has been five years… As far as I was, I saw Bahamut flying into Origin that day, and… he did not come out. I do not think I am a vain man, but I want to believe that if my prince still drew breath somewhere, he would have found his way back to me somehow.”
And he has not. Which… does not mean Terence has entirely stopped looking, but it certainly is not the frantic searching he did in the months following. Life and its mundanities have a way of taking over and distracting from even this gaping void, and there was so much to do, to rebuild… He still cries, sometimes, in the dead of night, when exhaustion catches up to him and his bed feels impossibly big and empty.
Jote holds out a hand, hesitantly. Stops. Then seems to find her courage, and catches his hand.
“His Grace was completely incapacitated for five years after Phoenix Gate, and it still took him three years after that to recover enough to not require assistance at all times,” she says, softly.
She looks down, and for a second he thinks she might be embarrassed, but no, her gaze when she looks back up is clear. Not the crazed look of a madwoman lost to a delusion, but the clear, calm eyes of one who refuses to give up hope.
“Whatever happened to them, it probably took almost everything out of them, and the world is vast.”
Another short silence, and then she smiles more frankly.
“I have crossed paths with Lady Warrick on my travels. She also spends a lot of time on the road.”
Terence has not met Jill Warrick, but he has heard of her, of course. He is glad to hear she still lives and …. apparently still looks for her own answers, the way Jote is.
Jote sits back, folding both of her hands on her lap and looking down.
“You probably think this is a fool’s errand, my Lord, but…”
“If it is a fool’s errand, we might both be fools, Jote.”
Her lips twitch again, and she tactfully does not comment on the way his eyes have welled with tears. He did almost lose hope, did he not? How shameful of him.
She has barely grazed the meal, but her mug is empty as she stands and pulls her hood over her head again.
“I am glad to have seen you again, Sir Terence. If you would not mind, I shall send word of anything I find that might be of interest your way.”
“Thank you, Jote. I… I would like that.”
“Farewell, my Lord.”
He watches her leave, how seamlessly she weaves into the crowd and seemingly disappears.
“May Greagor’s breath fill your wings, Jote.”
Author: Dùlin
Pairings: Terence/Dion
Fandom: Final Fantasy XVI
Rating: T
Warnings: Post-canon, Angst, Character death reference (but are they really dead???)
“Sir Terence.”
Terence gives a start. He did not hear her arrive. He also has not heard this voice in…. he does not want to try counting how many years. The last time he saw her was in Dion’s reception chamber in Twinside, only a few hours before Ultima’s assault on his prince’s only weakness made Bahamut go berserk and forever altered Dion’s destiny.
“Lady Jote.”
She has barely changed at first glance, and yet… Her hair is longer, braided and wrapped tightly around her head. There are a few lines at the corners of her eyes, still as brown and soulful as he remembers. Even her traveling robes are almost identical to the ones he remembers her wearing back then, and that is a small oddity that gives him pause. He has never really interacted with Rosaria’s Undying that he is aware of, but he knows that after Origin and the disappearance of the Phoenix, the group slowly disbanded, each member finding their own path to follow until nothing officially remained of the formidable network that had protected the Rosfields from the shadows for centuries.
But she is still wearing her robes, and her mouth twitches when she notices him staring at them.
“May I join you?” she asks. “I was not expecting a familiar face so far from Sanbreque.”
He hears the unspoken question in her words, but first things first. He pulls out a seat that she slips into and catches the attention of the tavern’s maid, asking for more ale and an extra portion of the meal he is having for his guest. And he waits until she has been served to answer.
“Unfortunately, I am traveling for business and not pleasure. If that were the case, Dhalmekia would not be my preferred destination.”
He has never been one for the heat here. He is not wearing full armor, but even the light leather plastron feels too stifling in this climate.
“You have inherited your family’s domain.”
That is not a question, and he does not know if he should be surprised that she is still so well-informed, or worried that she might have been keeping tabs on him. But it is not like it is a secret either, and he nods.
“I have, and being responsible for it means finding both suppliers and people willing to buy what it produces. And some merchants insist on talking to the one in charge and will not hear from an envoy, especially here.”
The Dhalmekian merchants that have survived the sack of Randellah have not grown softer as the Republic crumbled, quite the opposite, and Terence has never liked the long palabrums required of commercial negotiations, but there are lives that depend on him now, and he needs to do what he must to provide for them.
Jote sips her mug of ale as she listens to him, then puts it down slowly, putting both of her hands around it as if bracing herself before she looks up at him again.
“… Have you been well?” she asks.
Her voice is soft, barely above a murmur, but Terence knows the strength it took her just to say the words. Most probably, her throat feels as tight as his does as he tries to find the words to answer.
How long since anyone has asked him that question as more than simple pleasantry exchanged with no real intent to know? Kihel doesn’t ask him, because she does not need to. His former comrades-in-arms… those that still live let Dion’s absence wash over them like a shroud, and they do not mention his name when Terence is there. At first, it was simply not to add to his grief, or their own. It was too hard for all of them accept that their prince was gone. And then, it became habit, the words ever stuck in their throats whenever they gather.
But she knows what it means to ask this. And he does not know how to answer, and he lets the silence stretch as he tries.
He is not sure how long has passed before he hears his own voice, sounding unnaturally loud in his own ears.
“I have… been doing my best to carry out the last orders my prince gave me. I do not know if I have succeeded, but as long as Greagor gives me breath, I shall endeavor to.”
“… I see.”
He takes a swig of ale, and it burns unpleasantly as it goes down. The taste has turned sour, somehow.
He squares his own shoulders, and nods towards the robes she wears.
“What about you? I thought your order had… ended their mission.”
She grimaces half a smile.
“The Undying do not exist anymore, indeed. And His Grace tried to relieve me of my duty to him, but I do not consider myself free of it. Not until I can be certain that …”
She doesn’t finish, and he frowns. He doesn’t want to be callous, or insensitive, but… everyone saw what happened, that day and while he can see her resolve, he does not think she is delusional to the point of not understanding that. And yet…
“You are still looking?”
“Are you not?”
Her question knocks the breath out of him all of a sudden, and he has to put down the mug of ale because his hands are shaking too much.
“It has been five years… As far as I was, I saw Bahamut flying into Origin that day, and… he did not come out. I do not think I am a vain man, but I want to believe that if my prince still drew breath somewhere, he would have found his way back to me somehow.”
And he has not. Which… does not mean Terence has entirely stopped looking, but it certainly is not the frantic searching he did in the months following. Life and its mundanities have a way of taking over and distracting from even this gaping void, and there was so much to do, to rebuild… He still cries, sometimes, in the dead of night, when exhaustion catches up to him and his bed feels impossibly big and empty.
Jote holds out a hand, hesitantly. Stops. Then seems to find her courage, and catches his hand.
“His Grace was completely incapacitated for five years after Phoenix Gate, and it still took him three years after that to recover enough to not require assistance at all times,” she says, softly.
She looks down, and for a second he thinks she might be embarrassed, but no, her gaze when she looks back up is clear. Not the crazed look of a madwoman lost to a delusion, but the clear, calm eyes of one who refuses to give up hope.
“Whatever happened to them, it probably took almost everything out of them, and the world is vast.”
Another short silence, and then she smiles more frankly.
“I have crossed paths with Lady Warrick on my travels. She also spends a lot of time on the road.”
Terence has not met Jill Warrick, but he has heard of her, of course. He is glad to hear she still lives and …. apparently still looks for her own answers, the way Jote is.
Jote sits back, folding both of her hands on her lap and looking down.
“You probably think this is a fool’s errand, my Lord, but…”
“If it is a fool’s errand, we might both be fools, Jote.”
Her lips twitch again, and she tactfully does not comment on the way his eyes have welled with tears. He did almost lose hope, did he not? How shameful of him.
She has barely grazed the meal, but her mug is empty as she stands and pulls her hood over her head again.
“I am glad to have seen you again, Sir Terence. If you would not mind, I shall send word of anything I find that might be of interest your way.”
“Thank you, Jote. I… I would like that.”
“Farewell, my Lord.”
He watches her leave, how seamlessly she weaves into the crowd and seemingly disappears.
“May Greagor’s breath fill your wings, Jote.”
