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“Dunno what all the fuss is about,” Fordola said. ‘Twas crowded on the airship and she had to stop herself from reaching down to guide Arenvald’s chair through the mess of fellow travelers and their various bits of luggage. She knew he could do it himself.
“Can you not feel their excitement, Fordola – even share in it just a little?” Arenvald returned, his hands on his wheels, expertly maneuvering himself through the throng as they disembarked.
Fordola sucked the cold air in through her teeth. Feeling others’ emotions was not a sensation she particularly relished. One could never tell, after all, what manner of affliction was barely contained behind the flashing eyes and brilliant smile of even the most cheerful-seeming stranger. Well, most could never tell at least – most people would never move beyond smiles in a crowd to secrets of the heart – but Fordola’s artificial echo ensured that she was frequently crippled by her experience of a stranger’s deepest-felt calamity. When she was at home in Ala Mhigo, where such calamity had often been attendant upon her own action, her own will, every interaction held the possibility of her experiencing the agony and despair she had personally inflicted upon others. The Alliance could never have conceived on their own of such a perfect punishment for her crimes, she thought wryly – though the choke collar had certainly been a good attempt. Her hands went instantly to her neck, where the collar had once rested, feeling the ache of its absence. It had not been long removed.
“What is it,” Arenvald asked, looking up at her, his dark green eyes gone wide with concern. “‘Tis your echo, is it not?”
“‘Tis nothin’ fer you ta concern yerself about,” Fordola replied, trying to turn the grim press of her lips into something that resembled a smile. She was not entirely successful.
“Well there are quite a few people assembled here in Gridania, and I know as well as anyone how random the echo can be. Anythin’ or anyone could trigger it,” Arenvald pressed. “And I don’t expect the crowds to lessen as we move closer to the center of the Valentione’s celebration,” he added.
“‘Tis nothin’,” Fordola assured him again. She adjusted both of their packs on her back, one slung over each shoulder and followed him from the airship landing through to the lobby. “Rhalgr’s mighty arse cheeks!” she couldn’t help but exclaim, over even the ambient tittering of the crowd, when the wheels of Arenvald’s chair hit the bottom-most step of the staircase that led from the Airship lobby to the Carline Canopy teashop overhead.
Arenvald audibly sighed, looking up at her with a bemused smile. “I had hoped accessibility had improved since our last trip to Gridania,” he said as people streamed past him on both sides, he and Fordola a large rock in the midst of a rapidly flowing river. Before too long, however, a pair of Roegadyn women, from Limsa Lominsa by their accents, had taken notice of their dilemma and offered to heft Arenvald and his chair up the staircase. They had no choice but to accept the offer, whatever injury Fordola knew such a display inflicted upon Arenvald’s pride. She remained silent as she followed them up the stairs, listening to her chipper-sounding friend as he made polite small talk with the two women until they deposited him at a table in the Carline Canopy. Fordola noted that neither of the women had even broken a sweat and was slightly envious of the fact, looking after them as they departed hand-in-hand. She felt Arenvald’s gaze upon her then and immediately took a seat at the table, conscious of her desire to not always be looking down on him. ‘Twas better, really, staring across the table at him – being on an even footing, as it were, or as even as they could be when one of them was a far better example of a human being than the other.
“‘Twas kind of them to help,” Arenvald said, “especially since they look as though they have somethin' far more important to do,” he continued, nodding toward the entrance to the tea house with a sly grin. Fordola had to swivel around in her chair to see – and honestly she had thought they’d already be gone – but when she looked out at the entranceway she could see they had paused beneath a floating heart-shaped balloon and were kissing so passionately that she felt instantly self-conscious to be shamelessly gawking at the pair. Whipping back around to face Arenvald, she noticed he was blushing a deep crimson color and felt a similar heat rise in her own cheeks. Mortified now, she could do nothing more than stare downwards, both her palms spread flat against the wooden table-top as though she were trying to brace herself against the power of such a steamy display. Fordola heard Arenvald clear his throat. “‘Tis just part and parcel of the Valentione’s festivities,” he said.
“Which is why I, fer one, have no business partipatin’ in said activities,” Fordola replied to the table. She hazarded a glance around the room then, just to check, and, indeed, her worst suspicions were confirmed: nearly every table was occupied by a couple emulating the Roegadyn pair. Fordola scoffed. “What the bloomin’ type of festival have you brought me to? Is it some kind of…some kind of…” her tongue ventured, but Arenvald was quick to interrupt.
“No,” he said, with a ringing laugh that made Fordola smile internally. Arenvald didn’t laugh nearly as often as he should by her surmise. “‘Tis not what you’re thinking,” he continued. “Valentione’s Day is Ishgardian in origin after all. ‘Tis simply a celebration of ardor and affection – of all aspects of romantic love. And ‘tis hosted by Ishgard’s noble House Valentione.”
Fordola considered the information. She didn’t know much about Ishgard. Indeed, the only Ishgardian with whom she’d had much contact was that skulking dragoon, Estinien Varlineau. Whatever such a character managed to get up to in the way of romance was beyond the capability of her imagination. Fortunately for Fordola, her imagination was not so taxed overlong. A server in the form of a middle-aged elezen woman appeared at their tableside, smiling as she awaited their order.
“What say you to the full afternoon tea,” Arenvald asked her. “Tea, scones, and sandwiches?”
Fordola nodded. In truth she was famished from her long trip on the airship, but she had long since forsworn the right to choose what she might most enjoy eating. Whatever sustained her was enough.
“And after our tea, perhaps we’ll even have enough room fer a slice of this Valentione’s cake they’re so keen on advertising,” Arenvald said, smiling at her again.
“I should think we’ll be too full up of scones and sandwiches.”
“Well that’s part of the holiday as well…”
“Stuffin’ ourselves?” Fordola interrupted. “‘Tis a holiday devoted to stuffin’ ourselves and…snoggin’?” she said, wrinkling her nose as she gestured to the couples at nearby tables.
“Not stuffin' ourselves, no,” Arenvald replied, reaching across the table to playfully tap her still wrinkled nose. Fordola reacted as though she were struck, leaning back out of his reach. Instantly she regretted it. He couldn’t, after all, stand up to further his reach. Arenvald didn’t seem bothered, however, merely laughing again as he clarified his position: “‘Tis more about indulgence, I think – a holiday focused on richness and warmth during a time of year often marked by scarcity and bleakness.”
“Bleakness? I s’pose that sounds about right,” Fordola said, looking down at the table again.
“Oi, girl! Where’s the lass who once busted my chops fer feelin’ sorry fer myself? Arenvald said, grinning at her again as he smashed down his large fist so that the floral arrangement set in the middle of the table jolted an ilm to the side.
“I just can’t understand why you would bring me to such a celebration as this,” Fordola looked up to reply, folding her arms across her chest in lieu of staring back down at the table.
“Can you not,” Arenvald countered, his grin fading as his eyes lingered over hers.
Fordola was confused, her brow creasing as she tried to parse his words with the plaintive expression on his face. She was just about to stammer out a response – something having to do with the foolishness of bringing the likes of her to any festival, much less one devoted to romance – when their server arrived. She brought tea in a china pot and a two-tiered milk glass serving tray with scones on the bottom tier and finger sandwiches up top. ‘Twas Arenvald who looked down now, pouring out a cup of tea for her and one for himself before reaching for a scone from the tray. Fordola doctored her tea with milk, but allowed herself no sugar, much as she might have liked some, before taking a sandwich from the top tier. ‘Twas a flimsy thing, she thought to herself, made of cucumber and some type of soft herbed cheese, hardly substantial enough to quell a more than meager appetite – why the bread didn’t even have crusts! Still, eating it was better than continuing that maddening conversation with Arenvald. What did he mean by suggesting that she should have some understanding as to why he asked her to accompany him to this Valentione’s celebration?
“Any good?” Arevald said after a couple moments of chewing.
“Adequate,” Fordola answered.
“You should eat a scone or two. They’ll surely fill you up after that long airship ride.”
“At least the tea is hot,” Fordola conceded, bringing her cup to her lips. They fell silent then, as they ate, and she could not help but notice that her companion seemed suddenly bereft of his typical cheerful disposition, frowning as he took a second scone from the tray, split it (allowing a little puff of steam to escape from inside), and then heaped the requisite amounts of butter, jam and clotted cream onto each side. “What is it?” she finally said, at precisely the wrong moment, of course, when he’d just filled his mouth with a huge bite of scone.
He coughed once, swallowed hard, then took a massive gulp of tea, trying to wash his food down his throat. “What is what?” he managed to ask through another bout of coughing, pounding himself on the chest as he spoke.
“You just seemed down is all,” Fordola managed with a quick half-shrug.
“I seemed down?” Arenvald sputtered out.
Fordola sighed and did as Arenvald had suggested, taking a scone from the bottom tier. “I know I’m not the best company,” she said as she followed Arenvald’s lead in preparing her scone, splitting it, then slathering jam and cream upon both halves. She had to eat something substantial she reasoned to herself.
“You’re plenty good company fer me,” Arenvald assured her, smiling again as he reached over to give her unoccupied hand a friendly squeeze. Strangely, he did not immediately relinquish either her hand or her gaze, staring into her eyes as he beamed at her.
Fordola felt the oddest compulsion then to brush his over-long fringe from his brow so that she could better see his eyes, crinkling at the corners now with laughter. She looked down at their hands to avoid the impulse and noticed, instead, how his large brown hand dwarfed hers in its grasp. His skin felt warm, like they were still in the dusty heat of Ala Mhigo. Suddenly she recalled the last time they had held hands, when Arenvald was still convalescing. She had sat by his bedside then, holding his hand as he slept, marveling at how young he looked without his trademark warpaint – so very young and so very, well, handsome, if she had to admit it, and oh so very vulnerable, the mark his mother carved on his brow naked for all to see. “I…I have to go,” she said, pushing back her chair abruptly so that it made a terrible scratching sound across the wooden floorboards. The couples at nearby tables looked over toward them.
“But where are you goin’,” asked Arenvald, his voice pitching high in distress.
“I’m just goin’ to check into our room,” Fordola said, hoisting up both of their bags from the floor. Without waiting for a reply, she shot off toward The Roost’s welcome counter, securing their keys and being shown to their room before Arenvald could make much fuss. She felt a twinge of regret at leaving him all alone, especially since she knew he couldn’t easily follow; maneuvering his chair through all those tables in the tea room was no quick feat. But she just couldn’t stay one moment longer with him staring at her so sweetly, holding her hand as though ‘twere a fragile thing, not the same one that had held the Butcher’s sword. She did not deserve such attentions.
Flustered now and perspiring, her face flushed crimson, she charged into their shared room and immediately dropped both bags to the floor. “By the twelve!” she exclaimed to herself, to the room, to undoubtedly the inhabitants of all the nearby suites. “There’s only one bed!” she continued aloud though there was no one nearby to confirm her observation. She and Arenvald had agreed to share a room so that she could aid him with whatever tasks he might require in a room not adapted to his disability. Fordola also suspected ‘twas a safeguard against her absconding now that she was beyond the watchful eyes of her captors in Ala Mhigo – not that Arenvald could do much to stop her were she truly determined to defect. ‘Twas almost as though General Aldynn were a betting man, betting on the strength of her attachment to Arenvald to keep her tethered to his side. She slumped down into a nearby armchair, knowing that it was likely where she would slumber that evening – ‘twas not as though she deserved any better – and considered the strength of her attachment to the young man with whom she spent the better part of most of her days. Since they’d been paired for their assignment at Paglth’an she hadn’t really questioned their time together. Fordola knew only wherever Arenvald was, she served as his companion and caregiver. If she was starting to take for granted the easy camaraderie shared between the two of them, the way he was increasingly attuned to her moods, flashing her a boyish grin when she was particularly sunk deep, or slapping her a high-five when they emerged triumphant from a grueling task, then more the shame on her. Arenvald should never be taken for granted.
A vague unease settled over her still gurgling stomach. Well, that was to be expected, she thought; that anemic sandwich hadn’t done much to quell her appetite. But the more she sat and thought, the more she was convinced that this feeling was not related to hunger. To trace its origin, she recalled to her mind precisely what she had been thinking when the strange feeling had burrowed into her belly. ‘Twas of Arenvald, of course, of his smiles and encouragement, of his general warmth, and, if she were honest, of a particular moment several days past when he had been training in Ala Mhigo. He had paused whilst lifting the heavy weights he used to keep his upper body conditioned in order to take a gulp of water, some of which had missed his mouth. Fordola remembered watching an errant drop slide down the curve of her friend’s bare pectoral, down, down, down, leaving a slick trail over his abdominals, to disappear somewhere south of his navel. She thought of that drop of water now, thought of its ultimate trajectory and something flipped over in her stomach. Her face now burning to her ears, Fordola stood up suddenly, sat quickly back down, and then covered her face with both hands. ‘Twasn’t possible, she thought. How was it possible? It could not be possible, but, Destroyer forfend… did she actually fancy Arenvald? Was that the feeling gathering momentum in her turbulent stomach? She looked over at the empty bed, picturing Arenvald sprawled across it, his bare brown skin standing out in contrast to the white duvet, his blonde hair spilling across the pillow, and whatever warmth was in her belly seeped lower.
“Fordola!” shouted a voice from the doorway. “Are you alright?”
Fordola bolted up from her chair, turning to face the very object of her consternation. “Arenvald,” she said. “What are you doin’ here?”
“I just came to check on you,” he said, wheeling through the doorway into the room. “Ah, I see the problem. I was certain I’d booked a room with two beds. Don’t worry. I’ll see to it right away. Surely they can shift us to more desirable quarters.”
“Surely they cannot,” Fordola countered. “Have you seen all the people here for the festival? I imagine we’ll have to make do with what we have. I can sleep in this chair more easily than you’ll likely be able to switch our room.”
“I won’t have you stuffed into this chair while I get the whole of the bed,” Arenvald protested. “I mean, we’re both old soldiers here,” he said, “used to havin’ to make do out in the field. We’ve shared a tent, Fordola. Certainly we can occupy the same bed fer a night,” he continued.
She could see a crimson stain creeping back into his cheeks as he spoke and knew that her own face was flushing hot as well at the idea of sharing a bed. That impossibly erotic vision of Arenvald stripped naked and reclining on the bed flashed into her inconvenient mind and she looked down. “I…I would be afraid of shiftin’ about in the night,” she began, “of hurtin’ you, I mean.”
“Oh you couldn’t do a big lad like me much damage,” Arenvald said, thumping himself too vigorously on the chest with one great fist – surely he’d leave a mark. “I mean we’re comrades, are we not? And mayhap even…friends? At least I hope to be in your good graces enough fer you to regard me as such,” Arenvald said, his smile broad despite cheeks that burned.
Fordola could not help but stare at him for a moment then, silent. ‘Twas a cruel thing she did, if she had known it, but she just couldn’t imagine words that could somehow answer the unspoken side of the question asked of her. She regarded his smile and his blush, recalled his eyes holding her gaze for moments longer than were necessary and the way he seemed reluctant to let go of her hand. None of these suggested comrades, none of these merely friends. Surely it couldn’t be, she thought. She stood up and turned to the window, noting not just her reflection in the glass as she did so, but Arenvald’s reflection behind her. She saw his smile falter. She saw it fail, and suddenly the inconceivable became obvious: not only did she fancy Arenvald… he fancied her in return. As much as she didn’t believe she deserved the affections of someone so big-hearted, the once Butcher-girl had learned the limitations of cruelty – and she had certainly never been a coward. Spinning around before Arenvald could orient himself enough to turn around in the room and retreat, Fordola strode the couple of steps it took to reach him and pressed a kiss to his mouth. ‘Twas a forthright kiss, stripped of subtext or subtlety and both of their eyes grew wide at the contact.
“Fordola,” Arenvald breathed out when she withdrew. He snagged her hand in his, keeping her from moving beyond an arms-length away. And she obliged, staying close to him but unable still to fill the space between them with the least utterance until he gently pulled her toward him so that she had no choice but either let go or seat herself in his lap.
“Oi!” she barked out as she plonked down across his thighs. “I said I didn’t want to hurt you!
“And I said you could do little harm to a lad as solidly built as myself,” he assured her, grinning at her until she kissed him again, this time more deeply, her hands in his hair and her lips soft against his and his strong, strong arms all around her, drawing her closer to his chest.
Fordola’s thoughts drifted to the Lominsan pair from the tea room and how furiously they’d been snogging, oblivious to those watching. The irony that she was, only half a bell later, engaged in just as furious an exchange was not lost on her and, in fact, prompted her to pull back from Arenvald for a moment as she proclaimed her growing suspicions: “It must be this… Valentione’s Day…” she said, breathless in-between kisses. “They must have put… somethin’… in the bloody food.”
“But you hardly… ate anything,” Arenvald protested, equally breathless as he tried to cram in words between ever more kisses. “Fordola,” he finally said, panting as he placed a hand against her chest, “‘Tis Valentione’s Day, or at least I hoped it would be. I brought you here hopin’ I would get up the courage to tell you how very dear you are to me.”
Fordola, ready to push past his hand just to get her lips on his again, blinked twice, trying very hard to register what it was Arenvald was saying to her. “I am dear to you?” she finally said.
“So very dear,” Arenvald repeated, his voice almost a whisper now as he took advantage of the fact that they were on the same level to stare straight into her eyes.
“But how can you…how can I… how can we…after everything I’ve done…” Fordola trailed off.
“I think not about what you’ve done, but what you have been doin’,” Arenvald replied, “with the towers, the Silver Griffins, helpin’ Charlet to find peace.”
“But I’m the one,” Fordola began, thumping herself hard on the chest, “I’m the one who caused Charlet to despair.” She felt her throat swell and angry tears prick up into her eyes. “I’ve caused so many of our people to despair.”
“And you’re workin’ to make amends, Fordola.”
“‘Twill never be enough,” she said, the tears spilling onto her cheeks no matter how tightly closed she tried to clench her eyes. She pressed the heels of her palms hard against her eyes then and gave one great sniff, as though she were trying to inhale all her shed tears, desperate to keep everything locked up inside.
“Come now, lass. We’ve been through all of this,” Arenvald said, his hand on the back of her head now, pulling her forward so that she burrowed her wet face into his shoulder. She did not resist. “I was so scared I would lose you to despair…that you would follow Charlet and become a blasphemy. But you had the strength to persevere, to face your crimes and do your best to make amends. You still have that strength, Fordola. You possess the strength to let me love you.”
“I don’t know how to be loved,” Fordola muttered into Arenvald’s skin, shaking her head back and forth.
“But you know how to love,” Arenvald responded. “You’ve been so careful with me – as careful of my pride as you are of my injuries themselves. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. That’s love, Fordola, at least by my definition.”
“Love?” Fordola said, leaning back from Arenvald’s shoulder, but not yet removing herself from his lap. Fordola knew she didn’t deserve being loved by such a man, but then who in her acquaintance truly did deserve such a blessing? Was it enough merely to bring Arenvald joy excluding thoughts of her own merit? She drew in a deep breath, grounded herself in Arenvald’s eyes – in the scent of his skin and the wayward fringe she felt herself pushing away from his brow – and decided that she would choose Arenvald’s joy if she couldn’t yet reckon with the possibility of her own. “You helped me to avoid becomin’ a monster,” she said aloud. “At least more of a monster than I already was.” She leaned forward and kissed him again, a less frenetic kiss now, one weighted with feeling.
“So you care fer me too then?” Arenvald seized upon as he leaned back from her.
“Aye,” she replied, sniffing again as she looked away while wiping her face with one hand.
“Then we are in exactly the right place for it – here at the Valentione’s celebration. What say you we finish our tea and then head to Old Gridania for the festival?”
Fordola gave a curt nod in the affirmative, still using both hands to wipe her face. She sniffed once and then slid herself from Arenvald’s lap, but not before he leaned in to give her one more quick kiss.
They left the room then – the room with only one bed. Well, Fordola would have to come to terms with that item later, she supposed, and went back to finish their tea. Their server brought a nice fresh pot, which was still hot, much to Fordola’s delight. And Fordola finished her scone, along with another besides. ‘Twas so strange to consider how a matter of mere moments could entirely change one’s perspective on one’s experience: before she had hoped merely to choke down the remains of her first scone and now she took great satisfaction in consuming her second. Indeed, she didn’t think she’d ever tasted anything its equal.
She could feel her stiff, out of practice lips stretching into a smile then. Arenvald returned the smile and the sensation a mere expression produced in her stomach made her feel lighter, as though she could float up into the air like the many heart-shaped balloons surrounding them. Soon they were finished and had settled up the bill, Fordola insisting on paying her share of course. Some things between them remained the same. But many things seemed different, particularly when Arenvald reached for Fordola’s hand as they left the Carline Canopy, just one more couple strolling out to enjoy the festivities of Valentione’s Day.