Chapter Text
In the late afternoons, with the sky greyed over and the countless piles of reports haunting his desk, Ser Aymeric de Borel often wondered, idly, whether it had been the color of her hair.
By candlelight, it was very nearly the same blue as his sword, Naegling, and of the silk that accented his armor. The Lord Commander deemed himself a modest man, only rarely indulgent in luxuries. But, he'd spent an embarrassing amount of Borel gil on those dyes, so troublesome had it been to get the blue just right. To think, that a small fortune had been required to emulate a color that grew so freely, so naturally from her body. He could only shake his head at the thought.
Aymeric's sociological knowledge of the Au Ra was admittedly lacking, so the origin of the color remained a mystery to him. He could not be certain whether it was rare or common among her people. In truth, he felt that it hardly mattered.
Blue was an easy color, favored by most Ishgardians. That’s what it meant to be surrounded by ancient, grey stones and a heavy sea of grey clouds. Even the very snowfall seemed ashen. Grayness and coldness were the near-eternal stage upon which the Highlands sat.
So on those fine, clear days that sunlight did grace them, it was always beneath a vault of pale azure. To see the sky meant a fragile warmth: the forums full to bursting with citizenry, excited shouts and gibs of children climbing atop the statue of Saint Reinette. Blue, the color that permeated those uncommonly happy days.
So too was it, that the rims of her eyes were a sort of cerulean, almost neon-like. Deeper, and of a more profound brightness than his own.
He recalled the first time he had met her, in Coerthas. Aymeric had often met men less impressive than their deeds, and as such, had grown accustomed to tempering his expectations. With the Warrior of Light, it was not so.
He could tell she was possessant of a sort of aura, a kind of consecrated air that he could not describe but had felt before: inside of a church, or upon earth with hallowed significance. Whatever her vitality of animation, it seemed incapable of expiration. Aymeric found himself enthralled, but he did not know why.
Over the nights that followed, in those inconsequential half-moments between sleep and awakeness, his mind’s eye was sodden with visions of her. Like the ghost of a bard’s tune stuck in one’s head, unwavering though you wish for it to stop.
It was in the way she moved.
When he’d regarded her for the first time, he couldn’t quite understand it. To look at her alone, he realized, you wouldn’t see it. But when he recalled how she'd leaned in toward the little white-haired Elezen, small hand rising up to gently pat the textured cloth of his shoulder, it struck him.
When she moved, her body never went toward anything. Instead, something gently melded the air and dust and presence of the earth around her, like the fabric of Eorzea itself was shifting under her intensity. Her movement was unmistakable, yes, but the impression was also that she remained in one place.
Hers was a reverent magnetism. Something he could neither put into words, nor out of his mind.
Ahnri.
What does it say about a man who is only capable of speaking politically?
The first impression that most have of Ser Aymeric is that of bureaucracy. And, that perhaps he was rather handsome.
For the second reason, Ahnri found it pleasing to subject him to her intense scrutiny. She noted his straight spine, the highness with which held his head, the proper clasp of his long fingers. It was the sort of etiquette she’d grown unaccustomed to seeing this far North.
His motions were easy and well-practiced, evocative of a highborn society man. There was no speech he hadn’t given before, voice calm and clear, though not lacking for emotion. She found it soothing on the ears, selfishly listening to his words without comprehension.
They were speaking of Ishgard's status with the Eorzean alliance, of their refusal to rejoin.
Within a few minutes of the discussion's beginning, Aymeric shifted slightly, pale eyes flicking over to regard her even as Alphinaud spoke. She wondered, vaguely, whether the good Lord Commander was even listening. Sometimes the young scion did tend to carry on.
Ahnri found herself wholly unaffected by his gaze, heart too ambivalent to muster even the slightest palpitation. Aymeric was hardly the first handsome man to look upon her, and—Twelve willing—he would not be the last.
Were she twice as daring, she would have winked. Not even meaning anything by it, just to see if she could prompt a reaction. Would he stiffen? Or stammer his next words? Perhaps a little blush would creep over his high cheekbones?
Probably none of those things, she decided. A man that handsome could only have endured his fair share of winking.
All in due time. She could be patient, for a virtue such as his.