It is a few months – half a year, perhaps, maybe longer, you're not much for keeping time these days – after the defeat of Nidhogg, and you still come back to Ishgard with some frequency, although it is no longer "home" for the Scions (but, as Ser Aymeric reminds you every time he greets you, it is still your home in many respects). You are surprised at how fond you've grown of the place. The imposing architecture contrasted with delicate arches and pretty stonework, impossibly thin pillars leading to a frosty abyss – contradictions all, and it's still full of orthodox believers and 'heretical' non-believers, alongside the most obvious, terrible, yawning class gap you've yet witnessed in Eorzea.

Life here is brutal, and not simply on account of the cold.

But then, you reason, maybe it's not Ishgard you're fond of as much as some of those who reside here. And memories of those who used to, at least in part.

And so you come back, as you often have – the guards of the Congregation let you through to his office without announcing your presence, and this warms your heart a bit – but today, you lean heavily against the imposing door to shut it. Letting the usually implacable Warrior of Light mask drop, the relief you feel washes across your features, you know – it's quiet here, empty save for him. Those famously pale blue eyes look at you, and beneath that, his lips quirk into half a smile. You feel faint, and you're not entirely sure the cause: him, or just general I-have-been-out-too-long-and-I'm-tired. Probably a mixture of both.

"Welcome home," comes that rich voice and you could throw yourself on him in happiness if it wouldn't be completely undignified.

You apologize for your intrusion – he looks busy, as always, because of course he is – and he gives a gentle laugh as he shakes his head. No matter. You're you, and usual rules don't quite apply. He does, however, ask you about your travels – what have you seen? Who did you meet? Anything of interest? – and you begin to answer as your eyes flit about the familiar room.

At some point in your absence he had a simple bench moved in to the otherwise spare and cavernous space – his massive desk, an outsized chair, and that was about it – and it is here you let yourself relax, wrapping your fur-lined cape around you. He asked you to talk, so you do – and he responds in kind, telling you of Eorzean politics, who said what to whom, what new crises are perhaps looming. You burrow into the hood of your cloak – Aymeric won't mind, and you're cold again, not being quite so inured to the Coerthan chill these days – and lean against the wall, letting your eyes shut.

Time passes.

You wake up with a start, make some sleep-addled noise, and realize groggily that the Lord Commander of Isghard is looking at you with a bemused expression. By the gods, how long have I been sleeping? He laughs – not long, an hour or two, he tells you, and apparently seeing how tired you are, asks if you'd care for some tea.

You're relieved it's not cocoa, and accept his gracious offer.

After a few minutes of fussing with kettles and mugs, he kneels before you, tea in hand, and you breathe in the steam hungrily. It takes a few minutes before it is cool enough to do more than sip gingerly, and so you just take in the aroma of milk and tea and birch syrup. Aymeric and his syrup. You wonder if he has any idea so much of his supply was wrought by your hand. Probably not – why would he?

He is very close to you, and you like it more than you can say. But finally the tea cools a bit, and you do more than sip, you gulp it with abandon - and something in you breaks for no reason you can discern. You set the mug down, trading its warmth for the warmth of your twisting hands - you take a deep breath and try not to cry as your breath comes faster and faster.

Aymeric – the Lord Commander, you remind yourself, Lord Speaker at that~ is the one witnessing this breakdown of yours, which tunes you to be even more hysterical, how had it all come to this. But he is Aymeric - loyal and good and strong – so asks what's wrong, and you want to laugh, because how could he not know? And yet – how could he?

It all comes tumbling out – how tired you are of this grind, the running here and there, go here, do that, risk life and limb and often those of your friends, suffer terrible losses, pick up, dust off, go on, and just when you think it's over – no! go back and do it all again. Always. How you just want to be for a few months. Quite simply, you're exhausted. And no one seems to care.

You are close to tears, and he gently puts his arms around you. Resting your head against his shoulder, you are first glad he is not wearing his clanging trappings and then concentrate on slowing your heart beat. And not crying.

I'm sorry, you murmur finally, sadly, when you no longer feel your heart is going to beat out of your chest or you are simply going to burst out sobbing. You're the last person I should be complaining to.

Ah, he reminds you. His burdens can be delegated, put down in some cases. Yours cannot - that is the truth that goes unsaid.

You pick your head up to look at him, and realize suddenly that you just want to kiss him – desperately, as if nothing else matters. You ponder this for a few beats: lean towards him slowly, think of options slowly, do everything slowly until your lips meet, at which point you abandon slowness for a certain frantic energy.

Gods above he is beautiful – warm, alive, wanting. And wanting you.

You let yourself not think for a while, just feel. Let yourself feel him.

But finally you feel panic welling up: what does this mean, and how, and for how long, and at what price? He must remember what happened the last time you allowed yourself some latitude in affection and closeness. You certainly do.

With gasps, you push his hands away, trying not to catch sight of his eyes, which are searching, curious. Concerned. You know all of this. You simply say –

No, no. And I must be away – as you scramble up awkwardly as he still reaches for you.

You are too fast – too nimble– and he cannot catch you, though part of you wishes you would just let yourself be caught. But not tonight. You snatch up your cloak, and beat a hasty retreat.

And that is how it comes to pass that you leave the Lord Commander of Ishgard on his knees – watching you, watching you – as you step out into the Congregation, hoping neither the color on your cheeks, nor your haste to get away, is too obvious. If those go undetected, so will your reddened lips.