Author's Note: I wish FFN had a seperate section for these. Originally posted on A03 - 2016-12-26

This was inspired by the slew of MCU Soulmate fic I was reading at the time. This was original posted on Archive of Our Own. It's not finished - has 2 more chapters planned. This will be posted daily until I run out of chapters (4).

Disclaimer: the Warriors of Light/Adventurers in this piece of fiction are of my own invention and shall likely be referenced across my works.

Aymeric: Child to Knight

The words "Well, I guess Ishgardians do have a sense of humor!" were printed in careful but neat lettering on Aymeric's left arm. The blue letters had gotten darker as years passed, confirming that they hadn't strayed from the course that would bring them to each other.

His mother, Amarante, had tittered as she fitted an arm warmer to cover the words. "They're rare, Aymeric. And they do always come in blue - though the shade... "she traced her fingers over the deep azure she couldn't quite describe. "Does seem unique to you,"

"But other people have them?" In a tavern in the Black Shroud on a trading trip with his mother he'd seen an exchange of First Words and everyone had clapped, the bartender giving them free drinks.

"Not in Ishgard, dear one. Keep them covered regardless - it's a private thing,"

"Oui, Maman,"

His father, Elouan, looked sharp whenever Aymeric did not cover them - it was always indoors but he didn't have to say anything. Eventually, they got a powder and covered the words - as if there was only flesh there.

"You're going to see the Archbishop today," his father explained as his mother fussed.

Young Aymeric - equal to a Hyuran child of ten winters - frowned. "Why me?"

He wished his father was his birth father. He didn't talk of soul words as if they were a curse, not like the Archbishop who kept his tone commanding and lecturing as if he was talking to a puplit and not his son.

But Aymeric didn't really think of Archbishop as his father either and his parents clutched his hands when they had left the Bascilia.

But soon there would be no more hand-holding, or knitted jumpers or making practice swords with his papa or hugs.

He wished that his father (the father who'd loved and raised him) hadn't died in a travel accident. That his mother hadn't died in the same accident. He suppressed his anger at the other attendants of the memorial - knights had died too and somehow dying protecting their people was less honorable than dying to dragonfire. His parents would go to Halone's Halls regardless.

And without them he was ever more aware of the severe presence of the Archbishop. That was when the rumors started and the gates to the outside were closed to him - there were no more trips or opportunities for it. His knight training took precedence.

"In the knighthood," his papa (in heart, if not in blood) had said. "they can judge you but they cannot stop you,"

He started knight training late; he'd wanted to become a merchant like his mother. She was always bring back something interesting, took him with her as often as she could, though not very far. But his hands were not unfamiliar with the blade; he'd practiced with his father.

He trained with the other pages in the large class and dove into his studies. Archery helped him think. Less swinging about in archery - it took patience and skill to get a good target. Cooled his mind.

The soul words weren't his only marks fortunately - a dragoon's lance ran down his spine – right along the bone in the center.

If he hadn't had them, he would have to stave off suspicions too for the unmarked were thought to have committed crimes in a past life that made them unworthy of a soulguide.

And he was far too wary to contemplate what the discovery of his words of the soul would bring.

The dragoon's lance begins to itch and it takes weeks - and corridor scuffle and mutual disciplinary cleaning duty - for Estinien to acknowledge him as more than a shadow that occasionally darkened his path.

"Where's yours?"

They're both orphans so racing back and forth across the stones with soapy scrubs pads isn't such a chore for them as it is for their highborn peers.

Aymeric looks at him askance.

"Where's yours?"

Well, the mentors had despaired over Estinien's total disregard for mannerisms. "My back. Right down the spine."

"I want to see later,"

He does - Aymeric's is lance - Gae Bolg to be exact and Estinien's is a sword- right down the spine.

The mark diviners claim it means that their soul match would stab them in the back.

Estinien scoffs.

When the dragoon aspirant tackles and bloodies two highborn whelps for trying to slander him, Aymeric agrees with him.

And Estinien finally accept Aymeric after he shoots a dragon in the eye for him.

When Knights are matched in the soul, they will form such a team that will carry Ishgard forward.

As the red moon loomed closer, astrologians showed interest in something other than the Dragon Star for the first time in forever, the soul words throbbed like a racing heart.

And the waking visions came.

Fleeting. Like flashes. Estinien, his friends would be replaced by people he'd never seen - Elezen, yes but Roegadyn, Lalafell, Miqo'te, Hyur. But Ishgard was in upheaval and his knight mentor - the Lord Commander - needed him and he pushed through it, though the blue soul words hummed.

He had duties to Ishgard and visionary dreams he could talk about.

The priest waxed poetic about his needing to 'become an Elezen of the cloth' to 'thank Halone' but fortunately he managed to bring the priest around to agreeing Halone was guiding him to be one of her warriors.

Considering, his dreams were filled with brave if reckless warriors pluming dangerous environments and fighting off unfamiliar soldiers in red and black with odd helmets, it wasn't far off the mark.

He was actually quite sure that wasn't it at all – it wasn't Halone - but even now he was wary of revealing his soul words.

She - he was certain of this - wasn't Ishgardian.

Soul words in Ishgard were rare so he had no idea if this vision thing was unusual or a common parcel with soul words. But very few had a soulmatch outside of Ishgard.

The astrologians had their theories.

Don't worry about it," Estinien said. "I have them too,"

"What do you think it means?"

"Ishgard is going to change. And we'll be the ones to end this damnable war."

He's a little frightened of Estinien's certainty.

Ishgard quibbled over rejoining the Eorzean Alliance but the Archbishop resisted and besides - the dragons were swarming, going more berserk than usual. They could send chocobos - their blight had given way to a population explosion so the stables were bursting and they needed the coin but they would send no more aid than that.

But a hook formed behind his navel, a song who's words escaped him, resounded maddeningly in his mind, He'd prowl around the borders of Coerthas with Estinien and the other dragoons, keeping an eye for the patrols as the dragoon taught young Gridanian lancers - and sometimes adventurers - how to leap like dragoons and ran from the patrols like mischievous children.

Dragoons didn't listen to the rules of propriety and etiquette very often. Their eccentrics were tolerated even accepted as a necessary in their neverending campaign against their draconic foes.

And the red moon loomed closer and the dragons roared.

The hook in his navel, the persistent buzz of his soul words that he was becoming more and more sure the person who matched this mark was the other half of his soul, who's aether would become his compass.

Scandals and Dravania - it was quite enough to choke any attempts to send troops to Carteneau. No matter how much his soul mark burned at that for days afterwards.

With the Congregation like a kicked hornet's nest and the red moon looming low, he slipped to the highest tower of the city, followed by Estinien.

"Aymeric!"

"They're marching!"

"Who?!"

"The Eorzean Alliance."

The battle at Carteneau in Mor Dhona – the ruined heart of Eorzea - was fuzzy even in his mentor's spyglass, the explosions distant the red in the sky and the meteors streaking through the air like dragon fire.

Estinien twitched, the wyvern roars faint.

"Aymeric - "

"Go,"

He had his duty - they both did - but it was psychically painful at this point for Aymeric to leave his self-appointed watch post. Even with dragons to fight, Estinien left reluctantly.

The song was louder and his words burned. He peeled off his glove, startled to see it glowing dimly, shifting for words to a simple pattern, like la foudre.

The roar of battle seemed to press on his ears, his distant sight blurring to face a battle field roiling with bodies, Garleans and Eorzeans alike falling in the fields, a line of magitek walkers marching towards them.

And the scene blurred, a massive chunk of rock laced with blue - like a sword piercing the ground, sending up dust and debris.

His vision returned to itself, leaving him gasping - and watched with unblinking eyes, blood congealed to pudding in his veins as the moon -

The red moon, Menphina's loyal hound.

The red moon, ever small in the sky loomed now.

The red moon hovered far too close, blue lines pulsating like veins

- and cracked open, like an egg, like a boulder from a trainee thaumaturge's lava spell.

Cracked open and scattered a dying nebula of dust and fire in the sky.

And dragon wings – that he didn't need a spyglass to see – stretched into the sky and spread, eclipsing the southern skies, as if it were blight on the carrot crops.

Halone preserve us. The word were lost on the way to his lips.

Meteors, fire - the whole sky was blood red, filled with fire and the echoing roar thundering across the crimson-tinged vault of sky.

Not again. Not like this. He couldn't tear eyes anyway, memories of Nidhog's last rampage flashing in his mind.

A dragon. A dragon in the moon. A dragon unleashed on the whole realm.

Fear that was not his crashed within, sharpening to anger and confusion.

Ishgard had not answered the call. Had they failed their people? Ishgard had not answered the call. Had they failed the realm?

He was feeling his soul match and his soul words burned something awful.

In a distance field, in an itch in his brain, he felt a pause and then - someone… was hugging his mind? A feeling of regret, of resolve -

He tried to hold on - Don't - Wait - but the deep sigh made him reconsider.

He stopped resisting.

Halone...and Byregot be with you.

As if run through, his hand burned and his scream was lost to his ears as the pain race up his arm, stabbing into his heart.

He crumpled - he may have been screaming - and there was only relief when darkness claimed him.

His left arm felt like fire, his mouth was slimy and gross. His ears rang and everything ached. His heart ached. He jerked up, invoking a cry from someone else that he took no notice off as he ripped up the sleeve.

The words were gone. Only faint outlines remained, and blackened scars like lightning charred his skin.

Aymeric stared blankly until the chirurgeon touched the wounded skin and he pulled away sharply like a wounded animal, burying his face into his pillow before he could cry out his anguish to the room.

The ache throbbed.

Like a dragon's dying breath.

The ache seared.

His breath hitched

She had known. She regretted. She sacrificed.

He only becomes aware when the tears fade and he comes back to himself, his head throbs and his heart feels lighter and he seems to have soaked Estinien's shoulder. The young dragoon did not mock or scold, just patted his back and offered hot tea.

"I had to carry you back," Estinien says. "You collapsed in the tower."

"What - "

"Hush now," Estinien ordered and shoved a muffin into his hand.

The whole sordid tale spills out - 'tell no one, ma petite', his mother had rasped - but this was his best friend, guided to him by Halone. He left nothing out the headaches, the all-too brief psychic bond, the dreams... feeling her die.

"We can put down some flowers," he suggests. Comfort really wasn't Estinien's forte.

There's a moment of hesitation before Estinien peels off his bandages - his soul mark - a strange stylistic line of symbols - is faded too.

It was the one time he allowed Estinien to collect enough liquor to hammer them both in near-oblivion. All that did was trigger was more grief and a crying jag he would be grateful that Estinien did not bring it up.

In the days that followed, with Coerthas hit by unending snowstorms and the fading meteors, and the Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly righting itself, Aymeric tried to pull together his tattered soul, and dodging the priests and chirurgeons and sticking close to Estinien whenever possible.

The words were a faint blurred outline almost invisible. Despite his grief, he was proud that his soul match had died defending her realm. He was also angry. They would have been a good match. They would have.

But he pushes through and Ishgard's problems and the mess he has inherited and the tactics he has to employ keeps his mind off the faded soul words most days.

On Blitzturn however- especially in the early and late hours - he'd mourn her, his soul match who died in the line of duty. As he likely would. He was proud but sometimes his grief overwhelmed logic. Really, Iceturn or Waterturn should be the day for this but he felt Blitzturn was more fitting, setting his violin to his chin and trying to recreate the tune in his mind.

The visions stopped. He laid flowers monthly on last Blitzturn instead of weekly. The hum was faint. His arm ached less.

It would likely never hold a shield properly again and it made drawing back an arrow a nightmare but that, at least was something he could work on. And when he drew the arrow back to its greatest draw, he could swear it hummed.

And his dreams were never nightmares, never stressed. Only pleasant fantasies that faded as soon as he woke. till, the loss of his soul match before he'd even had a chance to meet her, further fueled his interest in chatting with wandering merchants.

"There's them persons who'll be your kindred in soul," one had said. "mayhap into the next life. But those who's first Words are known to ye - they'll shake up yer life something fierce,"

Would his life settle into this routine because she wouldn't be appearing to shake it up?

No - he could go. See the realm she died for. Speak to the people his mother once traded with.

And yet he couldn't quite bring himself to leave.

The heavens kept turning. Winter continued to grip Coerthas regardless of moon and villages and outposts and vigils were abandoned. Stories of the those who laid their lives down at Carteneau made into the outposts and taverns, whispered in corners. And the years blurred. The Seventh Umbral Era was upon them and the dragons were more restless than they'd been in years.

And then there was Lucia. The Garlean spy who came to love Ishgard. He believed in redemption and second chances. Did ice not give way to spring?

It was amazing how scandals and complications distracted him from his grief. His left arm was practically useless so she always stood on his left. She was there when he was appointed the Lord Commander and Estinien loomed in the rafters with the other Dragoons.

He ignored his itching arm when it started up, save to scratch it and put some aloe on it before returning to his work. Training in the mornings, overseeing the pages, stiffing through paperworks.

Until one day, it sharpened like a jolt, provoking a cry in the middle of a meeting. Fortunately, the twinge of old wounds were not uncommon; Alberic joked that he should keep an eye for falling masonry or worse the Brume settling in.

It wasn't until he was in private quarters that he could look.

You seem to have me at a disadvantage, Aymeric was neatly, if slightly spikily printed exactly where the previous set had been - this time in purple the color of lightning.

Both rage and elation warred within him. He didn't want another soul match!

After so long with strange echoes and visions and hummed soul words and then to feel her die at Carteneau, he threw himself into his duties to Ishgard though his desire to open the gates - to see the realm his first soul match died for. He didn't want another.

Well, that anger lasted for all of a few hours - when he went to bed in a bad mood, jamming his left arm where he couldn't see it - and the song resounded in his mind and he dreamt of crystals and storms.

He wordlessly showed Estinien the next day - you didn't typically show soul marks but they were brothers of the soul so…

Estinien stares blanky for a long moment before Aymeric prompts him. Estinien reveals his own mark - in the same place as last time.

You have a sense of drama, don't you? Estinien's words accuse and Aymeric cannot help laugh.

And then he begins to wonder at the timing.