Chapter Text
IV. Minuet (The Bell Tower)
“Let her go.”
Aymeric had been returning to the Congregation from an errand at the Skysteel Manufactory when he’d happened upon two of his guards rather harshly questioning a small, cloaked figure. He arrived at the scene just in time to see one guard reach out to tear off the hood, and then he had heard a sound come from the woman – for she must be a woman, judging by her voice and stature. It was a wordless cry of pure distress, going through flesh and bone, jarring him and the guards as well.
At this point, Aymeric had intervened before the situation could escalate, yet his eyes remained fixed on the woman, as if he might be able to see what lay beneath that dark hood, behind the scarf wrapped around her face. That voice…
“Your commander just gave you an order,” Gibrillont noted angrily. The tavern-keep stood at the doors with his arms crossed, looking stern. Aymeric stared the guard down, who had still not released the woman.
“Let her go, Pierre. Now,” he said again, his voice calm but with more of an implacable edge now.
The guard finally obeyed, pulling his hand back. And as soon as he did, the harassed woman turned on her heels and fled into the alley. She dropped her basket mid-run, the contents scattering across the street. Both Aymeric and Gibrillont had the same idea at that moment, calling out to her to wait – in vain. She must have been too spooked, the treatment by the guards sending her running at the first chance she got. There was an odd moment when she bumped into a support beam but immediately caught herself, continuing her desperate flight until she disappeared around the corner.
Aymeric looked after her, his brows pulled into a frown. Of course, no citizen liked to be apprehended by the Temple Knights, but… this strong reaction had seemed panicked, almost to the extreme. Her voice when she had cried out… it had sounded so hauntingly familiar to the one he had heard in the cathedral. He couldn’t be absolutely sure, but… What if it was her? The enchanting singer…
“Back to your posts. And do not let me catch you harassing people like that again,” Aymeric clipped tersely at his men, who both gave a hurried salute and walked off towards the Congregation.
Meanwhile Gibrillont had approached, lifting the wicker basket and carefully gathering up the discarded items. There were clothes and shoes, the size of both indicating they were meant to be worn by children. Aymeric followed the tavern-keep’s example and found a small purse clinking with coins, as well as a drawstring bag which seemed to contain something hard and heavy.
“She told the truth,” Gibrillont said at length. “These are the weekly donations from Saint Reymanaud’s. Mother Angelique usually brings them to me herself… She must have been detained in some way. I just hope she is alright…”
Unable to curb his curiosity, Aymeric gently opened the satchel and peered inside, his lips parting in surprise when he saw what it contained. Within were three pristine wooden toys: a knight, a chocobo and a coerl. The pieces were beautifully carved and painted in vivid, bold colours. Such neat craftsmanship… ‘Twas plain to see how much thought and care had gone into the making of each figurine. He lifted the knight from the bag, turning the carving this way and that in the light. The armour was not white but silver-grey instead. A small detail, yet… somehow he got the impression the choice of colour was very deliberate.
“Ah, those are a delight!” Gibrillont exclaimed, pointing at the toy. Aymeric glanced up, astonished. “The clothes and shoes are for survival. But the toys… they bring a bit of joy and brightness. The Brume orphans adore those little carvings. I get three each week, always different ones. Fury bless whoever makes them.”
Indeed, Aymeric mused to himself pensively. Out loud, he said: “They are charming… It almost feels like they tell a story. The knight, the chocobo and the coerl…”
“Like that nursery rhyme – what was it called? Ser Lyon…”
“Ser Larion the Luckless,” Aymeric chuckled. “I remember that one. My mother used to sing it to me as a child…” He trailed away, absent-mindedly replacing the toy inside the bag. A different tale came to his mind then, one Lady Borel had recounted on deep winter nights when he had huddled beneath thick blankets, watching the fire dance in the hearth.
They told stories in song, their voices stirring our hearts… Without them, we are lacking something, Aymeric… Our world is… lesser.
After he had joined the Temple Knights, the stories had stopped, and she had never mentioned them again.
He couldn’t say why, but… he was certain now. The woman who had fled from the guards was the same one who had eased his worries with her lovely song. And suddenly he knew he needed to find her.
“Gibrillont…” he began, handing the bundle to the tavern-keep with a quick, apologetic glance. “Forgive me, but I shall have to take my leave…”
He had only just turned halfway when the other man spoke in a troubled tone. “My lord… You are not going to… chastise her, are you?”
Aymeric froze, thunder-struck. “Nay… Of course not. Why would you…” He paused for an instant, a frown marring his brow when he saw Gibrillont’s wary expression.
“You know who she is,” he said eventually, to which the tavern-keep sighed.
“I’m sorry, Lord Commander.” He shook his head, looking aside. “‘Tis not my story to tell.”
It stung, that thinly veiled distrust. But Fury, who could blame him? With the way things were, who could still unconditionally trust a knight – any knight – to be honourable and true? Especially those who live right at the centre of the dire circumstances which had befallen the city. The owner of the Forgotten Knight had seen it all, experienced it all.
Aymeric knew a pang of acute, angry frustration, chased by a vicious throb in his skull. He swallowed compulsively when his throat gave a small spasm. With a mumbled reassurance to Gibrillont, he left the plaza and made for the Pillars, inadvertently massaging the side of his neck as he went. It had been like this ever since his run-in with Zephirin and Grinnaux.
After the coughing fit, he had been terrified to find his voice failing him, nothing but croaky sounds emerging when he tried to speak, a painful lump making him choke on every word. The panic had only made it worse. He’d gone home early that day, praying frantically that whatever sudden sickness had befallen him would pass with some rest. The next morning, the hoarseness had lessened considerably and he could speak again, but he still did not feel… normal. Random headaches and uncontrollable tremors continued to assault him, a constant tickle in his throat that made him fear his voice might break during the very next conversation. Mayhap he caught something nasty and was truly was falling ill… yet a part of him dreaded that it might be much more than that…
Aymeric arrived at the cathedral a bit later, after stopping twice on his way to breathe through more painful pulses and waiting for them to abate. He pushed open the gate, his thoughts refocusing with a stunning swiftness now that he was here. For while his own voice had caused him all sorts of trouble these past days, he could not forget hers. The enchanting singer whose soothing song still resonated in his heart, the memory of it enough to quicken his pulse as he stepped into the cool vestibule of St. Reymanaud.
Who was she? What did she look like? Would he even find her? She had been so quick to flee and hide… He had a distinct sense that she was very apt at concealing herself from sight – if she chose to. Most certainly she had been somewhere close at their last – for lack of a better word – meeting, but he had never caught a single glimpse of her. All he knew was her angelic voice… and how he desperately wanted to hear it again.
The cathedral was quiet and still, only a few visitors kneeling for prayer among the pews. Aymeric didn’t see any deacons, nor the supreme priestess, which was why he set course for the vestry, not quite knowing what else to do.
It was an unconsciously right decision, for just as he rounded a large marble column and briefly cast his gaze at a candle-lit alcove beside the entrance, he saw her. A small, hooded figure emerging from the vestry, apparently in a hurry and still agitated. She stopped dead when she caught sight of him, uttering a shocked gasp. The dumbstruck stupor at his sudden appearance only lasted for the blink of an eye though. The next he knew, the woman was scrambling to flee again, yet as she did, Aymeric glimpsed the flash of a bright red eye when she threw him a panicked glance, and that short-lived connection sent a jolt of awareness through his entire body.
In her haste, she overthrew several of the large candle-holders flanking the outer walkway. They crashed to the ground with loud clangs, nearly deafening in the tranquil silence of the cathedral.
“Wait!” Aymeric called after her, but it was no use. Her feet flew across the immaculate marble tiles in a blur, and an instant later she darted between two smaller pillars, vanishing into a narrow corridor. He was on her trail within seconds, heedless of the surprised exclamations rising from several petitioners, who had been alerted by the commotion.
The unassuming niche she’d fled into led to a set of winding, steep stairs which seemed to ascend to the upper reaches of the cathedral. Aymeric climbed them two at a time, but he had to slow his pace considerably when utter darkness fell around him, no candles burning in the tiny alcoves of the central column.
To avoid tripping, he needed to use his hand to feel the wall on his left side, which was made from rough stone instead of marble. It made sense, he thought distantly, that the bones of the cathedral were hewn from something sturdier and more convenient. What could be up there? An instant later the answer struck him: The bell tower. Home to the Fury’s voice on earth.
Also, it occurred to him that the woman – whom he now suspected to be the mysterious bell-ringer of St. Reymanaud – must be able to see perfectly in the dark. She was far ahead, her light footsteps near inaudible even to his sensitive ears.
“Wait, please!” he called again, his voice bouncing off the walls and echoing up into the black void. More gently he added: “I mean you no harm.”
Had he heard her stop, if only briefly? He couldn’t tell, only hope. The spiral staircase seemed to continue forever, giving him the strangest sensation that he was travelling up the belly of a giant snake stretching its looped body right into the very heavens. At long last, he saw a soft violet light above, hastening his steps towards the source of it.
Two more turns, and Aymeric emerged into a room flooded with brightness, having to squeeze his eyes shut momentarily against the glare. When his vision had adjusted to the light and he realized where he was, his breath left him in a rush.
A spacious chamber stretched out before him, with countless massive support beams overhead serving as the skeleton which carried the great towers of the cathedral. He could barely see the ceiling of the towers themselves, not just because they ascended so impossibly high up, but a full view was impeded by the huge brass-and-gold bells, secured to their unfathomable mechanisms between the wooden braces. The entire platform, the whole room in which he stood, was suffused in a rainbow of colours: yellow and blue, orange and violet, and countless more hues he had no name for. Fascinated, he held out his hand, watching the rays of chromatic light dance across his fingers. Like magic.
“Incredible…” he murmured, lifting his gaze again. “We are behind the window above the main hall…”
The stunning circular window across the chamber was the source of the enchanted luminosity, its stained glass catching the light of the setting sun, fracturing and tinting it in every imaginable hue. Beneath it, Aymeric saw pieces of simple wooden furniture, a heavy clothing chest beside thick quilted blankets, a pillow peeking out underneath…
“Is this where you live?” he breathed, dumbstruck. “Inside a beautiful rainbow…”
He thought he heard a sigh from somewhere above. As Aymeric carefully examined the support beams, he saw her. Crouched low on the wooden surface, the bell-ringer half-concealed herself behind a column, a single crimson eye focused on his face below. The hood hid almost all of her, yet a small, ashen-grey hand gripped the edge of the wood for purchase.
“Pray forgive me for startling you. I am –“
“I know who you are…” she forestalled him quietly, her gaze skittering sideways for a heartbeat before it came back to him. Almost in an afterthought, it seemed, she added: “My lord.”
The tiny hairs on his nape rose to attention as she spoke, a pleasant kind of chill running through him. It was her. There could be no doubt about it, not after he had heard her voice. Even in ordinary speech, there was an unmistakable verve to it, a gentle lilt, the pitch located at the transition between alto at soprano. Perfectly balanced. His gaze was still trained on her, and he glimpsed the edge of something beneath the hood, something bright and subtly creased that made him think of masterfully carved ivory.
“I see… Even so… Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for you,” he said, allowing his voice to take on a kind, forthcoming cadence. She tilted her head a little, evocative of a curious bird who had just heard an enticing melody. He had the strangest impression that she wanted him to keep talking. So he did.
“It grieves me to admit that in all my years living in our city, I never spared a thought to the question of how the sacred bells of the Goddess are made to ring,” he explained smoothly. “If I may tell you a secret – as child, I was convinced the Fury herself descended from her seat each time to make them sing her song.”
She shifted a tiny bit on her perch, and there was a moment’s silence.
“Will you not honour me with your name, at least?” he asked when she didn’t reply, his voice inadvertently soft. Something changed on her face, or at least on the small fraction of it he could see, and suddenly she looked as though in pain.
“I’m no one. You should forget you ever saw me,” she stopped, swallowed, then went on. “I am… grateful. For what you did when the guards…”
Another abrupt pause.
“You must go. ‘Tis not safe for you here.” She turned away then, and he barely suppressed a gasp when she took a nimble jump from one beam to the next, heedless of the four yalm fall awaiting her should she slip. Aymeric followed her path across the support logs as if drawn by invisible strings, both concerned and fascinated by the bold acrobatics she displayed.
“This cathedral is the Fury’s greatest sanctuary,” he argued as he went, frantically tracing her progress with his eyes. “If this place is not safe, then no place is safe.”
She lunged again, far this time. He flew after her, breath slamming in his lungs.
“My lady –“ he exclaimed. “Pray don’t send me away! I only came to hear you sing again.”
Something about his words must have jarred her concentration. Suddenly her balance faltered, and she didn’t manage to land securely on the wooden beam ahead. Aymeric saw her foot lose purchase, saw how she tried to grasp the column for support but failed, and then she was falling.
On mere instinct he surged forward, arms shooting up to catch her tumbling body before it could hit the ground. He only just succeeded. She landed securely in his embrace, his knees sagging a little to absorb the shock of the impact – but she was so light… her insubstantial weight caused him no trouble at all.
Underneath the layers of cloth, he could feel slender limbs with well-developed muscles, giving him a clear sensation of her lean stature and the wiry strength in her body. His fingers were curled around one firm thigh, his other arm wrapped around her shoulders, and the rest of her… The rest of her was pressed tightly to his chest, distracting him with hints of softer curves, hidden but clearly tangible… He shook his head to disperse the sudden, unbidden thoughts barging into his mind, viciously quelling the misplaced enjoyment he felt.
“Are you alright?” he asked with a small huff, looking down at the rescued bell-ringer. Whatever more he’d meant to say, the words died a sudden death in his throat. Her hood had slipped off completely, revealing her face to him in the vivid light, and he went still as a statue at what he saw.
Fury, the first view felt like being hit by lightning. She was dichotomy in the flesh, a polar opposition, a violent contrast. One half of her face was pristine, smooth as marble, strikingly beautiful. She had flawless skin the colour of morning mists, the faintest rosy blush lingering on her cheek. A single ruby eye looked back at him, wide with shock, alight with facets ranging from burgundy to vermillion.
The other half of her face told a heart-breaking story of pain and violence, the skin covered by a spider-web of scars, a composition of glossy patches and dark lines snaking their way between them. Healed burns, many years old but unfading. Her second eye had lost all colour in the tragedy that had befallen her. Although it was focused on him as well, he sensed it saw nothing, blind and murky, clouded over by a silvery sheen.
Gods, he couldn’t begin to imagine the agony she had survived, so blatantly branded onto her features… The jarring contradiction of her face was already a lot to digest, and in the moment of stunned stillness as they stared at each other, Aymeric struggled to keep his expression from showing both the consternation gripping his insides and the wave of compassion threatening to overwhelm him. He doubted she would have cared for either one of those reactions. In the tempest of his conflicting thoughts, he noticed the second shocking revelation about her, too spellbound by her face to see it earlier.
Curved ivory horns protruded from the abundant locks of indigo hair, one whole and pointed, the other broken off at the bend, wrapped in white linen. Pearlescent scales decorated her cheek and jaw, meandering smoothly along her throat and disappearing beneath the fabric of the cloak.
“Au Ra…” he whispered, awe-struck. Her eyes went wider yet, if that was even possible, and his remark seemed to tear her from the state of dazed inaction. All of a sudden, she was squirming in his arms, frantic to get away. Immediately Aymeric settled her on her feet, noting how the first thing she did was to reach for her hood with trembling hands –
“No, please! ‘Tis alright, you need not –“
“You saw me!” she wailed, and a ripple of panic washed over him with her wavering voice. “Nobody from outside can see me. Oh, this is bad, Halone be merciful, no no no…”
She began pacing restlessly in circles, apparently forgetting to put her hood back on in her anxiety, wringing her hands and raking them through her hair. Unable to bear her distress, Aymeric stepped closer, planting himself in her path, his hands held unthreateningly at his back.
“I won’t tell anyone I saw you,” he said firmly, experiencing a rush of frustration that he didn’t know how to address her.
The woman – the Au Ra woman, he was still trying to grasp the enormity of this fact – stopped short two steps away from him, having to crane her neck so she could meet his eyes. Her expression was that of a wary creature trying to gauge the degree of a potential threat. She didn’t believe him. He couldn’t blame her. There was a short, terribly laden pause, before he overcame his indecision and bowed low before her, hand on his chest.
“Ser Aymeric de Borel, at your service, my lady. Please accept my solemn vow: I swear I shall not reveal your secret to any living soul within this city.” He put every bit of sincerity into his words as he straightened, and his promise seemed to shiver in the space between them, the air sizzling with a force he could not name. He ignored the sting in his temple, swallowed down the knot-like tension in his throat. Again, the woman tilted her head, one attentive eye surveying him almost with a hint of speculation. The corner of her mouth, the unmarred one, twitched suspiciously as if she was suppressing amusement.
“I told you before, my lord… I know who you are,” she said, her tone softer now, no longer panicked but intrigued instead. Had he heard a mite of tongue-in-cheek there, or was it his imagination…?
“So you do,” he replied politely, a slight smile blooming on his lips. “Yet I’m beginning to feel extremely disrespectful for not knowing your name. Usually, introductions are made before a lady falls into one’s open arms. Please don’t keep me in suspense for much longer.”
The bell-ringer threw him an exasperated kind of look, then gave a sigh. “I’m not… a lady.” For a brief moment, she averted her gaze from him as if embarrassed, and he couldn’t help but marvel at her gorgeous profile, painted in the magical spectrum of tinted light, the blush on her cheek decidedly more prominent now. Seeing only that, one might simply forget the ruin of the other half, if one had any inclination to do so. He didn’t. Horrifying as it was, it also screamed an undeniable truth to him, loud and clear: Fighter. Victor over death.
Firewalker.
After a small eternity of silence, the bell-ringer turned back to him. There was a strangely sad smile on her face.
“Riven. My name is Riven,” she introduced herself at last, her voice softened but still innately melodious.
Aymeric felt a pang of insult on her behalf. The name might have been fittingly chosen, but… harsh as well. Unnecessarily so. It couldn’t be the one her mother had given to her at birth. Come to think of it, how by the Fury’s good graces had a single Au Ra come to live at St. Reymanaud’s cathedral without anyone being aware of her existence? Clearly she had been here for a long time – judging by the very room they stood in. This was her home. Furnished with a sleeping pallet, table and chairs, a workbench littered with half-finished wood carvings, piles of books stacked neatly here and there…
“The Heaven’s Ward know of you,” he suddenly realized after concluding his survey of the surroundings. ‘Twas the only logical explanation. Committed as they were to drive any Au Ra out of Ishgard, it bordered on impossible that one living right under their noses would have slipped their stringent regard. Riven’s gaze dropped to her feet, guilt and shame dawning on her face.
“Yes, they do. I was granted sanctuary by the late king when I was orphaned as a child… Mother Angelique took me in, and I was allowed to live here as the bell-ringer. The knights… tolerate my presence, but I am forbidden from leaving the cathedral, or even showing myself to the people of the city within these walls.” She bit her lip, dismay evident on her features.
“If they learn that I left, that you saw me…” Her ruby gaze sought his, imploring. “Will you truly keep your word? Even though I’m Souillé?”
Aymeric winced at the offhand tone with which she used the scathing denotation. How inured must she be to slanders against her and her brethren, if she could call herself Sullied without batting an eye? An Au Ra, grown up beneath the tyranny of the Twelve… By the will of Thordan, they could not be rid of her – but Gods, he would have wagered his soul that they had made her life miserable in every respect.
“I mislike that word,” Aymeric replied quietly, forehead creased in a frown. “’Tis discourteous and cruel. But I will keep my promise, these bells be my witness.” He gestured fluently to the great brass conduits of Halone’s voice. Riven continued looking at him as if he was a manner of creature she had never seen before.
“Did you really come here… just to ask me to sing?”
The question gave him pause, and he cleared his throat, rather self-conscious about having blurted his request so impulsively before. Her intent regard rested on him, the clear eye dancing with a spark of… expectancy? Hope? He couldn’t say for sure…
“I admit… Well, that is… Aye. Aye, I did,” he confessed, his voice sounding odd to his ears.
Riven blinked rapidly a few times, exhaling a long breath, and Aymeric could have sworn he glimpsed something bright and vivid flash across her face for a fleeting instant. Then she turned abruptly, skirting the furniture with a few bouncing steps. Her hand indicated another, even narrower staircase at the back of the room as she looked back at him over her shoulder.
The genuine, full smile on her face caught him utterly off-guard, and at a single blow, every last thought vacated his mind. He almost missed what she called at him before disappearing into the corridor:
“Follow me then, sir knight. I’ll show you my favourite spot for a song.”
