not cold as in corpse, just blessedly cool
by Ishgard Fan, 2026 12 September
...staring from above with golden eyes that streak like fireflies through the dark, eyes that judge and pardon at once...
The Warrior of Light, overcome with fever, receives a visitor.
In between spurts of sleep and fits of shivers where voices talk over (never to) her, Liborette's eyes sway up to a shadowy ceiling, under which she lies entombed to her chin in quilts, seemingly startled awake by one foot scrabbling to scratch the other and failing, for she feels so heavy, so exhausted by coughing with a throat already chafed raw that it takes too long for her to hear the footsteps— thump... thump— the floorboard— creeeeeeak— sounds so menacing they compel her to wonder where she is and panic at the blank answer, until the one non-furniture figure in the room, still bleary even after blinking, is made familiar by the unmistakable clink of armour as it reaches out of the shadows into the circle of candlelight shielding her from total blindness, flickering now as if troubled by a breeze that could never have whisked through a closed window, cracked through her clogged nose, nor dribbled forth from her dry mouth, making the culprit none other than the approaching shadow, the impending touch, realer than anything in this feverish haze because it is solid, heavy, and as cold as any appendage of those misfortunate enough to winter in Ishgard but not cold as in corpse— or worse, ghost— just blessedly cool pointed fingertips brushing her temple, smoothing back her braids, careful not to catch her hair betwixt the gauntlet's joints, all together producing a sound like icicles melting onto snow (the melody of spring, of warmth, of things new and old, with comfort from this particular hand begotten in a place beyond time, without season; a location less literal, more poetic, and, of course, darker than any other) alighting within her joy that would vault her from her bed had she any functional limbs of her own— gods damn this heavy head, these useless hands, just let her sit up!— because all that she needs she is sure to find in that embrace: health, safety, certainty, hope, love, everything, everything!
"Settle down, little dark knight," says Fray, who sees in the twitch beneath the blankets her desperation for a hug yet comes no closer, only stares from above with beautiful golden eyes that streak like fireflies through the dark, eyes that judge and pardon at once, where beneath each reprimand lurks compassion, every action inspired by understanding as unspoken as it was uncanny until she came to know it as intimacy, as interweaving, a sort of "oneness" impossible to explain to anybody but them. The phrase self-love with extra steps passes through her mind, though it may not come from Fray, because Fray is busy shushing her, saying, "save your strength," and Liborette is settling because if she cannot have a hug she will have her favourite words, the two little syllables that never fail to rush from her ears down into her belly where they make flowers bloom, scattering up butterflies to buffet her heart, so gently that even amidst fever one finds no reason to deny her the warmth, aware that the phrase might as well be a spell cast to replenish her health— a liberal definition of conjury if there ever was one, but Fray writes her own rules, doesn't she?
While they both know precisely where this path leads, the girl still feels a little thrill, paradoxical to the demand for relaxation, further challenged by the goose flesh that rises when Fray thumbs closed her tired eyes, traces her lips with touch as tender as any kiss, and finally says, "good girl, go back to sleep," thus closing the curtain on their first meeting since her body, by then little more than noxious bile sloshing around inside a suit of armour, was buried alongside their facade, stealing from Liborette her touch for what she thought would be forever but no, no, Fray does as she pleases and that includes defying death just to offer a gentle hand on a lonely night, to whisper on repeat, "I love you, hush, I'm here," coaxing her little dark knight back into sweat-soaked dreams— the best thing for her illness, she knows, because she was designed to know everything, especially that which her apprentice cannot admit, though after this reunion she senses the poor thing beginning accept that her mentor resides only within the dark side of her own heart, where a puddle of self-preservation refused to dry up despite a total drought of dignity, a puddle now overflowing with aetherial rain and spilling into the physical world, just enough to be a foot, a hand, a pair of eyes looking down, adoringly down, at the sleepy smile drawn out by this stream of soft words, under which lay a promise as silent as it was significant: you shall never, ever be alone.
Author's Note:
Based on two things.
First, a scenario suggested by my girlfriend: "Imagine the Warrior of Light, strongest woman in all of Eorzea, gets demolished by the common flu. How did it happen? She can take morbol breath and freezing winters like nothing, but a measly cold has her completely bed bound and shivering."
Second: one of John Gardner’s exercises in The Art of Fiction, where you write
three effective long sentences: each at least one full typed page (250 words), each involving a different emotion (for example, anger, pensiveness, sorrow, joy). Purpose: control of tone in a complex sentence.
I did not do exactly that but I think I got pretty close!