Bridging the Divide

---

The dragon-riding, god-slaying Hero of Ishgard was a legendary character. Liborette Iudicium was a strange young woman.

"Um... May I bring her?" she asked, clutching a lump of yellow velveteen to her chest. The chandelier glittered in its button eyes. "Please?"

In all the winters they had been acquainted, Aymeric had never known her to ask for anything. As the story went, she was a selfless, sacrificing saintess who placed the needs of the people above her own. That was true, actually, insofar as her priorities. Time and again she rushed into battles no one else could fight, returning with wounds no one else could survive, simply because it had been asked of her. When he'd had the pleasure of fighting by her side, he witnessed firsthand her gallantry on the battlefield... Her gracefulness... Her sheer strength of will... The Warrior of Light, a most glorious sight to behold...!

But when her blade returned to her back, she was fidgety and shy, practically mute. Hungry and tired yet forgoing food and sleep to run another's errands. She was directionless without map and compass, aimless without a taskmaster pointing the way. At first Aymeric thought it was that little lordling's presence making her so meek... Nay. That, by account of all who knew her through more than minstrel's lyrics, was just Liborette.

Queer, said some. Creepy, said others. Who am I to pass judgement when she's saved us all? said most.

Aymeric thought, when she looked up at him with watery eyes, knowing she would politely accept whatever words next graced his lips as factual and final: sad.

"Well..." He started— stalling, he knew, though they had only so much time before the guests required their presence. Truthfully, he was thrown by her pleading to bring a plush toy to a political dinner party, as much by the nature of the request to the fact that she'd made it at all. "What exactly would that entail?"

"I want... to hold her," she said, then snuggled it up to her cheek with a soft sigh. He imagined bewildered expressions on the faces of Foundation's highest leaders when she repeated the action during one of their (admittedly boring) speeches. "And feed her... if she is hungry and there are greens."

Remember, Aymeric, who stands before you but the saviour of your nation. No doubt she has endured massive trauma to her head and heart, many times over, while shielding from misery the selfsame people who may deign to mock her.

"I see. Chocobo do adore their leafy greens, do they not... Typically, do you converse during meals?"

"No. We... Um..." For a moment she chewed on her lip. Then her words came out all in a rush. "Communicate telepathically. In my head. It is quiet, I promise."

He thought to say something else, perhaps more filler to start, but she cut him off with a turn theretofore unseen. The attentive stare with which she fixed all her comrades was at once cast askance, jangling her earrings (that bore the crest of House Fortemps). The ears themselves, small and rounded, turned red at the tips. She shuffled her feet and clung tighter to her doll, whose little eyes still glittered meekly with candle light.

By any measure, the expressionless Liborette Iudicium stood before him pouting. "Aymeric," she whined, "it is only pretend."

"Yes. Of course." By the grace of gods above, she knew it was only pretend. "All things considered, including the bridge between your contributions and overall recompense, which continues to fall woefully short... I see no reason to refuse you."

It is the least he can do. Heed the girl's first ever request of him— mayhap of anyone— and shield her from the consequences.

And then she was hugging him. This, Aymeric mused, she must have learned from Haurchefant, a man wont to embrace his compatriots following a battle well-fought. At least once he himself had been forced to shrug out his arms, only to receive another clap or two on the shoulder. Liborette held fast to his middle, both hands fisted in the back of his coat. His first and only breath in, before he determined to hold it, pressed into the plush chocobo beak smushed between them. If she spoke, he did not hear her.

He merely thought, what a strange, sad, adorable young woman.

It came as no surprise that most in attendance did not recognise her. They scanned the dining room for a magnetic character: tall in figure, booming in volume, eloquent in speech. The woman who had rescued their entire nation should naturally capture the attention of one measly room, no?

But Liborette was small for a Midlander; in a room full of Elezen, barely taller than a child. With puerile manner she pecked silently at her meal. She acknowledged other diners only when passing food this way or that which, perhaps thankfully, did not happen often near the head of the table. Aymeric had weighed the risks of seating her elsewhere and judged her safest by his side. She was his personal friend, after all, reunited in Ishgard proper after many moons in the Diadem. That is what he would tell any soul who asked. Surely there would be questions in the morrow.

For now he piled her plate with steak and bread— people food. Across the room, the stuffed chysahl that caught her eye was, without a doubt, meant for her little "friend." Best if the party got through their share of wine before that. Then Aymeric wondered what Liborette was like drunk, and beckoned a passing servant to lean in close.

"Only apple juice for her, if you will, good ser."

"Yes, my lord."

All in all, 'twas a marvelous night. If nothing else, the institution of the House of Commons made for much livelier parties. Aymeric was paid to manage people and their perceptions, their land, their very lives. A reprieve it was, to spend a few hours worried only about being momentarily embarrassed by a dear friend, one to whom he owed so much...

He smiled at her over the rim of his glass. "Have you had enough to eat, Liborette?"

She nodded, then looked between the toy in her lap and the last head of stuffed greens. Though today was her first time voicing a request, he'd learned to read her face long ago, and found her expressions brimming with unspoken emotion and desire. Once upon a time he was curious to coax them out. But he had a country to run, she a world to save and— apparently— pretend games to play.

She smoothed both hands through its faux feathers, bouncing her crossed ankles. Even in her finest dress, with her hair curled and coiffed, all dolled up by the friendly Fortemps handmaids who rushed to prepare the Warrior of Light for her every evening in high society... Oh, how small and out of place she seemed, sat in a chair too big and fancy for her. Her feet didn't reach the floor. An inscrutable part of Aymeric longed to antagonise her. To watch her squirm. Force her to speak up, to hurry ere the servants cleared the table. Prove to him how desperately she needed to act like a baby in public, and just how babyish she needed to be.

Old enough to speak up on her own? (With his encouragement, of course.) Or so little he had to say it for her?

She looked at him with trusting, doe-like eyes. By any measure, she was too precious to torment.

He called down the table. "Mistress Oriaume, would you...? Yes, the chysahl, thank you."

As the plate travelled their way, Liborette bounced in her seat. Aymeric swiped the food on top of her crumbs, then set the empty plate beneath his own. At first she reached out with her bare hand, but stopped and grabbed her fork when she noticed him watching. One at a time, she peeled off the leaves, held them to the chocobo's beak, and, a moment later, took them into her own mouth with a little crunch. Lacking leafy walls to contain them, the meat and cheese at the center leaked out over the trace remnants of her dinner.

What a shame it'd be, allowing such meticulously prepared food to go to waste. Aymeric leaned in and picked a few bites of ground meat (okeani, was it?) off her plate. Though it'd gone cold, it was still good.

Dinner was winding into dessert. Most everyone was drunk or getting there, including himself. Now was the best time to ask burning questions. He cleared his throat just loud enough to draw attention from Liborette alone.

"It—" he caught himself— "Does she have a name?"

"..." Before she spoke, to his absolute delight, she finished chewing. "Sunshine Esprit."

Cute. "Well, it suits her colouring."

She nodded. "And when we hug... It is warm as the sun."

Cute... "I see that. Where did she come from? Crafted by thine own hands, perchance?" Ostensibly, Liborette was a woman of many talents. Assuming her attachment to the object was mainly artisanal, it'd raise her maturity level an ilm or two.

Promptly dashing his hopes, she shook her head with a smile. "No. A gift... See?" Suddenly Sunshine Esprit had popped up under his nose, begging inspection. Though he'd noticed the ribbon wound around its neck, only now did he spy The Holy See's standard in the corner. "From the coordinator of Skyrise Celebration."

"Ah, how thoughtful." With a gentle hand he pressed the doll back towards her lap, out of sight for the other guests, careful to direct its feet away from the food. "After all, you were a leading benefactor to the Firmament. 'Tis only fair that—"

"Aymeric." She huffed quietly through her nose and swung her heels. "Sometimes... gifts are for a person as she is. Not for what she has done."

"Excuse me. I would never—"

"Yet so often you do," she said bitterly. "And I will not forgive you."

Later, he'd reflect on how fascinating it was to see her angry. When someone as immature as Liborette boiled over, one expected violence and tears, one dead and a dozen injured in her wailing tantrum. Instead: an icy expression... Concise insults... Should the opportunity arise, he'd push her in that curious new direction. The side of him who studied people and their reactions found this new facet of her personality most intriguing.

But in that moment, Aymeric the politician (technically off-duty, but never turned off) sensed a relational rupture— she is offended. I offended her— needing repair.

"Liborette?"

"..."

As cold as her silence felt, Aymeric relaxed into it. That was more like her. He wondered where, when, and from whom she had learned to not only make requests and assert opinions, but scold people as well. A boundary... The shy, self-effacing Liborette had just set a boundary with him. He tried to smile with equal measures of pride and regret.

"My apologies. It seems I, too, have been taken in by your feats of heroism. Despite holding the high honour of your personal friendship, I looked towards 'the saviour of Ishgard' ere I recognised you as yourself. Might you forgive me for admiring you?"

"..."

Not his best work. He might as well have said, for preferring that instance of you, because, of course, that was the truth, just as truly as he owed her his life. The least he could do was pretend.

"Your feelings are your own. It is your right to find fault in me. I..."

What Aymeric assumed was the beginning of another cutting phrase was only a soft sigh as she pushed her plate away, making room to lay face down on the table. She squeezed the doll under her chin and huddled into herself, smaller than ever.

There was the Liborette he knew, avoidant and exhausted. He summoned every onze of pity and compassion into one hand and pet her the way he had seen Haurchefant do it. First over the crest of her head, then a circle on her upper back. As intended, she visibly relaxed, but turned her face away, too. Pouting again, he supposed. Cute.

"I only hope I will not ruin your dessert. They have brought out a Far Eastern delicacy, a cake called 'matcha.'"

"..."

"It may not be leafy, but it is green. Shouldn't our friend Sunshine Esprit have a bite?"

She peeked up at him. Her eyes told him all he needed to know.