Slayer of Gods, Rider of Dragons... Wetter of Pants

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Author's Note:

This is a direct continuation of "Bridging the Divide," which holds necessary context for the very self-indulgent story you are about to read. Please check that one out first!

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Chapter 1

That pattering sound could not be what he thought it was.

He prayed that when he lifted the tablecloth, he would not see what he thought he might.

Ultimately, 'twas a scene beyond imagination. In the dark beneath the table, Liborette's ankles curled around her chair legs, framing the rush of liquid pouring from the cushion to the floor. The dress bunched between her legs, fisted all the way up to her crotch, did naught to damn the flow. Her urine nigh endlessly rolled and trickled, sloshing out faster and slower with her every shiver. The carpet could not drink the puddle as quickly as she produced it.

Aymeric sat up straight.

The rumours about this had only been rumours. They had sounded too truthful for his liking, but they were easily dismissed as lowbrow humour. Slayer of Gods, Rider of Dragons... Wetter of Pants. When some spoke of her accomplishments in Yanxia, freeing thousands from the yoke of Garlean occupation, they claimed that "Doma Castle was not the only thing flooded that day!" As the story went, on the morning of the big battle, the Warrior of Light woke up in a wet bed. A whole nation was freed before her sheets had dried.

How could that be anything but a joke? Besides the fact that it was not funny. It seemed twice as tasteless now coupled with the realisation that it was, indeed, a true story. Oh how he wished he never knew... But they were past the point of denial. Liborette Iudicium, Hero of Ishgard, was peeing in her chair. Before Aymeric was a politician, a warrior, or a strategist, he was a person who solved problems for his friends. He would solve this.

He reached for her hand, wiggling one finger into the grip of her tiny fist. "Squeeze when you have finished," he whispered. In response she only shook and stifled a sob in her sleeve.

As concerned as he was for the furniture and flooring, it would be worse to rush. There was no need to trail her mess through the manor. Nay, he would send her off with a female servant to clean up, fetch another to handle the chair... The rug, which stretched from one end of the table to the other, could not be moved without displacing all the guests. The last thing they needed was undue attention. For now it could be naught but a spot treatment— the way one approached an upended plate or spilled glass of wine.

Should he go so far as to manufacture a cover story? Feign clumsiness, tip her drink in her lap? He glanced at Liborette's empty glass, where not one drop of apple juice remained. It was all soaked into the carpet now, he supposed. In his own glass stood one last sip of wine. Better to drink it, to be a tad more intoxicated, and get through this with some fog around his sense of incredulity and secondhand shame.

As he was swallowing, Liborette squeezed his finger. Good girl. Her head still laid down on the table, but in a moment she'd be upright, ushered away ere anyone looked too close. He'd be talking to the servants, obfuscating information as necessary. The ones cleaning, at least, should know their problem was piss, but no one else. All the better if no one knew that chair's occupant was their very own saviour.

Aymeric's plan unfolded as successfully as expected. The only upset was Liborette clinging to his hand. By the time he, she, and a bewildered maidservant stood outside the washroom, she had clasped three of his fingers and would not let go.

It was wrong. It was horribly wrong that even at her most pathetic, with tears streaming down her face, her gown soiled everywhere from the waist down, Liborette was still stronger than him. He could walk away if he wanted to— he was strong enough to drag her along, at least— but that grip on him would not loosen by any accord besides her own.

First he looked to the poor woman who could not possibly be paid enough for this. Halone bless her. She was pretending the framed art across the hall was more interesting than the lurid scene playing out a fulm away. That allowed Aymeric the space, literally and figuratively, to bend down and stroke Liborette's hair. She sniffled, gasping for breath between muted sobs.

"Worry not. I shan't leave you for long. And when I return, I will return with dessert."

The girl clung just as stubbornly to her chocobo doll. Aymeric used her attachment to his advantage. Mindful of being overheard, he murmured in her ear...

"I believe Sunshine Esprit is still craving a slice of matcha cake. You would not deprive her, would you?"

Slowly she shook her head.

"Then have your bath and behave."

She released him at last.

He cut a brisk pace back to the kitchen. En route, he massaged away the slightly sore, slightly lonely feeling from his fingers. Once he got through organising people to clean up this mess, when no one was looking, he'd down another glass of wine.

. . .

"Mistress Iudicium awaits you in the sitting room," someone said. No indication of her mental or physical state, just directions to follow through the winding, well-decorated halls. Surely Aymeric had visited this place before, yet it looked like scenery in a dream. Everything blended together until he reached the door separating the two of them. The divide between them could not be wider. Honestly he'd rather not go in. But he made a promise, and beyond that he felt ever beholden to her. Though at times he may struggle to recognise her, this was nonetheless the woman who stood between him and death, who emerged victorious. So in he went.

Liborette was curled up on the chaise, bare legs tucked up to her chest. Apparently the only clothes they could find were a loose shirt and jacket, and panties pinned at the hip. He had the decency to look away, towards the doll she hugged to her cheek. One might have thought her asleep, but she was muttering to herself and she flinched when he called out.

"I have come to cheer you up," he said softly.

She stared at him.

"You should be full glad to hear that all has been taken care of. Someone from House Fortemps is on their way to retrieve you." Her lip trembled, perhaps at the reminder of her shameful behaviour, so he hurried to console her. "The night's end is nigh. And in the meantime..." He brandished the plate in his hand. "Would you care for some cake?"

She nodded but otherwise did not move.

Aymeric chuckled, slightly amused, mostly just tipsy. "One must sit up to eat, Liborette. Are you truly so exhausted?"

She tucked her face back into her chocobo toy.

"What of Sunshine Esprit?" he asked, and when he got no answer: "Do you expect me to feed you both by hand?"

That was the wrong joke to make.

A girl who took most things literally, whose self-effacing streak was recently upset by bizarre, childlike behaviour, would not laugh and say, "no! That's ridiculous." She would peer up at him with genuine interest, and do it so sweetly he'd make himself a villain to refuse. Because they were alone, there was no excuse so simple as "not here." He could not even bring himself to say, "wait a moment."

So Aymeric sat down. Liborette crawled into his lap like he had offered her the seat. Was he foolish to feel surprised? When he first saw her state of undress, he worried she might be cold. To his relief, she was pleasantly warm. Everything he ought to feel— embarrassed, repulsed— was flattened beneath her head lying gently on his shoulder. Two baths in one day made her smell like a fresh bouquet. If he ignored her ill-fitting outfit, he could pretend nothing happened.

They were naught but two old friends eating dessert. Two old friends and a chocobo hatchling.

In accordance with the game, Sunshine Esprit "ate" the first bite before the fork arrived at Liborette's lips. She chewed slowly, scrunching her toes in the chaise.

Once she had finished, he asked, "how do you find it?"

She only nodded. One taste of deliciousness was not enough to restore her voice. Perchance she needed three or four more before she finally smiled again. He fed her another bite, and another, never forgetting her velveteen friend on the way. With each new forkful, he was forced to look down at her thighs. How indecent, sitting beneath a pantsless Warrior of Light. Nevermind her penchant for wearing shorts in every climate, with every outfit. During her campaign as Azure Dragoon, the uniform breeches he expected to see had been replaced by tight, black spats. It drove him mad.

Once upon a time, Aymeric would have been ecstatic for this opportunity. These were the thighs that kept him up at night, now stretched across his lap. These selfsame thighs had been, one bell ago, streaked with piss while she sobbed like a child.

Though the evidence was all washed away, the memory and mystery remained. In their time apart he wondered what led her to wet herself. One minute she was fine, then she was angry with him. In the next, she devolved to unimaginable immaturity. At any point before that, she might haven taken herself to the toilet. Unless, of course, she had been waiting for someone to ask if she needed to go. If that was what she expected of him— what she needed from him... Well. The night's end was nigh.

"Your friend here, Liborette..." He carved out another bite of cake. "She runs as fast as other chocobos, yes?"

Some light had returned to her eyes.

"Faster, even?"

Her nodding grew eager.

"Imagine her swiftness of speed after eating all this green cake. It is quite sweet, is it not?"

"Mhmm." She licked her lips.

"A chocobo full of sugar... should race the fastest of them all!" Quite recklessly, quite drunkenly, with elation to which he would never admit, Aymeric bounced his knee beneath her. It was his best imitation of a galloping chocobo. Thank the Fury it was good enough for her. She laughed in surprise, a glow on her face he had never seen. Delight, he would call it, pure delight, both of them awash with relief.

Ere the joke grew old, he eased off, one steadying hand on the small of her back. She let go of his lapels— the imaginary reins, he supposed— and reached for the fork.

"Oh? So now you will feed yourself?"

Of course not. This forkful was for him, and of course he ate it, too. She tipped her head to one side, asking something like ... well?

"I confess," he said, "I sampled the cake earlier. After my insistence that you partake, we would both be disappointed by a lackluster taste, no? 'Tis a foreign dish. How else would you have me investigate?"

It was a silly way to describe sneaking an extra bite when he prepared her slice, motivated more than anything by gluttony. His feigned defensiveness... that was silly, too. For her sake, Aymeric could make light of himself, yet his next words were entirely sincere.

"If asked to compare that mouthful and this one... both are delicious. But I am ever happier to eat it with you."

Where he expected a smile, a snuggle into his side, or more silliness with Sunshine Esprit, there were tears. In seconds she went from watery to weeping, crying too hard to breathe. What had he done? Why now, when they were getting along so well? He longed for that irritated yet articulate side of her. Insult him, pout at him... please. Do anything but sob into his breast.

Alas, there was no interrogating an infant. He held her close, drawing upon every onze of patience he had left.

. . .

There was a knock at the door, but no pause during which one might say, "one moment, please," before it opened. Aymeric, frozen in the middle of his circuit around the room, locked eyes with the House Fortemps maidservant. Her astonished expression hovered just over Liborette's head, which was still snuggled in his neck. How would the average citizen process this scene? Their nation's saviour— half-asleep and half-naked— in the arms of their nation's leader.

Bells ago he had loosened his standards on decorum and, after her latest outburst, abandoned them entirely. Now he stood with her bare legs wrapped around his waist. One of his hands laid on her thigh. He was only propping her up, as crying herself to sleep had slackened her grip, but now he wondered, was it too close to her buttocks? Did that matter when the whole of her sex, shielded by naught more than someone else's oversized underwear, was pressed against him?

"My lord," she said. A hesitant half-curtsy was about all she could offer him. "Excuse me."

He was too tipsy for this. Mayhap not tipsy enough. He nodded at her, then pried Liborette from his neck. She blinked first at the space she left behind, then at his face. Her eyes were bleary and heavy-lidded, and her nose red from sniffling.

"Time to go home," he said softly. To the maidservant: "good evening, madam. Thank you for arriving with such swiftness."

"Oh, 'tis no trouble at all, my lord. On behalf of my house, I must needs thank you for your continued, ah, graciousness towards our Mistress Iudicium."

Graciousness the girl was too stubborn to give up, it seemed. She surged right back into his collar and held tight when he tried nudging her away.

"The Count also sends an apology for his inability to attend tonight's dinner. With humility, he has promised to personally welcome our ward home."

To Aymeric's... concern? Curiosity? Exasperation? Something. Besides a literal tickle, he could not name the feeling inspired by fresh tears on his neck. "How kind," he said. Reflexively he rubbed her back, but remained conscientious enough not to bounce her. "We are ever grateful for your hospitality. Aren't we, Liborette?"

She shook her head no, no. She clung to him tightly enough (and he knew her to be strong enough) to remain stuck even if he tried to drop her. As he eased her towards the floor, he made soft noises of apology, unlatched her legs, and finally set her on her feet. No longer squished between them, Sunshine Esprit dropped to the floor.

"I can't." Still she held him around the shoulders, clenching the back of his coat. To accommodate her petiteness, he had to bend in half. "I can't. Please."

"You can't?" he asked, surprised to hear her voice. The sound of it was a good sign, no matter what she used it to say. "What can you not do?"

She went mute again. Aware that his every exhale passed right by her ear, he resisted the urge to sigh.

"You are already standing," he said. "You can make it home." One at a time, he coaxed her fists open and placed her hands at her sides. "Anon you shall be fast asleep, racing through dreamland atop your chocobo."

He plucked the plush toy from the floor and dusted it off. Though the maidservant gave them as much privacy as she could, this was a scene from which no one could completely look away. She had every right to judge them, to wonder about their relationship, and Aymeric wondered if she was loose-lipped enough to gossip. Mostly she looked tired. Therefore, as aware as he was of their audience, what felt most pressing was a collective need— for all three of them (and Artoirel, too, he supposed)— to get to bed.

So he proceeded to peck Liborette's nose with the toy's beak and offer his gentlest, most resolute smile. "Goodnight, Liborette. Until next time."

She deflated. Not even handing over Sunshine Esprit inspired a reaction. No sigh of minor comfort, no spark of childish possessiveness... In her eyes glinted only dull resignation as the Fortemps woman draped a long, wool coat over her shoulders and helped her into a pair of furred boots.

At last he returned to his full height. All night he'd been holding her one way or another and, though she hadn't weighed much, now his body felt too light. Before he could replace the discomfort with relief, the maidservant spoke up.

"I have already collected her clothes. We shall make arrangements with the lord of this house concerning the carpet and the chair. I must needs thank you again for your agility in addressing the situation."

"Madame, pray think naught of it. I sought only to help a friend in duress."

"Ah, although... If you would not mind my asking... " More and more often, commoners dared to meet his eyes. It proved his success in cultivating a society not of lords and servants, but of people, of equals. "Your... experience of her in this state— it could not possibly be your first. Could it?"

In the moment he might have wasted exclaiming, I beg your pardon? he opted for a steadying breath. "How often does this happen?"

"Often enough that we are not surprised," she said. Patting Liborette's shoulder, she added, "nor are we judgemental. I only thought to pay you a compliment. Typically Mistress Iudicium remains inconsolable. That you have kept her so calm suggests a certain level of skill, or mayhap a miracle."

"Then I ought to stay with him!" grumbled Liborette. Because she hid behind her doll, he could not read her expression beyond her flushed ears. Humiliation, indignation... The proper response to being discussed over her head like a child.

The maidservant looked helplessly between them until Aymeric said, "mayhap another time." Praise Halone, for the girl had already run out of tears.

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Chapter 2

All along, his manservant had been waiting in the sitting room. Beginning with Aymeric's first foray into politics, that was the Borel family tradition: attend the less-than-purposeful gathering, then make it meaningful through strategic reminiscence. His adoptive parents would point out opportunities he naively overlooked. They would laugh with him through various embarrassments. Parcemaut brewed chamomile tea for the nights he felt on edge, offered water if he needed to sober up. If nothing else, they all yearned for his success, knowing full well that success was acknowledgement by his real father.

When banquets bored him, it was here that Aymeric's mind wandered... Armchairs abreast a fire, magically stoked by candid conversation. With his parents' passing their numbers halved, and Parcemaut missed them even more than he did. So the tradition lived on. Not because he still needed private advice to gain public recognition, no. He had achieved all he sought and more. Now it was merely a warm, welcoming way to mourn.

Tonight he returned to a hearth dwindling, teacups dry, with scarce enough energy to apologise. Mayhap it was for the best. The only event of import was one he longed to put behind him. So they said their sorrys and their goodnights, and Aymeric thanked the man who had served his House for years.

"Until the morrow, my lord."

"Rest well, Parcemaut."

When he turned away to tidy the dishes, Aymeric allowed his smile to fall away. What a night. Truthfully, the only soul who had earned his complete confidence was Estinien, and where was that old fool anyroad? He plodded down carpeted hallways into his bedchamber. He had scarcely undressed when the manservant called for him again.

"Ser...?" His voice held surprise, concern— rare for a man who had seen and done all there was to see and do in service of nobles.

"Is aught amiss?"

"It appears we have a guest, my lord."

Because it could only be one person, he grabbed the first pair of pants he saw, threw on his house coat, and did not pause by the mirror to fix his hair. Liborette stood in the foyer, as naked as before but significantly more disheveled. Snow dripped down her sad little face. From her pallor he suspected she had waited on his doorstep, too meek to knock, and would have frozen there if Parcemaut had not discovered her on his way out. The manservant returned with a towel, which she took in hand but did nothing else with. She only stared at Aymeric with darkened eyes. Something like please help me, crossed with, it's all your fault.

"Shall I prepare the guest room?" asked Parcemaut.

"No, thank you. I would not keep you from thine own bed any longer. But in the morning, pray cook breakfast for two."

In their lifetime together, the one thing Parcemaut had not seen was Aymeric invite a young lady into Borel Manor overnight. Even in his teen age, his sole interest was knighthood. Since his appointment as lord commander, suitors in every echelon of eligibility had sought him out. His (parents') favourites had never been invited over for anything more than daytime tea.

But this was the Warrior of Light! The one woman who had made it for dinner (interrupted as it was), of whom Aymeric spoke reverently. None knew of the reservations he held, the once quiet complications that had grown impossibly loud. The smouldering eyes with which she fixed him now suggested further spikes in volume.

Liborette stared, as if waiting for him to decide: Aymeric, should I kill you or curl up in your arms?

Parcemaut nodded. "As you wish."

Once they were alone, the girl withdrew Sunshine Esprit from her coat. In that dark foyer, the golden velvet practically glowed. Besides her beak being a bit smushed, the doll looked pristine. Its button eyes reflected what little lamplight filtered through the front window, dimmed by the usual midnight snowfall. For those raised in The Pillars, it was peaceful weather, quiet and nostalgic— but not weather one wandered through without pants.

Liborette's whole body seized up in a sneeze, which she expelled without covering her mouth. Flecks of ice water sprayed everywhere, including onto him, yet somehow not her treasured toy.

He tried smiling. "Well, thank goodness at least one of you managed to stay warm and dry."

Alas, his tone betrayed too little of his sincerity and none of his humour, for Liborette did not laugh. Not an ilm of her stony expression softened. She sniffled and stared.

"Yes, I see that you waited to bring her out, to spare Ser Parcemaut and I the embarrassment. You have my gratitude. And--" he sighed, exhausted of pleasantries— "no further need to hide. From now til sunrise, you may as well be yourself."

What he hoped would set her at ease instead set her eyes on the floor. That was a reprieve in its own way, an exhale of hostility. They wound back down to all that they might ever be... A natural leader plus one who thrived when led, in battle with a common foe. Tonight that foe was not whatever left her shivering on his doorstep, but fatigue. Halone help him, he had to put the girl to bed.

First he helped her out of her coat, plucked the towel from her hand to toss it over her head, and led her further inside. "Come along. Dry your hair as we go."

Whether she took the command to follow too literally, or she simply could not suffer the distance between them, he was too tired to consider. Either way, Liborette followed an ilm on his heels, all the way into his private chambers. Once belonging to his adoptive parents, the room and all the furniture in it had never felt quite like his own. The bedsheets were new, at least, spun from Doman silks. He had yet to sleep in them. True luxury, it seemed, laid in the kiss of half-signed paperwork atop his desk.

Liborette hovered behind him as he dug through the armoire for his least favourite night shirt. As it turned out, he liked each and every one of them. Selfishness would not serve him. He unfurled the softest of them all, well aware it would fit like a dress on his diminutive guest. If he had to, with his own hands he would button it all the way to the collar. The sight of her bare legs was excruciating enough. He refused to contend with her breasts.

Aymeric had long abandoned the fantasy where they tangled up as lovers. From their first conversation— if that was what one called her nod of acknowledgement while he and Alphinaud did battle by diplomacy— Liborette had belonged to someone else. The moment their meeting concluded, she frolicked out of Camp Dragonhead's intercessory straight into Haurchefant's arms. Aymeric had heard the stories of her heroism but found them hard to believe, watching those two canoodle in broad daylight.

Only when she returned victorious from one impossible battle after another... No. It was only after they'd fought on the same field, when he drew close enough to smell her sweat. When he heard her breathe deeply, evenly, untroubled by blows that would cripple anyone else. He watched her dodge, rebound, conquer all who stood in her path, and her bloodied sword seemed an extension of her beating heart.

His own had leapt up into his ears. The sight left him so breathless, he feared they'd count him a casualty, too. Alas, he lived to see the day she became Ishgard's Azure Dragoon. He stood but a few yalms away while she ended a thousand-year war, the final blow dealt by the spear smithed, on his order, for her hands only.

He hoped she would carry it forever. It shattered in the conflict— in her victory.

Mayhap one of its shards had pierced his fantasy, beginning the slow bleed of his romantic interest. Mayhap it was merely the distance. No matter. Now they had a problem proximity could not solve. The feelings that compelled him to invite to dinner his old friend, the Warrior of Light, had trickled away as he held one sobbing, piss-stained Liborette Iudicium in his lap.

At least she was not crying now. If she started up again, the hallway was wide enough to walk back and forth with her in his arms... That was one way to get her to sleep. But by the Fury, he was tired, too. How he longed to lay down in that four-poster bed. Most nights, its only occupant was the family cat, but there was room aplenty for two more. Enough room that, logically, they would not have to touch.

He looked down at Liborette, wringing her hair dry one braid at a time, her chocobo doll tucked in her elbow. These were not logical circumstances. She would cling to him all night because he lacked the energy to refuse her. Nevertheless, he was prepared to invite her to lay beside him, on top of him— whatever she wanted!— to make certain she slept. Then the plan fell apart with one stomach-curdling thought.

"Liborette?"

Her eyes seemed clearer, thankfully, and some colour had returned to her face. He did his best to prepare her for the ensuing flush.

"Pray be honest. The inquiry I intend to make is, above all, practical." Stalling would not lighten this burden. "I aim not to embarrass you." He could aim all he wanted; there was but one place to land. "How..." He sighed and reached for words. "How often do you urinate in your sleep?"

She hid behind the towel, made a strangled noise that did not pass for an answer, and shrugged.

Fury, guide me. "Every night?"

No, yes, maybe... Her only clear communication was shame.

He felt disappointed, disgusted, morbidly curious, and concerned. Yet of his every emotion, pity dwarfed them all. Aymeric pet the top of her head, then rubbed her upper back, coaxing her shoulders down from her ears.

"Not to worry. Come what may, all shall be well." In one breath he made peace with the possibility that, by morning, any mattress in this manor might be ruined. A person— a hero, a friend— always held higher value than an object. It would all be fine... so long as she did not pee on him. 

He led her to the room next door, another, smaller bedchamber, and handed her the nightshirt. "Dress yourself, if you would. I will return anon."

In the linen closet at the end of the hall, he hoped to find a solution. The Borels, an elderly couple with no children of their own, had raised him from infancy into the warrior upon whom whole nations relied. Quite proud of their achievement, they sought to repeat it. They fostered a few more children unwanted by their fathers or mothers or both, until they found the family best suited to take them in. Aymeric, already grown, joked that they merely hated to see his room empty. 

Were they watching over him from their place in Halone's halls? If so, could they kindly direct him to the rubber bedsheets? At least one of those children, none of whom he considered his siblings, had shared Liborette's struggle. Never mind the fact that they were ten or fifteen years younger, or— how old was she, anyroad? Did it matter? Tonight she behaved like a four year-old... at best. The pleasant haze of intoxication had marooned him on the edge of a migraine. He yanked open the bottom drawer and, to his relief, there were the rubber sheets.

Liborette waited in his childhood bedchamber, standing in a puddle of borrowed clothes, his own shirt hanging half open at her thighs. The neckband splayed wide over her tiny shoulders. He looked away from her collarbones and set about making the bed.

"The buttons are uneven. Do them over again, beginning from the very top."

Ever obedient, that girl, slow-moving as she was... Each button posed its own challenge because she refused to set down her toy. By the time Aymeric had finished, smoothing back the quilt so his guest could lie down, she had only made it to her bellybutton. When he crouched in front of her, he chose to ignore her nakedness. Now was not the time to speculate the shape, texture, and frankly impressive spread of her pubic hair, nor where her loaned smallclothes had disappeared to. 

Three, four, five little pops and the buttons were done. "There. Much better now."

He ushered her into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. Her feet reached barely halfway down the mattress. When she curled into a ball, she looked so small and pathetic he could not resist petting her again. He smoothed her hair out of her face. At last the condemnation had melted into the lost, watery look he never thought he'd be so glad to see.

She laid her hand over his. He twined one braid around his finger, stroked her ear, and withdrew.

"Goodnight, Liborette. Goodnight, Sunshine Esprit. In the morning we shall reunite."

He turned to leave. Her voice yet unrecovered, she stared so intensely at his back that her thoughts seared through the silence. I'm scared. Don't go. Just a bit longer. Please. It was best for both of them that he slowly shut the door, sounding naught but the softest click.

Aymeric fell into his own bed, comforted by its privacy, relieved by its plushness... tormented by the realisation he had not taken Liborette to the toilet before tucking her in. Was it worth the trouble of waking her? Could he even wake himself? His limbs were all too heavy. Sleep came fitfully. Something he needed to remember hummed in the back of his head. The tariffs? No. Lucia's nameday? Mayhap.

Someone was watching him— most likely the cat, waiting to be fed. When he pried open his eyes, Liborette was fidgeting in his doorway, a silhouette against grey dawn. If she could not sleep without his help, fine. He would hug and pet her all she wanted. He would even kiss the top of her sweet, little head, so long as he need not move an ilm from beneath the these warm blankets.

He sacrificed one hand to the morning chill, to wave her over. "Come here." As she drew closer, she sniffled and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "Aw, poor thing. No need to cry. Come..."

She slipped into bed beside him and, gods above, were those her feet or a pair of ice cubes? The chocobo doll's eyes, even colder, bumped his arm.

"Closer," he muttered. "Relax."

Such tension in her breath as they tried to settle themselves. He reached around her waist, intending to pull her flush against him and enjoy the shape of her, damn it, despite everything that had happened.

One brush against the damp night shirt and— damp? He patted lower, lower, down to her bottom, where it hung so sodden that the lightest touch wrung out a few drops of...

"Liborette."

Apparently he was not awake enough to control his tone. She wept into his pillow. Wonderful.

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Chapter 3

At least she could bathe herself. She did not need Aymeric elbow deep in her bathwater. She only needed him in the room, sat on the floor opposite the privacy screen. It was a blessing his mere presence calmed her.

"Liborette... I must needs repeat that I am not angry with you. Above all, I am concerned for your condition."

"..."

"If you have aught to share with me, I am listening."

All he heard was the gentle slosh of her bath.

As expected. Even when she deigned to speak, she responded best to yes or no questions. With no way for him to tell a nod from a shake, there could be no conversation. Aymeric could be patient. He could be fair. Until he slew a beast that plagued Liborette's people for a thousand years, bringing prosperity to her whole nation, there was no end to his debt. By all accounts, she was from nowhere, had no one, and would have already solved such a problem herself.

So. Here they were, where they always would be. Aymeric passed her a towel with his eyes half shut.

At least she could dress herself. There was naught for her to wear but more of his own clothes. Even if he held no fear for her wetting herself again, sharing his underwear was beyond inappropriate. He considered fashioning some smallclothes from pins and a handkerchief... But they were too early into the day, one begun with not nearly enough rest, for him to linger anywhere near Liborette's private parts.

Therefore, when they seated themselves in the dining room, naught lay between her sex and his shirt. He apologised— in less vulgar words— for the discomfort.

"I assume all your clothing and armaments remain in the care of House Fortemps?" He was pushing in her chair. "I know how naked I feel without my sword. Mayhap we ought to retrieve your..."

She shook her head so fiercely her braids slapped his arms.

What exactly she found so disagreeable, he could not place. She might have meant anything from no, my belongings lie elsewhere, to I would rather not visit them now, mayhap with further upset at his offer to escort her. Hells, she might mean to say she prefers his clothes to her own! The answer could have been ferreted out by a slew of questions, but...

She looked sad. Once again she sat in a chair too big for her and stared at her lap.

"Pray hold out your hands, Liborette." He rolled up the sleeves, making a thick cuff that dangled high above each wrist. "Before anything else," he said, "we shall eat breakfast."

Parcemaut served the meal. 'Twas more decadent than expected. Eggs en cocotte; fresh berries and apple slices; brioche to be topped with honey, butter, jam, or cheese; still-steaming coffee; a most aromatic tea... As the table filled with platter after platter, Aymeric thought that his manservant must truly savour the opportunity to cook. This manor rarely saw guests, after all. His primary occupation was feeding the cat.

They shared a friendly nod, he bowed to Liborette, and they were alone again. Aymeric knew not where to begin with either his breakfast or the conversation between bites. A quick scan of the table revealed nothing green for Sunshine Esprit. Of course the toy was in attendance. It had left her hands only while she bathed, and even then remained in her line of sight.

Meanwhile Liborette was tearing up bits of bread to dip in her eggs. At least she could feed herself.

In the companionable silence, Aymeric stirred birch syrup into his tea and retreated to his inner strategy table. Work began at work— and, for moons at a time, at work he was liable to remain. This was a rare moment of relative solitude, during which he might contemplate more personal problems. Why not begin with the one seated across the table, wrapping her apple slices in cheese?

The events, in chronological order:

One. He invites Liborette to a dinner party. Not because either of them care to attend, but because it is his first "free" night in however long, and he misses her. More honestly, he misses the idea of her.

Two. The night begins with a strange but harmless request, her first show of willfulness in his presence. It escalates. In their time apart, something within her has developed enough to detect, dislike, and chiefly deride aloud his substandard behaviour.

Three. For reasons he has yet to discern, she is overwhelmed by sudden incontinence. For the rest of the night she remains in a childlike state: mute, clingy, and mercurial. Ostensibly, she is even worse with others.

Four. At one o'clock in the morning, when she should be in the care of House Fortemps, instead she waits outside his door. She seems vengeful yet longing, in worse condition than when he left her.

A pair of obvious questions arise: what transpired in the time between their first "goodnight" and her arrival at his home? And why wet herself in the first place?

Aymeric spread butter on his bread. His reflection in the knife looked tired. There would be no answers from Liborette, who seemed lively as ever searching for the berry she dropped in her lap. Whatever hold she had on her usual personality, he would not interrupt with interrogation. There was no need. Someone like him could find information through a great many means. In regards to the latter question, he knew precisely who to ask.

But first... a bribe.

"Liborette?"

She paused in licking the jam from her fingers.

"If you have need of hospitality here in Ishgard, I might as well offer mine— what little of it there is. I am rarely here, you see, nor is the help. Your only company would be the cat, and I must confess... She is cute but quite unfriendly." His ankles bore the scars to prove it. "However, you have a natural affinity for animals, yes? Mayhap you two would make faster friends than she and I."

Were there enough hours in the morning, he might invite her to peek beneath all the beds and tables in search of that old, cantankerous creature. He himself was curious how they might get on. However a glance at the clock suggested otherwise, so he continued:

"Should you require a bed to sleep in, and for some such reason nowhere else shall suffice, you are welcome in my home. You are welcome anytime, Liborette."

She blinked quickly, ducked her head. He prayed this was not the beginning of yet more tears. To his relief she was only nodding, smiling graciously, sincerely moved. At his next words, her eyes widened and smile faltered.

"In return... I would have you examined by our best chirurgeon."

Her expression held an understandable amount of trepidation. Nevertheless she agreed.

"She operates with utmost decorum and kindness," he promised. "You can trust her."

It was Aymeric she trusted. She followed him as a dog follows its master on his way into work. When he left her in the hospital ward of the Congregation, once again she clung to three of his fingers and refused to let go.

. . .

"May I speak plainly, ser?"

"Of course." After all, they were alone, and Maichelle was not just the lead chirurgeon. They were old friends. Eons ago, he, she, and Estinien had marched through the taiga as a party of fledgling knights. What they had suffered back then, and survived thanks only to her, nurtured the unwavering confidence between them.

"Good. To begin, urination is the least of her concerns. Through aetherial examination of her bladder, I found naught amiss."

His relief at those two little words, naught amiss, was bowled over by Maichelle talking fast.

"But one look at the area— no need for a physician's eye...!" She shook her head. "How well do you know this woman?"

The accusatory tone might have troubled him— at whom was she so furious?— if he had not known Maichelle to be angry at the whole world. Illness, suffering, preventable death... The fury she carried on behalf of her patients had chiseled her into a good woman and a better doctor.

Beneath her irritation lied a sensitive disclosure, something to share only with those most trustworthy. Things between he and Liborette would always be complicated, but beneath it all was love. Love that vexed and delighted him. Love impeded by a thousand factors. It would never be what it ought to, yet it was love nonetheless.

"As I said, I care for her." The particulars were not nearly as important as conveying his sincerity. "We are friends."

"Aha." She laughed bitterly and leaned on his desk, glaring down at him. "So you have only taken her in the dark—"

He scoffed. "Excuse me, I have not 'taken' her in any lighting."

"— or else you would have seen the scars."

The word tunneled a pit between them. Mysterious, vacuous, deep. For a moment they merely looked at one another, her eyes challenging him. Was he a coward? Would he avert his gaze while he crawled around the edge?

Of course, he took the plunge. "What manner of scarring?"

"Far, far too much of it. I— the details—" she waved her hand to physically dispel the memory. Judging by her frown, it was not working. "Suffice to say there is something vulgar written down there."

"... aye." He sighed, unsure if he was blessed by the blank space in his imagination. "I suppose—"

"No, literally written!" She punched the desk. His ink and quill clattered but did not spill. "There are tally marks carved just beside her pubis! Do you hear me? That scar was years-old, but the bruising is fresh."

Scars? Bruises? "What are you suggesting?"

"I 'suggest' naught, Aymeric. I declare she was raped, repeatedly and recently. As recently as the night of these wettings you're so concerned about."

Her midnight arrival... The missing smallclothes... The tortured look in her eyes— needing him but resenting him, because it was he who consoled her, then sent her away. In his absence, someone attacked her.

"Did Liborette speak to you?"

"Nay. You said she was quiet, but the better word is 'mute.'"

"Therefore, the timing of the incident is an estimation based on visual examination alone."

She crossed her arms. "Aymeric, now is not the time for jokes."

"I trust you, Maichelle, with my life and with hers. I only believe it is too early to draw conclusions."

"You mean you feel guilty, you bastard. Poor you who allowed it to happen, who knew nothing of it happening! By the Fury!"

Sadness overtook his cool headed defense. "I cannot afford myself the luxury of guilt. There is no justice to be found there. I..." With every word, new weight piled on his shoulders. "The best I can offer her is... responsibility."

She sighed, signaling the end of the confrontation. When they were younger, she hounded people 'til they broke. Maturity meant, for her, learning another's limits, and mustering the grace to remain within them. Be yet grateful for the sting of truth, his adoptive mother once said. One has need for friends who cut through to the core.

Maichelle held a diagnosis on the tip of her tongue. "You were honest before, yes? You two are not lovers?"

"Aye. Naught more than friends."

"Then be a friend to her, Aymeric. For all we know, the incontinence begins not with her bladder, nor..." She stared out the window, at the frost blooming over the city they served, as unspeakable images flashed behind her eyes. "Mayhap the problem lies in her heart."

. . .

They were going to see each other again. He would invite her over for dinner, properly this time. Parcemaut would prepare a small salad especially for Sunshine Esprit. They would play with the cat, assuming the cat was amenable to play. When they spoke of serious matters, he would be gentle, she easily consoled. One way or another, he would come to understand what had happened to her.

In his old bedchamber, Liborette would unwrap gift paper to reveal a nightgown and sleeping cap in her size. If he had to pay extra for embroidered chocobos, he would. Her smile was priceless, after all. She might offer him a gracious hug. He would tuck her in. She would sleep through the night.

In the morning, over bread and tea, they would converse as adults do. Easy conversation. Humourous conversation. Before long it would be time to say, "fare thee well," or, "until we meet again." With each step in opposite directions, the distance between them would grow. Yet so too would stretch the bridge across their divide. On one such evening, he would make peace with who she truly was.

None of that came to pass.

There was simply no time for it. Word of war with the Garlean Empire seeped in like a slow flood. Victory required the combined might of all Eorzeans, as well as their new allies in Orthard. Every day Aymeric woke with ink smudged on his cheek. He cracked his back to sit upright at his desk and allowed himself exactly two curses: one for bureaucracy, another for his excelling within it.

Their next encounter was on the battlefield, on the frontlines of a war they could only win with her in their ranks... The Warrior of Light. Liborette looked as he preferred her. Larger than life. In complete control. No sign of the toy she clung to for comfort, only an exotic sword on her hip. Never in his life had he imagined a blade so thin slicing through three men at once. Had they the time, he hoped for a closer look.

Alas, when he turned around she was gone. At Ghimlyt Dark, the Weapon of Light did what she does best: kill, and kill, and kill, then disappear into her sheathe. Perchance they would reunite when her wielders drew her once more. In days long past that was Aymeric's privilege. Now he held naught but her friendship... and, he supposed, her secrets.