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Fordola had her own shack now – cottage, excuse her. It was off by itself, nowhere near the residential district, and it was under surveillance every hour of the day. No one besides the guards came by except to throw things, or scribble curses on the walls, in one case. It saw barely any shade, so she’d spend the hottest hours of every day sweating like a hog.
From the way it’d smelled when they moved her in, she suspected it’d been a weapon storehouse hastily converted into a living space. Coincidence, or someone’s idea of a joke?
But hey, better than that cell. She was alone out here. Even the guards kept a wide berth. No one to stuff their sob stories or what they did last night or their darkest secrets into her head. Peace and quiet, ‘till they dragged her back out to fight another beastie. ‘Cept now anyone can do that. Mayhap now they’d decide she’d outstayed her welcome.
Only, today wasn’t quiet at all. Fordola could hear the cheers from all the way out here. She stuck her head out the window, and there it was – that starfaring ship from the papers, the one the Sharlayan eggheads cooked up. It flew overhead like it was any old airship coming in for a landing.
They’d actually done it. The lot of them actually made it back. Guess that meant the world wasn’t ending after all.
She’d give it fifteen minutes before Arenvald barged in to celebrate. Best make sure the floor’s clear.
Took him twenty. Bit slow today, wasn’t he? He signaled to the nearest guard with one hand, and rolled right on in with a mug of ale in the other. “You hear that?” he exclaimed, already wearing that dopey smile. “They made it!”
“Impossible not to hear that racket,” Fordola replied. “Keep us up all night, it will.”
Arenvald had something hanging off the back of his chair – a bag, looked like. He set it down on the nearest table, pulled everything out one at a time. First item’s a square of baklava. “You know I don’t like sweets,” she said, deadpan.
“That’s for me,” said Arenvald.
hot sun. dancing in the streets. a girl with scarred arms hands him the baklava. from what I hear, you’re just as sweet, she says. he smiles, blushes a little, moves on.
…Ugh.
He took something else from the bag – a small pot of spiced stew tied shut with twine. Smelled like jhammel when she opened it. Now that was more like it. Finally, there was half a bottle of that same ale. Fordola glanced back at him. “They had all this ready out there?” she asked. “What if they hadn’t come back? Would’ve looked like fools if that’d happened.”
“Would’ve been comfort, then. Go out with full bellies when the time came,” said Arenvald, shrugging, as if they hadn’t both seen what that would have looked like. What it had looked like.
Fordola grabbed a spoon and sat down with the stew. Compared to her usual slop, anything tasted good.
It was, admittedly, pretty good. Wasted on the likes of her, really.
someone whispering behind him as he rolls down the road. he’s not taking it to that leashed cur, is he? they say. never going to understand why a nice boy like him wastes his time on the likes of her, says someone else.
Neither did she, but she’d grown tired of complaining. She’d heard it all so many times it barely bothered her anymore.
They sat in silence ‘till Fordola was about halfway through the stew. “How many d’you think made it back?” she asked.
“How do you mean?” replied Arenvald.
“You know what I mean. How many dead? Big group, fate of the star on the line…they can’t all have survived a battle like that.”
Arenvald raises an eyebrow. “You hardly know them. Wouldn’t surprise me if they all made it.”
Fordola scowls. “Oh, chocobo shite. My bet’s on one of the brats. Mayhap that Elezen pretty boy, too – not the dragoon, he'd live. The other one.”
It was a halfhearted jab, and she knows it. Took more than that to rile him up these days. If anything, he seemed disappointed, like he’d come over expecting worse. She could just imagine him with that sad little voice, reeking of pity, like he knew her better than she does. “Are you feeling well?” says the Arenvald in her head. “You haven’t even insulted me yet today!”
The real Arenvald said nothing of the sort. “I’ll make you a bet,” he says, instead. “If they’re all alive, the other half of that bottle is mine. If any of them aren’t – or were injured badly enough to –”
Not this swiving rubbish again. “Injuries don’t count,” she snapped. “They’d still be alive, aye? That’d be a victory for you.”
“Right,” he muttered, very much alive and still halfway to sainthood. “If any didn’t make it back, I owe you another bottle.”
“Deal,” declared Fordola.
She rubs her neck and takes another spoonful of stew. “You planning to finish that drink, or is it for me?”