Chapter Text
Nearly a week had passed since Ardwin had left Sharlayan, under extremely strong guidance to not overexert herself or lift anything heavy (including her axe), lest she pull the stitches across her chest. Teleporting to a different city every day has done wonders for her desire to chew on the furniture out of sheer boredom, at least. Beyond that, she still feels like one great big exposed nerve.
Today brings her to Ishgard. Perhaps it’s that she still hasn’t fully recovered her normal levels of aether, but the cold feels more biting than usual. Still balmy compared to Garlemald. The snow falling across the city is fat and fluffy with moisture, instead of the tiny, dry flakes that the wind had carried in sparkling, sharp-edged drifts, perpetually scouring the faces of everyone in Camp Broken Glass. Alisaie, she recalls with a flicker of amusement, had deemed the stuff “absolute rubbish for making snowballs.”
At least the cold gives her an excuse to hide. With her hooded cloak and the scarf tugged over her broad nose, she could pass for a tall, bulky Duskwight at a glance – there’s other Roegadyn in Ishgard, but compared to Duskwights, they stick out enough to draw attention. The last thing she wants right now is being recognized, and dealing with strangers who want to either congratulate and fawn over her, or bring her new problems that she’s currently – infuriatingly – helpless to solve.
For lack of anything better to do, she walks.
First, from one end of Foundation to the other. She briefly considers stopping at the Forgotten Knight for a drink of hot mulled wine; Gilbrillont’s earned his place on the short list of people she trusts with a bottle, especially after looking out for Tataru while she and Alphinaud were off on their trek across Dravania. No – if she waits until she's walked long enough to tire herself out (a fairly easy task these days, weak as she remains), it means she’ll have it as a treat to look forward to, along with a warm bed. Maybe she’ll even be hungry enough for something more substantial by then. Her appetite has been flighty of late.
Decision made, she continues past the tavern's entrance to head onwards and upwards, into the Pillars.
From there, her route grows more meandering. Old habit directs her steps towards Fortemps Manor before she realizes her own destination. There’s a pang of guilt as she passes without seeking entrance – surely they deserve to see her? To confirm for themselves that she's alive and relatively well?
But, ugh, just the thought of enduring another teary reunion, of insisting that she's ‘fine, no, really, totally fine, got a bit injured but it's barely a scratch, see? Ought to heal up in no time.’ At the moment, she’d rather go for a dip in the fountain about five yalms to her left that's only unfrozen by virtue of the constantly-moving water.
She keeps walking.
Down through the Jeweled Crozier, bustling as usual with the everyday business of commerce. A brief smile flickers behind her scarf at a pair of children arguing about whether they can get away with buying more sweets.
Back into the upper levels, taking the outer circuit.
Past the Vault. Aymeric’s domain now, ironically, as head of the House of Lords. Another person who would doubtless be happy to see her, and would perhaps even maintain a more level head about the situation, given how frequently he’s dealt with Estinien running off into the often-literal jaws of death. Nevertheless, he’s likely busy with his duties at the moment – perhaps later, she'll slip in for a brief greeting. (She probably won’t.)
It’s only when she passes the Tribunal that her peaceful walk goes off-course. There’s one of those little nudges from the Echo. Something important here.
She shouldn’t follow the nudge. Right? There’s nothing she can do about whatever it is. Can’t fight, can’t lift an axe, can barely even run without having to catch her breath after mere moments… useless.
…The nudge grows, insistent. Hurry or you’ll miss your chance.
Damn it. Fine. She follows it, right to an Ishgardian with a rather juicy bit of gossip: some sort of heretic wielding dark powers who had been put on trial earlier.
Given recent events involving ‘dark powers’… well, it seems worth investigating.
I am not getting involved, Ardwin thinks very firmly to herself, as her feet carry her back towards the Brume. I am going to go and take a quick look, and if there's anything weird going on, I'm going to tell Aymeric and let him handle it.
Right. Not getting involved, Ardbert agrees. You’re still supposed to be resting, after all.
Ardwin nods. Definitely not getting involved.