'You are to be emissary', they had told her. A bridge between Ishgard and dragonkind - one of many, and Nasah certainly wasn't the first, nor would she be the last. But it had been asked of her, and she had accepted.

The war was over, and she was no longer non.

Nasah stood on a rooftop, overlooking Ishgard. The home of her mother and father. The home that had denied them, labeling them as heretics, then slaughtered them. The home that would have slaughtered her, but instead chose to throw her, a defenseless babe, to the dragons.

Why they had not simply devoured or crushed her she would never understand.

She was freshly bathed, having been forced into a bath by those she had been put in the care of. She had met with a barber who had seen to her hair, though the woman had shown obvious distaste for Nasah's wanting it cut short. Even clothing had been found - dredged from a long forgotten and crumbled ruin in the forelands, from a time before the war. From a time when Spoken and dragon had lived in peace.

It had seemed appropriate.

It had not come without cost. There had been much death. There would be more. Even now, the one they called Lord Aymeric lay abed, wounded by a desperate man who could not believe the war was over. How many years of belief shattered? Their war had not been so righteous after all.

Was she so different from that desperate man?

Nasah sighed and nimbly dropped from the rooftop onto the window ledge below. The window itself was easy enough to pry open for someone like her, and she slipped into the room beyond. It was filled with overstuffed, luscious furniture, warmed by a stone fireplace.

The black-haired Elezen man reclining in the bed, book in hand, stared at her, his face carefully arranged to show little emotion, though a spark of confusion and slight alarm was present in his eyes.

"Lord Aymeric." The common tongue was strange in her mouth. She spoke it huskily, snapping into his name the bass-nasal 'n' that denoted life in dragonspeech - 'Aynmeric'.

"Ah - Nasah, is it? How might I… help you?"

"You? Help me?" Her gaze was sharp, powerful; her tone, derisive. He allowed the insult with a slight smile.

"I suppose I'm not helping anyone in my current position, am I? Well then, might you tell me why you've come to visit me? Not that I'm not honored -" He quieted when he saw the furrow of her brow and how she glanced away, shamefacedly.

"I was chosen to be one of the emissaries between your people and mine."

Aymeric did not feel her choice of words worth smiling over, as some might. He accepted that she did not see herself as Ishgardian - how could she? It was a wonder she even stood here. It was a wonder she had accepted - seven hells, it was a wonder she hadn't been the one to stab him.

If he didn't know better, he might think she was here to finish the job. Know better - or maybe it was because he simply hoped. Believed. Trusted - yes, even in this dragonraised wildling.

He said nothing. She let the silence drag on, then huffily continued.

"I do not know what is expected of me." Her eyes were cold, hard when she finally raised them to him. "I did not expect this outcome -"

"You did not wish it," he offered, simply, without judgment. She startled, colored, glared, and he met it with a sympathetic smile. "You were molded by the war in a way that none of us can even begin to imagine. You survived with the strength of your hate for us, and your hope that one day you would see justice be done on those that wronged you." He paused, considering. His voice dropped low as he continued, "By those that took everything from you, before you could even understand what you had. To even stand here must be extraordinarily painful. I cannot think of many who, in your position, would have accepted peace, let alone taking on the mantle of diplomat between our peoples."

Nasah stared. Who was this man, who could be so empathetic, so caring, so understanding? She wanted to hate him and everything he stood for but… he didn't stand for the things she hated, did he? He stood in direct opposition of them. He had been the one to share the truth of Ishgard's betrayal of the dragons. He had been the one to take the burden of blame onto his shoulders, and offer the olive branch to those they had warred with for so long. He had taken a knife for speaking the truth - he had taken a knife for her people.

She went from still to movement quicker than he anticipated. He did not flinch or betray the slightest hint of uneasiness as she approached his bedside, one hand tight on the hilt of one of her daggers. He kept his eyes focused on her face, ignoring the twinge of pain in his stomach, as if his body expected to feel a blade slipping in again.

With a hunter's grace, she dropped to one knee beside his bed and bowed her head.

"I did not speak truth before. I do know what is expected of me - I simply do not know how to do it. But I will learn."

He reached out, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Of that, I am, and always have been, certain. The dragons I have spoken to - Vidofnir in particular - regard you with respect, and it is one of many feelings I share." His touch was brief, the acknowledgement of her oath. When he drew away, she stood and turned, striding back to the window.

Her slipping away was halted by his next words, a question posed candidly.

"I would know, Nasah - what do you think is expected of you?" She glanced over her shoulder at him, a brow raising. He merely smiled and waited. There were as many answers to the question as people he might ask it of - and her answer in particular was of great interest to him. He was not disappointed when she gave it, her voice low and steady. Determined.

"I will be redemption.

I will be love."

⟻