Fic: the creak of leather

[ingenious_spark]

Title: the creak of leather
Fandom: Final Fantasy XV
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Relationships: Aranea Highwind & Iris Amicitia
Characters: Aranea Highwind
Word Count: 381
Summary: Aranea reflects on innocence, and how hard it must be to retain. She admires Iris Amicitia.

(the creak of leather)

Aranea Highwind shivers in the cool air, wiping the blade of her lance off with a piece of cloth. She tips her head back and breathes deeply, thinking about when the last time she saw the sun was. A little over eight years ago, right? It’s colder, without the sun. Has been getting colder, bit by bit. A deeply cynical part of her wonders, morbidly, how long it will take for the pitiful remnants of humanity to freeze to death.

A soft cough breaks her from her thoughts, and she twists to glance over her shoulder with a soft creak of leather. Iris Amicitia glances up, finishing wiping off her greataxe. The weapon is as tall as she is, but she wields it with grace that’s frightened lesser folk.

“Okay there, Baby Amicitia?” Aranea asks, flippancy hiding her genuine concern. Iris shoots her a crooked smile, much like her brother’s.

“Yeah. And don’t call me that, Highwind, c'mon.” Iris says, and Aranea laughs.

“Well I can’t call you Amicitia, that’s your brother. Amicitia Junior?” She tosses back, relishing in the odd normalcy of teasing the younger woman. Iris rolls her eyes, and then smiles, that sweet, bubbly expression that’s never quite gone away, even through all her hardships. Aranea deeply admires Iris for being able to cling to that last shred of innocent girlishness. Aranea hadn’t been able to shed that fast enough when she was younger, and now she regrets it.

“How about you just call me Iris?” She suggests, and Aranea laughs again, a soft, rusty chuckle.

“Okay. I think I might be able to do that,” she says cheekily, and stretches, the leather of her armored clothes creaking like her bones.

The world of ruin, they’re calling it now. Ardyn’s demons running free, humanity reduced to clumps and clusters of terrified people.

Aranea’s tired. Her body screams for rest and warmth. Her armor seems to echo that, and maybe it’s time to oil the stuff again, if she can scrape up enough non-toxic oil for the job.

She keeps moving, Iris falling in by her side, and if there’s one thing keeping Aranea going, it might be the younger woman’s unwavering faith. The fact that she can still scrape up those lovely, sweet smiles.