Warren really couldn't hold his booze now. Howl waited until the steady rhythms of Warren's breaths had slowed to a sleep-like level for nearly half a bell, then crept upstairs, Warren's belt pouch and his own in his hands. He waited until he was in the quiet of his private rooms to light a lamp, setting Warren's pouch down on the table and rifling through it with the casual disregard of a boundaries-challenged relative until he found what had to be what he was looking for.
He held it up to the light, inspecting it with a detached artisinal eye; it was a shell ring, plain and old, with the marks of age and much newer marks of damage and fire. It was cracked down the middle, scorched badly. Howl set it aside and laid out his tools, ornamental hammer, grinding wheel, dark matter, crystal shards. He donned his magnifying glasses that made him look like a particularly eccentric Elezen, kneeling by his small work table, and positioned light and tools all around as he studied the problem.
His mind detached as he worked.
He had had perhaps the nicest night of recent memory, a quiet night out with Warren, a meal, some wine, a lot of conversation ranging from serious discussions of Warren's future wife, to eating chocobo eggs over baby Moogle in Ishgard. Warren was starting to smile again. Howl had far too many memories of Warren's depressive states, from when they first met through just the other day when Howl had met him by the fireplace in the Duskbreak.
And that, too, had led him here, fusing aether and crystal and ring and dark matter in the dead of night.
No promises had been made, and he wasn't the type to ask for them anyway. He wasn't even particularly sure what kind of promise he'd ask for. All he'd really wanted was to be important - if not first in the race, then a close second. The past few moons, he'd figured he was dead last, the chocobo that should be taken out back and put out of its misery after the race. But so much had changed. He damn well didn't know what way was up anymore. He'd been betrayed, then forgiven him, now was trying to grope to some sort of new accommodation, some new balance between them. And Snow, too. No wonder he was repairing rings in the middle of the night.
He held up the finished work, pleased with himself. It was still worn, still old, but the scorch-marks were gone, the crack sealed invisibly. It was, perhaps, his best work; while he was far from an expert Goldsmith, he was skilled enough to work on solo pieces for high-value customers, and had nearly finished a custom chandelier the other day that he expected to bring a pretty penny.
The owner of this ring and himself had never really seen eye-to-eye - but he felt bad about that. She'd probably never know this was his apology, but he knew. He tucked the ring away into Warren's belt pouch, packing away his goldsmithing apparatus, and crept back downstairs to the basement.
He held it up to the light, inspecting it with a detached artisinal eye; it was a shell ring, plain and old, with the marks of age and much newer marks of damage and fire. It was cracked down the middle, scorched badly. Howl set it aside and laid out his tools, ornamental hammer, grinding wheel, dark matter, crystal shards. He donned his magnifying glasses that made him look like a particularly eccentric Elezen, kneeling by his small work table, and positioned light and tools all around as he studied the problem.
His mind detached as he worked.
He had had perhaps the nicest night of recent memory, a quiet night out with Warren, a meal, some wine, a lot of conversation ranging from serious discussions of Warren's future wife, to eating chocobo eggs over baby Moogle in Ishgard. Warren was starting to smile again. Howl had far too many memories of Warren's depressive states, from when they first met through just the other day when Howl had met him by the fireplace in the Duskbreak.
And that, too, had led him here, fusing aether and crystal and ring and dark matter in the dead of night.
No promises had been made, and he wasn't the type to ask for them anyway. He wasn't even particularly sure what kind of promise he'd ask for. All he'd really wanted was to be important - if not first in the race, then a close second. The past few moons, he'd figured he was dead last, the chocobo that should be taken out back and put out of its misery after the race. But so much had changed. He damn well didn't know what way was up anymore. He'd been betrayed, then forgiven him, now was trying to grope to some sort of new accommodation, some new balance between them. And Snow, too. No wonder he was repairing rings in the middle of the night.
He held up the finished work, pleased with himself. It was still worn, still old, but the scorch-marks were gone, the crack sealed invisibly. It was, perhaps, his best work; while he was far from an expert Goldsmith, he was skilled enough to work on solo pieces for high-value customers, and had nearly finished a custom chandelier the other day that he expected to bring a pretty penny.
The owner of this ring and himself had never really seen eye-to-eye - but he felt bad about that. She'd probably never know this was his apology, but he knew. He tucked the ring away into Warren's belt pouch, packing away his goldsmithing apparatus, and crept back downstairs to the basement.
People have forgotten this truth. But you mustn't forget it. You become responsible forever for what you have tamed.
Howl's Wiki
Howl's Wiki