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“Are the chirurgeons ready? Alinne, bring them through. Demers, I need you on the south wall, have the bows ready - that wagon has supplies needed at Skyfire Locks, see that they are protected. Chambeau - to the gates, with word of -”
I hear the Aetherite activate amid the bustle of recovery after a hard battle won. Thank the Fury, he has come.
“Hold that order,” I say, mounting the courtyard stairs by fours, as the Warrior of Light materializes before me. “Oh, my dear, full glad am I to see your face this day!”
He spins to face me, his face awash with relief, and he grabs my arms. “Haurchefant.” He straightens, and his expression hardens, though he does not release me. “Ser Lucia bade me come. The Lord Commander would speak with me?”
“He has not yet arrived, but -” I glance about me; none are poised to listen. I lower my voice and lean in. “While you wait, you would do well to visit the Gates of Judgement, and learn all you can of what has transpired.” Would that I could tell him all myself; but to share such raw information with an outsider may do harm upon my House, even though he is acknowledged as a trusted comrade (and known by many, I’m certain, to be very much more to me). I must settle for sending him on the path of his own discovery.
“I will do this.” He hesitates but a moment, squeezing my arms, and then he leaps down the stairs toward the stables, and I resume my duties. For Dravanian attacks are one thing, but this… men using magicks, breaching our wards as dragons and their kin harry us… this bodes ill, indeed.
But he is come, and his Scion friends will not be far behind. Even now, as he makes his way through the yards of Camp Dragonhead, I hear cries of elation at the sight of him, for he is to them a good friend and a growing legend both.
And I would ensure that he is not on the back foot when Ser Aymeric arrives to formally request his aid.
“Alinne?” The knight salutes me as I climb up onto the western watchtower; it is cold, but calm and clear, and she is surprised if not startled by my arrival.
“My Lord?”
“Take your rest. I’ve dismissed the rest of the western watch; I will stand guard this night.”
“But my Lord -”
“You have served long and hard this day; all of you have. Tomorrow will be no less gruelling as we prepare for the worst. Go, and sup, and sleep.”
“Have you not need of rest as well, my Lord?” Alinne says, though her voice betrays her weariness. “You fought long today.”
“Yes, but I have also had the dubious luxury of sitting at length as well. You have not. Go.”
She does not argue further, saluting again and making her way down. At last I am alone, looking out over the road that leads to the Steps of Faith. I have made the last decision that needs be made this night; I have no more messages to peruse, no more orders to convey. No more next of kin to tell of their loved one’s sacrifice.
Even now, as the sky grows ever darker, the fate of my people is being discussed by the Lord Commander and the Azure Dragoon in the intercessory, their case being made to the Scions of the Seventh Dawn for aid. And my dearest companion is present, for all of Eorzea looks to him, for he has slain dragons and gods; to whom else could they turn for hope when beleaguered by threats of both? When the great wyrm has roared, and both beast and man answer the call -
It fels like a beginning, or an ending. Mayhap both.
As stars fill the sky, I pace the tower; Alinne was not wrong to say that the day has taken its toll upon me. But though rest I do crave, I fear my mind would not permit me sleep at present. Better to have them ready for the morrow; better to have me breathe deeply of the night air and quell the tempest of my thoughts.
I hear footsteps upon the ladder, and I turn, ready to send a greenhorn packing, but the man ascending is a Miqo’te with auburn hair and piercing eyes.
He is wearing an overcoat against the cold; the first time I have seen him thus, despite much cajoling these past moons. The cloak belies the shield underneath; the sword at his hip is easily reached. He climbs up through the trap door with ease and stands, looking upon me with an expression I find difficult to read in the dark.
“My dearest!” My frosty breath hangs between us for but a moment before he closes the distance and stretches himself up to kiss me, briefly. Not oft has he done this outside the privacy of my chambers.
“You are well. Thank the Fury.”
I have not heard him evoke Her name thus. I am touched. I take his hands, squeeze them. “I have been blessed this day, ‘tis true.” I turn my gaze back to the road; the moon is high and full, and all remains clear. “You mean to join me?”
“I would send you away, but you are not like to heed my orders.”
I smile. “Quite right, my dear. I am glad that you came properly dressed, for I would hate to send you away.”
“I am not like to heed your orders.” With a click he removes a flask from his belt and, ere he turns to cross the tower, tosses it to me. It is warm. “Some strength against the cold.”
Much has happened since I saw him last, and for once my part of the story is scarce less fraught than his own. But as always, the advantage is his; for while we were harangued by countless small flyers and heretic forces, he scaled the wreckage at Silvertear Lake and laid to his final rest the father of all dragons. I am desperate for details of this encounter; but, impossibly, there is more pressing news upon which I must inquire.
“I trust the Lord Commander and the Azure Dragoon made a request of you for aid?” I take a sip from the flask, and find it passing strong, perhaps a grain alcohol, highly spiced.
“Yes. We approach the Grand Companies as well. There are… considerations. But you will have my sword. This I promise.”
“I am full glad - exceedingly glad.” I cross to him and hand him the flask, then turn my eyes outward once more. “I can scarce recall being tested thus, in my years as garrison commander. I only hope that I will not be found wanting, when all is said and done.”
“Think not on the whims of the morrow.” I hear him fasten the cap of the flask. “Today, you stand. You fought well. Tomorrow, you will fight again.”
I imagine that his perspective, always so straightforward, is come from his missing past. My own view of the world is so wholly coloured by my lineage, my upbringing, my struggles against those who shunned me, or else embraced me in spite of my parentage; and my own desperate need to find a place for myself. Were I to lose these memories, how might the world appear to me, and who might I be within it? Would my oaths cease to be, or are they more a part of me than words and faith alone?
We speak, for some time, of what might come next, should the Grand Companies heed our call; how we might best employ their aid, or else how we might make do without them. With the promise of his sword, and the knowledge of his heart, I now have no need of any secrets from him. The watch is quiet, though I find my eyes seem to pull Dravanians from the very air, ever on the periphery of my vision. Always lurking, in the sway of a branch, in a trick of moonlight.
For I know they come. Not this night; mayhap not this fortnight. But soon, they will be upon us. And though we have stood this day, tomorrow hangs on the precipice. Even with him at my side.
“You must forgive me,” I say, as I hold out my hand again for the flask. “I must beg of you some small retelling of your final defeat of Midgardsormr. When word reached me of your unexpected confrontation, I thought the rumours surely overstated. Not that I doubt your prowess, mind! I only struggle to understand how a beast whose carcass has not moved these past twenty years could still draw breath.”
“It… did not draw breath.” His eyes search the horizon. “It was as a spirit. A being of aether.”
“And still you put it to the sword? By the Fury.” I take a slow pull from the flask; the heat has dissipated, but the spice remains, warming in its own way. “I suppose, whatever form it took, that you have removed yet another dragon from the field is as bright a blessing as I can imagine.”
His ears flick and flatten - something in my words has struck him, though I know not as yet how.
“You will be leaving on the morrow?” I ask; though I know the answer, I can but hope. Just a little time would I borrow from him. Just the moments I can scavenge.
He nods. “I must go. To convince the Grand Companies, I may be called upon. And I would seek out what blades will heed my call.”
I let out a breath, a cloud of steam accompanying it. “You forego all of your rest to keep me company, then?”
I look to him, and his eyes are on me, his expression so soft. “I would look on you,” he says. “This I need more than rest.”
I sigh. “I… might not have taken this watch, had I known you had even a moment to spare. But the ranks are passing thin; they all need their rest. I thought to take this small burden away, and shore them up for the morrow.”
“A man may burn until he is quenched. Did you not tell me this, once?”
“I would caution you against throwing my words back at me, particularly as you are burning the midnight oil yourself at present.”
“I will burn it as I desire.” He crosses to me and beckons for the flask. I hand it to him, and bend to kiss him, lingering for just a moment, savouring the warmth of his lips. When I look at him, how conflicted he seems, with both elation and sorrow shining in his eyes. “Haurchefant,” he says (oh, how I treasure every syllable, each time my name passes his lips.) “I feared - much. When word came that an attack had begun…” He turns the flask about in his hands. “It is the first time I have prayed to Her. To Halone. For your safety.”
I hardly know what to say. “Oh… dearest. It seems She has bent Her ear to your prayers.”
We are quiet, as the watch draws on; by the moon and the stars, another bell or two remains. He sits awhile with his back against the rampart; then bids me sit for a spell that he might take up the watch and stretch his limbs. I do not argue, for the night is wearing on, and while sleep does not yet beckon, a little rest is called for; and all the better, I might watch him, as he stretches, and gazes out into the night, lit by the moon and a distant brazier on the wall below.
In this quiet moment, this pause between breaths, I wonder: for how long have I loved him so? This night, all is as clear to me as the star-filled sky, but it has not come upon me suddenly. No, it is more alike to the dawn, which only now has begun to kiss the horizon with the gentle hint of blue, a silver shine, easing its way through the passage of night. What began as regard, desire, concern, gratitude… they and more have intermingled, and become something greater; and so gentle was their passage from one to the next that I scarce perceived the change.
I love him; I have loved him. I hope - I pray - I always will. For to love him fills me with joy, even when we are apart, even when duty draws us upon different paths. And though I know not yet the depth of his feelings for me, his soft looks tell me that he thinks of me fondly indeed… and I do so enjoy being fondly regarded.
The morning watch guard comes a bell too early, but I shall not turn him away, for ‘tis a bell that I might spend in comfort with my dearest companion ere he departs, if he is willing. He has as much as taken over the watch by this time; in truth, a moment or two may have slipped past, as my eyes found the sweet darkness of sleep - knowing that he is here, trusting him implicitly, as I have come to do. I stand, and stretch, and look to him, a question in my eyes; he nods, and follows.
There is nothing to report, and so I do not enter the hall; we take the back stairs to my rooms. I should say our rooms, for he refused my offer of official lodgings, noting that he has nigh on nothing as far as personal belongings. Some meager clothing; maps and travelling affects; a knife for hunting, which I have on rare occasions seen him use to carve a small knob of wood into who knows what; one book, though be it a work of fiction or a journal, I have no ken.
A perpetual traveller, then, but one who visits me oft; such things as he would keep have found little places in amongst my belongings. He no longer knocks upon my door, but enters at his leisure.
Something… weighs on him. With the day now behind us, with all seeping slowly into memory, I have realized this. A shadow seems to cling to him. With my chamber door finally closed behind us, I might freely ask him, but ere I do, he gestures to my armour. “Might I…”
“Oh. Yes… thank you.” I turn, and bend, that he might begin unhooking the clasps across my back, while I work upon my sabatons. That I have doffed my armour some thousands of times unaided is immaterial, for I can scarcely imagine a more quiet yet intimate act of care that he might bestow me with. I find myself feeling much lighter indeed.
I hang my armour, and he removes his swordbelt and shield, then bends to attend his own sabatons. “Wait,” I say, and he rights himself, a questioning look upon his face. “... Indulge me?”
He moves not; I cross to him, and kneel before him, and begin the work of unbuckling his sabatons. He wears them passing tightly, and I enjoy the small details that this work reveals. How he doubles the strap back through, so that it lies flat against his thigh; how one clasp has broken, and so he has mended it with a length of butcher’s twine. How many armourers would leap at the chance to fashion for him the brightest and best armour in all the realm? He would need but ask - nay, need but open himself to their offers, most like.
I look up at him with a plan to gently admonish him - and find him looking down on me with an expression so soft and so melancholy that it would melt to the very heart of me. “My dearest, why do you look at me so?”
He shakes his head, and touches my cheek; his fingers, rough and yet their touch soft, are so familiar to me.
I finish unbuckling his sabatons; he casts them off, and ere I can stand he falls to his knees and grabs my face and kisses me, deeply, desperately; I have not felt this desperation from him since our first night of taking pleasure together. I hold him close against me, and kiss him, and stroke his hair, and gently make a safe passage for him, easing in air where I may, giving him time to find himself again. At length he stops, and folds in on himself, and presses his head against my chest.
For a long moment he moves not. I rub his back, gently, wishing I knew what to say, how to comfort him. At length he says, his voice low: “I… would share with you something. As you bade me do. As I wish to do. Only…”
“This is… to do with your work? With the Scions?”
“They do not know. Only the Antecedent.”
A hundred fleeting thoughts race through my mind. Has Shiva returned? The heretic Iceheart is said to have led the attacks which brought down our wards, though I did not lay eyes upon her myself. Means he to seek her out? Might I -
“Midgardsormr… spoke to me.” Every word seems to fight him. He has not moved. “Into my mind. He…” His hands on my arms squeeze hard. “He took from me the blessing of light.”
Such a war of feelings and thoughts come upon me, I can scarcely parse them from one another, but it is the loudest that I speak. “Damn him - damn him to the seven hells! What can I do to help you? Who must we put to the sword? By Halone’s name, I swear -”
“There is no fight, Haurchefant. There was never a fight. He but tested me. He still…”
The other feelings, other thoughts begin to catch up with me. Remembrances of tales of dragons working their will on men, turning them from the Faith, turning them into monsters. It has been said that only heretics can hear the words of dragons. And he heard. He understood. “He… still?”
His hands loosen on my arms, and his body seems to shift subtly away from me. “He… watches. Even now, I feel his presence.” Finally he looks up, but he does not meet my eyes. “I have won nothing. I have only lost. Everything.”
Now I see.
He knows what my people would say; the burgeoning talks of alliance and friendship between our peoples would cease. He would be branded a heretic of the highest order, and the Eorzean Alliance would be shut out by mere dint of association. And I -
I was taught to do the same. To find what he has told me appalling, abhorrent, without need of further scrutiny. To shun him.
And I -
I would rail against this, for so good a man I have scarcely known - so kind, so selfless, so strong in the face of cruelty and malice. Did he not route a damnable heretic from our very midst? And that he came to me, willingly - would he not have kept this secret within himself, and bided his time, and waited for his chance to strike?
But I hear, even now, what might be said of me. That I am blinded by my feelings for him, by my love of him. That I must force myself to scrutinise every warm thought, for if there is any chance -
He said he had lost everything.
Oh, Halone. He knows all of this. He waits for me to turn him away.
I say his name, and his eyes meet mine; there is no emotion on his face, save resignation and weariness. “You have lost nothing.”
He shakes his head. “Without Hydaelyn’s blessing, Ultima would have erased me from this world. I -”
“You are a hero.” I grab his shoulders. “I speak not one whit of her blessing. The way you fight, the protection you bring to others; the way you lead them, command them, give them every opportunity to shine; the way you leap into every battle with no hesitation, no thought for yourself; how every need, every comfort must come before your own. This is your light.”
He seems almost shaken by my words. His look is guarded. “I… cannot trust that I could protect you. If he were to use me for -”
“He will not.” I find that my hands are shaking, but I won’t let go of him. Not now. “I believe you to be stronger than this. I would stake on this my life and everything I hold dear. You are no pawn - not of the father of all dragons, not of the mother of all light. Your brilliance is your own, whether or not you see it - for I see it, I have seen it, since the moment you brightened my doorstep. And still I see it now, this very moment, when you feel yourself extinguished - you think to my safety, my protection!”
The smallest hint of light returns to his eyes. “You would not… draw back from me? To protect your people? Your House?”
“If I doubted you for but a moment, I would.” My breath runs fast - I must tell him, I must - “But I do not doubt you. Not even for the space between heartbeats. I am, I will ever be, stronger to have you at my side. Oh, please, I need you, I -”
He kisses me, and though my body quakes I hold him so tightly, and it is not only he who feels desperation in this act, this want, this need - to feel him against me, to close every gap, to touch, to grab, to devour - for I would kiss him until time stood still, I would press his body against me until day and night ceased to be, and it would never be enough.
It is he who brings me back, this time; who rubs my back, and strokes my hair, and gently whispers calming words in breaths between kisses. At length he takes my hands, still shaking, and presses them to his chest; and as I return to myself again, as I find my way back, finally I hear the calming words he has been saying: “Oh, my love. My love. My love.”
Never have I wished to forestall the coming of morning as much as I would this day, were it in my power. But a few bells more, time enough at least to untangle the myriad thoughts and feelings warring within me; time enough to say to him something that he might carry with him, as his work again whisks him away. For they will doubtless begin their assault in his absence, and it will not this time be meant as a distraction only. He knows my oaths, the price I am willing to pay. The price I would gladly pay; if only…
When I returned to myself, when my hands, my body stopped quaking so, he bade me retire with him to my bed for the brief time remaining to our private selves. I sit with my back against the headboard, he with his legs crossing my lap, his head on my shoulder, my arms around him. I feel heavy, for want of sleep, for the slow drain of emotion; for the burden I know he carries, this secret fear, which he has shared with me. And though the implications, the expectations are enormous, I am full glad that, in facing it, he did not pass me by.
“When I have gone,” he says, breaking me out of my reverie, “... please. Think again on what you would do. It may be better to do this alone. I would not… cloud your thoughts.”
Even he worries of my intentions, then. “Oh, my dearest, if you hope to have me separate my feelings for you from my reason, then I shall lay down my sword ere that battle begins. My regard for you is come from the most sound reason I can imagine. There is nothing whimsical in my feelings for you, nothing that defies logic. You are as great a man as I have ever known.” I could speak for days on this, but I know he is not wont to bask in an excess of praise; I must keep my prattling in check. “That you look on me as you do, say my name as you do, with such tenderness, such warmth. This… this is what seems, to me, to defy reason.”
He shifts himself to look at me; he seems to drink in my features, his eyes slowly making a study of me. Having thus taken his fill, he finds my hand with his, and kisses it. “I am… not a man whose trade is in plans, in reason. I feel, I act. Movement is comfortable. With you I… feel I can be still.” He lets out a breath. “Home is not this place, my love. It is with you.”
I have no words; my heart is full to bursting, hearing this. “And you would still think to have me turn you away?”
“I… know your oaths.”
A long breath leaves me. The tempest, though much quelled, still roils beneath the surface. “I told you that I doubt you not. But do you, truly, doubt yourself? Do you fear, do you feel, that you are being… manipulated? Changed?”
He seems to search himself. “I feel… his presence. But it is as eyes, resting upon me. Watching. Waiting.”
A curt laugh comes from me. “A sick game, then? I wonder what would happen, should you win?”
“Or lose?”
I lay my head back on the headboard; my eyes are passing heavy. “If the game is to test you, without the light’s blessing, then to lose may be…”
"To perish."
A chill runs through me at the thought. I look down at him, and pull him in toward me, and kiss him, gently, with all softness. “Then my oaths beg me to help you. With every onze of my being.”
“And I will help you in your fight,” he says. “When the Dravanians come, I will not suffer to be tested. Only to prevail.”
The light in the window has grown brighter; so little time remains to us. I must find something, say something; some certainty for him to keep, when nothing is known to us. Only peril, at the end of which lies victory or failure. Life or death.
“You know that I would fight at your very side, if given but a breath of a choice. But when the time comes, I cannot say where I will be needed. Where you will be deemed of most use.”
“Where I am needed, I will go.” He smiles. “I will fight so that you will hear the tales and know that I thought of you with every blow.”
“If I - if anything were to -”
He shakes his head. “Please, my love. Do not speak this into being.” He curls himself up a little against me. “I know your oaths. You know my calling. In this fight, in this work, we both know what may come.”
A slow breath comes out from deep within me, as though I have been holding it for an eternity. “Then please know - whatsoever may come, be it this day, this moon, this era, regardless of distance or duty - that I love you. That the part of me that is mine to give is yours. That I choose you.”
He looks to me, the light in his eyes so bright. “I take this as my blessing.” He unfurls himself and kisses me, slowly, like that first morning so many moons ago; somehow the ache I feel for it has only grown.
* * *
“Waste not your arrows!” The firing ceases as the fliers make their retreat from the north gate of Camp Dragonhead. I cross the lane, watching them, as I wipe the sweat from my brow. There is blood mingled in, blood on my blade. I kneel next to the fallen knights; one of them still draws breath. “Alinne, see to him,” I call across the lane; she salutes and turns to her men, issuing the orders.
There is no celebration in the air, as my men and women come to me. We have been made known what it means, when they turn, in unison, and flee. This is an order they hear, some cursed dragonsong that the ears of men hear not.
The distractions are over. The assault begins.
I stand and make a survey of our forces. We have faired well, better than I could have hoped; but will it be enough?
“Hearken to me, knights of Camp Dragonhead!” I raise my voice that all may hear. “We make for the Gates of Judgement at once, by steed or by foot. Whatsoever may come, today you have fought with honour, and done our House proud.” I thrust my blade heavensward. “For the glory of Ishgard!”
“For the glory of Ishgard!”
The black shadow passes over us even as the words leave their lips, blotting out the sun on this damnably clear day. Even from here, I can hear the great wings, as they beat against the frigid air. The wyrm, enormous beyond any measure, any reason, makes for the Steps of Faith, where they -
Where he -
“First Guard, to me!” I make for the stables, and they follow.
Fury, protect them. Protect him.
“Lord Haurchefant!”
The gate guard crosses toward us as I alight from my steed ere she touches the ground, the First Guard right behind me. The black bird is unsettled by the din and anguish of the fringes of battle: medical care being provided, orders being issued, dead being left in the cold in their rows. I turn her about and slap her flank, and she takes off back to Camp Dragonhead with the other flying steeds. The ground forces will be some time in coming. Our meager numbers must be enough, for now. I turn to the gatekeep. “Report.”
The man is out of breath; he salutes. “Ser Aymeric and the Scions hold back the tide at the midway point of the Steps. The far wards are holding - they are harried by air and ground by the smaller beasts.”
“Then we go to them.” I wave my small band of knights through the gate, and the Steps stretch out before us, Ishgard shining like a gem against the clear blue sky; and on the Steps, a hulking wyrm, black as night, bearing down toward her, thrashing amid some dozen flyers. At a run we press onward, weaving through such carnage of men and beasts as I have scarce imagined. Decimated artillery, broken ballasts, crumbling walls all bring peril to our every step.
I see now the beasts on the ground, of the upright wingless kind often found skulking where the heretics roost; they move beneath the wyrm’s very body, coming to blows with knights and magick users who bend the light, bend the aether -
The Scions.
“There, beneath the great wyrm - draw them out, draw them away!”
We reach the beast’s tail end and dodge through and between its legs, the sun all but blotted out by the great heaving scales of its underbelly, and engage the upright beasts with a clamour, seeking to lure them toward us. If we can but lessen the load on the Scions, if we can pull their attention away -
A ringing fills my ears, like ice and crystals shattering from the very heavens, and with a flash of light the aether parts before us, piercing the great wyrm’s flesh. The wyrm roars and stumbles, and we scatter, dashing out from under its enormous talons. For a moment the beast sways, and then its head rises dangerously, focusing on the source of its pain.
The Miqo’te - whose silhouette I could read at a thousand yalms - stands radiant before the great beast, shield held before him and sword aloft in a stance akin to prayer. He stares down the beast and bellows a challenge, his voice echoing through the very stones beneath our feet. With a twirl of his sword he readies himself as the dragon rears back to attack him -
And so opens itself up to the blades and spells of the allies of the Warrior of Light, who close in around him, bringing the beast to such blows as I could scarcely imagine; dragoons leap in from above, seeking that all-important mortal blow.
I draw my eyes away from this utterly awe-inspiring display and direct my knights back to the swarming two-legged fiends. “We must give them space,” I call to them. “Draw them back!”
Together we harry them, luring them out behind the great beast, whose advance seems to have been halted as the Scions go to their work, backed by the Temple Knights. With a well-timed dodge and precise thrust I strike to the heart of one of the beasts; I hear another fall to my knights beside me. It seems we may finally -
The dragon roars in pain and the Steps quake, and it turns its massive body, its tail as a battering ram of flesh, sweeping toward us. I throw myself to the ground, just avoiding the blow, the sound of it crashing through the ramparts nearly deafening. Sitting up I look about me - the upright beasts are gone, swept over the edge, and my knights…
Two of them - Demers, Alinne - simply gone. Gone.
A shadow passes over me and I look up into the great beast’s horrid visage, its burning eyes fixed on me. “Run, run damn you!” I call out to what knights remain, knowing not if they can hear, if they can move, praying that the wyrm’s ire is focused on myself alone. Smoke roils from the beast’s nostrils and I ready my shield, cursing, praying -
A cry of anger, anguish, defiance reaches my ears, coming toward me.
He is before me now - my gladiator, my fighter - and how he came between me and the great beast with such speed I know not. His back is to me, and again he assumes a stance of prayer, and -
The dragon’s breath bellows down in red hot fire, and rising up to meet it, to shield us from it in a great arc are stones of aether, a wall booming up from the very Steps of Faith, surrounding us as the fire roils on around us. And then with a roar of agony the torrent of fire stops. As the smoke and spectral stones fade away I see the Azure Dragoon perched atop the great wyrm’s head, his lance buried deep in one of its horrible eyes. As the beast thrashes and writhes, he holds fast; finally it stumbles and collapses, and with a flourish he leaps to the other eye and buries his lance home.
With a shriek that would pierce the sky, the dragon quakes, its form warping into black energy, as a being of aether. It folds in on itself, like a crumpled missive, wreathed in darkness - and with a gasp and a sudden silence, it is gone.
I stumble to my feet.
My companion, some yalms away, breathes hard, like a man who has crossed all the continents without cease. He looks about himself, almost wild with panic - until his eyes lock with mine, and with his face awash in utter relief, he loses his feet and makes to fall.
I am with him ere I can think, helping him down onto the stones. He is nearly limp in my arms, whispering prayers, whispering thanks to the Fury.
“My dearest, my love -” I look about us - the few flyers who remained have scattered into the sea of clouds. Sounds of elation slowly begin to ring out around us. I call out to the Scions for aid.
“I - am well,” he says, though his voice is weak. “I have only… spent more than my due.”
“Then I will see you properly replenished.”
The Sharlayan Miqo’te - Y’shtola - sees to him, and I gratefully accept the Lalafell Papalymo’s offer to check on my knights as well. Those that remain; for we have won this day and saved our city, but the price has been so damnably high.
I look to my companion, still weak but seeming more himself; he sits, with his back against a rampart, at Y’shtola’s demand that he take a measure of rest.
“I must go,” I say, as I stand and begin to take stock of the myriad tasks that lie before us in the wake of the battle. “Much will be needed of me this day, and in the morrow of this victory.”
“When you… take your rest, I would join you.”
“Oh, my dear, you must. So that I might properly thank you.”
He looks up at me, so softly. “I would beg of you an… improper thank you, ere you go.”
For only a moment, I pause. It is long enough for him to see, to know that I have considered whether I should hold myself back for the sake of propriety. For fear of what may be said about me, my House, my duty. He sees this, and he makes to rescind his request -
And I fall to my knees, and kiss him; here under the open sky, on the Steps of Faith, with all of Ishgard at my shoulder.
For he fought under Halone’s banner today, and She saw fit to deliver through him our victory. And I would not deny Her hero his due.
Nor my hero his desires.
The work of recovery after a battle won is not unlike that of a battle lost. With more numbers, perhaps; more time to properly tend one’s wounded, one’s dead. A commander I much lauded in my youth, while I was still striving for my knighthood, once said that there are no winners in war, only survivors.
And now, having seen to them, having celebrated them, and lauded them for their bravery; having sent them to their recovery, or their rest, or their posts, there remains but to tend to those who stand behind the ones who were lost. Parents, children; brothers and sisters; husbands and wives; dear friends and comrades. All of whom now begin a new chapter of their lives. And I would see that it begins with something to hold on to.
This task comes after the hard work of clearing the Steps, of taking stock, of directing repairs so that the caravans might resume with all haste; and then the work of seeing to Camp Dragonhead and making it again feel safe for those under my charge. And having done these most essential tasks, I find I am unable as yet to take my rest.
The roster, with markings to note all those who we have lost, beckons to me. For behind every name is a smile I remember, a laugh I could pinpoint from across the yards, a silhouette that I have looked to with gratitude at their post. It is to this work - the writing of letters for each of my fallen knights, or squires, or other honourable souls who have served House Fortemps - that I have turned my pen this past day.
The candle burns low, and the ink grows thick, but I press on even as my eyes grow heavy. I must share these fond remembrances with their loved ones, and have them know that they were dear to me, and that their time on this star has touched me. That I share their pain, but also the joy of having known them. I must help them find their rest ere I might find mine.
“Haurchefant?”
My head snaps up at his voice. I had not heard the Aetherite, nor even the door to the Intercessory come open, so lost in my work have I been. I say his name, so grateful of his presence; I let the pen fall onto the page, ink blotting, and I stand and cross to greet him. He is already stretching up to kiss me, hooking his arms around my neck. For a long time I simply hold him against me.
“They said you have been here many bells,” he says, studying my face. “Take your rest, my love. Please.”
I am about to argue… until I think on how many missives remain, and sigh. “Have you supped?”
“I have asked that they bring a repast to your rooms.”
A weary smile crosses my face. “My maidservant takes orders from you, does she?”
He smiles. It is a little roguish, and yet a little shy, and oh, how I have missed his face these past days. “I asked very nicely.”
I put out the candles and we quit the Intercessory; it has grown dark indeed. Our repast awaits us in my chamber, and I find that I am ravenous. Too many bells did I let slip by this day. And now that he is finally come, and the myriad duties that fell to me after the dragon was slain have been addressed… I find it difficult to break the silence. For I wish to say one thing to him more than any other, but I cannot find words that reach the depth of it.
I look to him, across the small table where we oft have taken our morning tea together, now cluttered with the remains of our late repast. So long have we sat in silence together this night. I find myself feeling like a wretched host; but he is no guest here. He rises, and crosses to the door, gently touching my shoulder as he does. He calls for the maid and has her clear away our repast; he goes to the fire and stokes it, so that it will burn long and gently. I watch him do this, for I still seem to have no words.
As I look on him, I see his comfort here, with me; how satisfied he looks as he busies himself about, caring for me. My work of mournful missives makes me think on how I might lay this moment down, were I writing of him. To his loved ones. To myself.
He turns to me, and concern strikes his face, and he comes before me, kneeling, taking my hands. “Love - my love - why do you weep?"
“I…” I pass a hand over my face, and find it wet; I had not realized. I shake my head. “I am overtired, my dearest. I think I must…”
I move to stand, but he stops me with a look, and kisses my hand. “Indulge me.”
He begins to unbuckle my sabatons, loosening the straps; gratefully, I move that he might cast them off. He stands, and I follow, and quietly he undresses me. I watch him, and move with him as he bids me; the silence, the stillness, is comforting, as is his familiar touch. When I am before him in breeches only, he leads me to bed.
“I return anon,” he says, and I sit, and wait; I will not make myself comfortable as yet. I would not risk falling asleep ere he returns, for his company I crave so keenly.
When he returns, also in breeches only - how well that silhouette has been affixed in my mind - we make ourselves comfortable together in my bed, as we oft have done. Finally, here in the dark, with all the world passing quiet, I find words returning to me.
“What you did, on the Steps… I have never seen anything of its like.”
“I… have made a study, with the Scions. Of aether.”
“Do I remember correctly? Did you conjure a crystal of snow?”
He hums, and I feel that lovely resonance against my body. “I have grown fond of snow.”
“And that wall of stones, by the Fury...” At that, his ears twitch. “... What is it?”
He arranges himself to look up at me, his head still on my chest. “When I saw you… my concentration faltered. I…” He closes his eyes, and the next words seem to fight him. “This is why he turned. Why he made to harm you, your knights.”
“No, my dearest, I won’t allow you to take on this burden of blame. To hold the sole attention of a great wyrm, as myriad forces work to slay the beast… this could never be expected of you, no matter what manner of magicks or aether you wield.”
“But if I had not -”
“You saved my life.” I reach out and touch his cheek, softly, like it might break as porcelain, as a precious figure of glass. “I saw Death draw its fiery breath before me, and I prayed to Halone, and She delivered me you.”
He is passing quiet, and his eyes are still closed; after some long moments I wonder if he has fallen asleep. My hand still touches his face; I caress it, the line of his jaw, his lip. He slides his hand over mine and kisses my fingers.
I sigh. “Mayhap some day I will find a proper thank-you. But I have not the words.”
“You need no words, Haurchefant.” For a moment he is quiet, and then his ears flatten a little. “On the Steps… when I asked of you…”
“And I hesitated?” A small, curt chuckle escapes me. “Oh, my very dearest. I regret only that I did.”
“I should not have -”
“- asked for one small gesture of comfort from one who loves you, after you have thrown your body ‘twixt him and a dragon? No, my love, the shame is mine, for sparing even a moment’s thought to their frigid decorum.” He looks to me, and I beckon him closer, shift my arms to draw him up toward my lips, so that I might kiss him properly; he settles himself with his body over mine, and for a long moment I lose myself in this familiar touch, this act of joy.
Would that I could take more pleasure with him this night, for every pleasure calls to me; but I have not the strength. He seems to sense this, gently easing the intensity of his kisses; finally he breaks away, and curls up his body, and lays his head just under my chin, much as he did the first night he kissed me. How tentative it was then; how he had to struggle just to fulfill that single want.
How he would look on me, pensive, searching, as I bestowed him with small acts of care. Perhaps this night he saw those same looks from me, as quietly he doted upon me.
Whatsoever he might want of me, he will have; and I will not hide my love of him, if he does not desire this. For he has me, fully, and I have given myself freely. And if there be a shadow hanging over him, if he is to be tested, then I go to face it with him, with every onze of my being.
In matters of love and dragons, there will be no half measures.