Archive of Our Own

“And so I implore you, even as we prepare yet again for the worst, to smile whensoever you are able; for when our people look to the faces of those who will protect them - you, brave knights of House Fortemps - they shall never lose heart, so long as they see that you yet cling to hope.”

Silence hangs in the hall at Camp Dragonhead, heavy as we all are with this word of the amassing horde. And though I smile, leading by example as best I may, the steel they no doubt see in my eyes belies the worry in my breast.

“That is all. May the Fury protect us, and lend us Her strength. Dismissed.”

With a flurry of salutes and pledges of fealty, the spell of silence is broken, and time rolls on, here in the great crossing of the Central Highlands; though as I return to my place at the head of the hall, Corentiaux approaches and bows.

“My Lord, would you have us send word?”

“Send word?” I am surprised at this suggestion; since the bloody feast at Ul’dah and the wyvern attack upon Ishgard, the tepid murmurs of cooperation with the other nations of Eorzea had been - I thought - well and truly quelled. “That is for the Holy See to decide, is it not?”

“Yes, my Lord, but I meant only… the Warrior of Light.”

My breath catches. For though my mind whirls with every facet of my duty, always there is a quiet place therein, a tidal pool of comfort: his love, his light, his purpose. “That is kind of you, and astute as well. But he has burdens enough at present.”

Corentiaux nods, and bows, and takes his leave, and I return to my duties, only for a moment allowing myself a thought for my love, a little worry; a prayer for his safety, and that of his friends, and mine.

What will he say, when he returns to find Ishgard nearly under siege? Will he stay, and continue his work, joining us in yet more blood and fire? Or will he take his chances at last in the world outside our borders, where the news of the Sultana’s death will surely at last be set loose upon the realm?

And then, with this news of what awaits us here, there is a quiet fear, shamed as I am to admit it: if I am asked, at last, to pay the final price in service of my people, where will he be when he receives word? For I may be but one more soul lost in service. One life. One connection, of which he has so precious few.

But it would not do to dwell on such things - not while my men and women still reel from the news that our brief respite is at an end. For war comes to Ishgard, and in the face of it, until that awful day, we must find it within ourselves to smile.

It is some days hence that I at last have a moment to return to Ishgard proper and see how all fares with my father and our House. I am surprised and heartened to see my father’s face when I arrive to exchange reports at the Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly, for he had business there himself. 

And so, as we take our leave and make our way through the streets of Ishgard, he tells me of the state of our House. Emmanellain, it seems, is in a tizzy, fretting over cancelled social calls and wanted items that have been scratched from the provisioning lists in place of the food and fuel of the impending siege.

“And Artoirel is yet in Falcon’s Nest?” I labour to keep pace with my father, for the streets of the Foundation are fair teeming with folk of every walk of life, making their preparations, shoring themselves up. I have on my side youth and good health, but my father has the habits and savvy of city life, having trod these streets and alleys some thousand thousand times.

“Aye, though likely not for long. Though they are loath to leave those stomping grounds to the heretics, it will be nigh-on impossible to keep it staffed with knights and soldiers, come the siege.”

We wind our way up to the Pillars as the city seems to fair whirl about us; it would give me heart, but for the fear I see in their eyes. “I will be glad to know that he is returned at last - I hope you will not fault me for doubting that by Emmanellain’s hand alone would our House remain safe.”

“Would that I could keep all of my sons safe within our walls.” He casts a glance at me as we pass two Rose Knights, with whom I offer a spritely greeting. “But I must trust in the Fury to be with you in your work.”

“I feel Her presence, even now,” I say, invoking a small prayer for Halone to give me the strength to speak the truth of my heart. “Though I return at first light on the morrow, I would… beg of you a little time to talk.”

“If you will be joining me for supper this evening, that can most certainly be arranged.”

Does he see, I wonder, the question I have been mulling over these past days? The joy, deep and true, that carries with it an ache, a gnawing fear?

As we sit and sup this night, and hear from Tataru some news of my love’s workings abroad, I am certain that my face is a show of my feelings. Emmanellain notices it not, preoccupied as he is with his own petty worries, but I feel my father’s more keen eyes upon me as our Lalafell friend tells us that my love means to return anon, along with young Master Leveilleur.

“It seems they were successful, thank the Twelve, though details are yet scarce,” Tataru says, face writ with cautious relief. “Though I don’t look forward to telling Alphinaud that half of his alliances have backed away with the threat of the siege.”

“You don’t think he’ll stay, do you?” Emmanellain asks, and I wonder at first if he means Alphinaud or my dearest one. “Ul’dah is still mum on everything - if I were him, I’d take my chances somewhere with less bloody dragons at the door.”

“I know not,” I say, my voice a little tight. “It depends on many things. I pray that he receives news of his missing comrades; and this, I think, would have his full attention. But if not…” I sit back in my chair, and push my plate away. “He will be in need of work, and I wonder if he might again find cause to take up his sword and shield in defense of Ishgard.”

“Quite a lot to ask of a lover, isn’t it?” Emmanellain chuckles. “Though it would be quite romantic of him, eh, old boy?”

“Despite what the stories would tell you,” my father cuts in, “there is little of romance in war.” He raises a hand, calling for the table to be cleared after our somewhat modest repast. “Not in the moment, at least. When words are bent to the retelling, therein is the meaning made. But in battle, it is merely sword against fire, scale and skin broken.” His gaze fixes on me. “Is this not so, my son?”

“Indeed, my Lord.”

After but one drink, due to the Holy See’s decree that frivolities must be limited at this time, my father begs his leave of the table to retire to his study, summoning me to join him. Ignoring boldly curious looks from Emmanellain and Tataru both, I mount the stairs with him in silence, which he deigns not to break as he crosses through his study and lowers himself into his chair with some care. “So,” he says, looking up at me, a glint of a smile in his eyes. “What would you have of me?”

“Your ear,” I say, clasping my hands behind my back, taking the opportunity to stretch a little. I am restless, in truth, used as I am to taking a turn about the watchtowers after the evening meal. “Your… advice.”

“You have no pleas to make, this time? No difficult demands?” He recalls, of course, a prior time we took up these poses here; the night, so long ago (though in truth only some few moons) when I begged him to receive my friends into Ishgard - and shortly after, to ask him for his blessing to court the man to whom I had pledged my heart.

“No demands, this time; no pleas. Though I find myself thinking upon the words you spoke this eve, of how romance comes after the horrid now, in times of war. And though, broadly, I agree, I find there to be one notable exception.”

He tilts his head; surely he takes my meaning, but perhaps to have me suffer through my explanation, he asks: “What notable exception is that?”

I take in a breath, and even steeled thus, I find I cannot meet his eyes just at this moment. I blow it out again, and turn, with an unhurried stride or two finding myself before one of his great towering shelves of books. Hundreds of years of records of our House sit upon these shelves; hundreds of servants’ names, and accounts of treaties and alliances with other Houses, great and small. Records of births, deaths, and the unions that come between, for those privileged enough to make them.

“Do you believe me,” I begin, “when I say that my duty comes before all else?”

He hums. “I do. Though I hope my confidence in you is known, and felt; if not, I have greatly shirked in my own duty, as head of our House, and as a father besides.”

“I am sorry, my Lord. I meant not to have you question yourself so. It is only… to speak on matters of the heart, it is oft thought that this must come at the expense of duty. That is not the case, for me.”

“As you have said. And which, in light of all that has happened since, I believe to be true.” He sits back in his chair, the leather creaking softly. “And so what, pray, has this to do with your one notable exception?”

“Everything,” I say, with a forced exhalation of breath; I find my chest is tight. “For I speak of the place where love and duty oft meet, and doubly - triply so - in times of war. Of the desire to write in stone the words upon one’s heart. To make of them something real, in the eyes of the Fury and the Holy See, while we yet may.”

He studies me quietly for a moment. “You speak of marriage.”

“I do.”

“I see.” After a moment, he stands. “Though I expect I know the answer, I will ask: you come not, this day, for my blessing or permission?”

I shake my head. “You are correct, my Lord. I simply ask… your council.”

He nods. “Then you shall have it.”

“Thank you.” I take in a breath as I search now for the words, the formation of my tumbling thoughts. “I understand well - or so I thought - the reasons for which men and women may choose to marry, in times of war or strife. And yet, as I pore over the reasons for this desire, I find myself feeling… selfish. Were I to ask for this, would I not be simply grasping, desperately, for some semblance of control? I tell myself that it is for his take that I would ask him, for as you know he has no family, no history. Were I to perish, he would again be so very much alone in the world; and were he to meet his end, what legacy would he leave? They would remember his deeds, his victories, but what of the man behind them?”

He watches me as I speak, his expression thoughtful. “Your consideration of these reasons seems sound,” he says, slowly. “Why, then, do they give you pause?”

“Because they are reasons that spur from fear! Fear to lose him, fear to leave him, fear of the unknown! How can I, a knight of our House, even think to put this choice to him, on the back of that damnable weakness?”

“My son,” he says, with his slow step crossing to me. “If you felt no fear in the face of the future, you would be blind to its dangers and demands. There is no weakness in feeling fear.”

“But to make choices born of it -”

“Do you truly think that this is all that drives these choices?”

“No, but does my fear taint them?”

At this he laughs once. “Haurchefant. You well know that no choice is ever pure in its intent. Be it for personal gain, or strategy on behalf of one’s duty, we are all imperfect beings with warring needs, desires, demands. You know this, in your work at Camp Dragonhead.”

“The choices of a commander are different.”

“Yes, but no less difficult.” He tilts his head slightly in study of me. “If it is my council you seek, I would ask you: if by Halone’s grace, our war were to end this day, that sickly pall of fear removed at last from your considerations… what would you desire?”

I stand with this a moment, as I struggle to imagine such a thing. Peace? No desperate ear always to the winds, fearing the song of dragons, the flap of wings? I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Father. Such a thing is beyond my ability to imagine. But… if all was as it had been, these past few years since the weather turned and the chill set in, I…”

Now I come to it. The true fear that lurks ever at the edge of my thoughts. For no matter what transpires here, there are threats ever at his heels. So much is asked of my love, begged of him, and he would give, and give, until there is nothing left of him. So bright is his love for this world and its people, that to save them he would be extinguished.

And though I might do little else to aid him… I would cup my hands gently around his flame.

My father lays his hand on my shoulder, his look just shy of soft. “My boy…”

I pull in a shuddering breath - my eyes must have been a show of my thoughts, yet again. “He is already family to me. This is the truth of my heart. But I would have it be known, and written. That he is loved, as fiercely as he deserves. That he is a man, before all. That he is mine.”

He smiles; to me it seems a faraway look. “Then your course is clear. Though I wonder what he will say, when given this most delicate choice. Do you think him to be aligned with you? Does he want what marriage to a son of Ishgard entails?”

“What does it entail? He receives no inheritance in accepting me, and you know I make no demands of him. This promise writ in the ledgers of Ishgard will not stop him from seeing to his work, and I labour not under the delusion that I will see him more oft. But I think…” 

All of a sudden I am nearly breathless with the memory of his face as he looked up at me, in this room, and said before my father that he, a man who struggles to receive, treasured every gift from me.

I swallow hard. “I think he would be glad to call me his husband.”

“And I would be glad to call him my son-in-law, though I rather thought I had sons enough,” my father says, with a chuckle and another squeeze of my shoulder. “Have you had your fill of council, my son?”

“I think I have. Though now I must think on how I will ask him.”

At this he laughs, and pats my back as he ushers me unhurriedly from his study. “For this task, you are on your own. Though should you desire help in composing your address to him, I am certain Emmanellain would leap to your aid.”

There is a gasp from somewhere nearby, perhaps below us - and then muffled, hurried steps away. I share a look with my father, and let out a laugh. “Some of us yet have lessons to learn about eavesdropping from the pantry, it seems.”

I wait, and think, as I return to my post and share with my men and women the tidings of the Knights Most Heavenly, and the state of Ishgard’s readiness for the coming siege. There are many requests for leave to visit the city, which I do my utmost to provision for; well do I understand the desire to speak with one’s loved ones and to lay eyes upon their faces. I would be chastised for allowing this luxury, I am certain, by the other High Houses, and likely some of my own House besides; but I know it is easier to fight with the strength of these ties. They will shore my people up, and we will all be stronger for it.

I am much in the throes of my work, speaking with merchants at the front of the yards one day, when the jubilant shout of greeting from the watchtower (and then an even more jubilant warking of a familiar flying chocobo) causes me to whirl and track the incoming bird. Without another thought I call for a guard to take over in my work and cross to the place where my love descends and lands. His black chocobo - my recent gift, whom he has named Joy - nearly bowls me over in her haste to greet me.

 “Hello, my girl,” I say, grabbing her head and pressing my forehead to hers, while my dearest one alights. I vigorously ruffle her feathers and she preens and coos, and at last seems satisfied enough to let me now greet the handsome Miqo’te who she has spirited safely to my side.

Scarcely has his name left my lips than he has pulled me down into a kiss, deep and eager. So loath are we to break it, Joy begins to ruffle her feathers in restlessness - an echo of her prior jealousy of my dearest one, no doubt.

“My love,” he says, when at last he sees fit to release me.

“Dearest, my very dearest. Welcome home.”

Much news I am sure he has, and good news based on the shine in his eyes; but as ever we hold off on these discussions, as there are many eager ears around us. I join him as we take to the stables, to ready Joy for her stay, and while he brushes her and scrapes her feet (my stable hands would gladly do this for him, but he sees to his own small tasks whensoever he may) I speak of some news of ours, lighter things for now.

No doubt he knows that there is something afoot, even before I give him the dreaded news; the tension among my people seems to have his hackles lightly raised. And though he is known and trusted, they do well to leave to me the task of telling him our most troubled tidings. With the final watch passed over, we at last retreat to our rooms, and while we doff our armour and begin to take our comfort, I tell him all.

There is some heat left in the coals of my fireplace, and so he sits there with me, tucked in against me, head on my shoulder. The final details of our situation having left my lips, I find I wait with bated breath for his response. How soon might he take his leave again? Has his patience for my people’s seeming endless strife finally found its end?

“How fare you, with this weight, my love?”

I had not expected this question. I draw in a breath as I labour to think, to feel, for myself and not as a commander of men. “I am… tired,” I say, the word surprising me, even though I hear now the weariness in my own voice. “Always there have been threats, skirmishes; but these past moons, since the battle upon the Steps, it has felt… endless.”

He has slipped his hands around one of mine; he squeezes it, encouraging me to continue.

I sigh, long and deep. “In my letter to my father, all those moons ago, I spoke on the fragility of life - as a rhetorical device, I thought, to lend the proper weight to my proclamation. But… it was more prescient than I could have imagined. I tire of offering thanks that I awake each day, when so many never shall again. I tire of watching Ishgard crumble before my very eyes.”

The torrent of words having left me, he squeezes my hand again. “It is heavy, then, your burden,” he says, quietly. “But I will help you to bear it.”

A short, humourless chuckle escapes me. “You, who carry already the weight of all Eorzea’s worries? Oh, my dearest, please...”

“I carry them not alone.” He shifts himself to look up at me; oh, my heart could burst with that gentle look. I nearly ask him in this very moment if he will be mine, if he will write his name beside my own in the great ledger of my family line; but I must not lay this choice upon him now. I must wait, and hear all of his news (could he have some word on the whereabouts of his friends at last?) and let him unburden himself. I must help him to bear his own weights.

“Not alone? I hope you mean, then, that your friends…?”

His expression falls, only slightly; he would spare me the full guilt of this misstep. “I have not yet news of them - of the Scions. But we saved Raubahn. And…” He whispers the next words, as though to say them aloud might somehow break the spell: “The Sultana may yet live.”

“Truly?!” I find I am whispering in kind, though more in the fashion one might see upon a stage. “Oh, my dearest - dearest! This is wonderful news indeed!”

And so at last I have the full story from him, now that he has heard all of my worries. What a tale of derring-do it is! Though I blanche at the telling of how they barely survived an attempted poisoning by horrid gas, I am so relieved to hear that they have some hope - that the most seemingly certain fate has been undone. And if that is the case, surely others have survived as well; oh, to see at last a glimmer of true hope in my dearest one’s face fills me with intense joy.

Alphinaud, it seems, had some small business to attend in Thanalan, and so he shall arrive in Ishgard in some days time. Until then, my dearest one will rest here with me, as much as he is ever able, and then hie unto Ishgard to take their proper measure of our situation. To stand at the centre of it all, and decide how he may move forward, while my people dig in for war. 

As ever, he moves, while I remain still.

It is not envy I feel, for this life of his; ‘twould imply a malice that is wholly alien to me, or a discontent with my station and my duty. Ever am I proud of my service to my people, whose ingenuity, whose strength, whose care for one another never ceases to amaze and delight me. My calling is loud and clear, like a crisp word in the frigid air, and no riches, no glory could woo me from my course. 

Not even the love, deep and pure, that I feel for the man who has taken my rooms for his rooms, my bed for his bed.

But as I live my little life, fulfilling as it is with duty and friendship and love, I watch him leave so very oft on his epic journeys, and I feel… a longing.

I admit, as a youth I entertained fantasies of becoming a hero of great renown; I imagined such a fate to be my due for all my suffering, a fitting prize for the half-blood boy. Even when I took my knighthood, I had watched men of similar station and situation to myself rise through the ranks, and then on to glorious places in Halone’s sight. But I had not the honeyed words and ear for politics that did Aymeric de Borel, nor the pounding heart of vengeance that drives home the spear of Estinien Varlineau. I had only love, and duty, and quiet spite. The makeup of a normal man of note, perhaps, but not a hero.

This is well enough, in truth, for nearly all the world are not heroes; and still, by our stalwart hands are miracles made. The breadth and beauty of all life is only possible due to the efforts of we, lesser noble men, smallfolk of the world; the hands that sow the seeds, that cull the wheat, that bake the bread. The hands that take up sword and shield to make the world safe, though it may cost us all that we have - these little, precious lives.

And so I find, in the days with my love, a new fantasy has emerged, one in which we may spend many more days in this fashion; to ever make a home for him, when he has no other. That I might be a husband to a hero.

Though I try to savour every moment with him, still the hours slip away and leave me grasping when at last it is time for him to venture into Ishgard. I have prevailed upon him to travel on chocoback with me, as he may wish to have Joy close at hand should he need, in haste, to take to the skies again.

“You will stay, some nights, in Ishgard?” he asks, as we travel together, the first turn upon the road to the Gates of Judgement behind us. He is riding close at my side, as I am earthbound due to our being unable to spare flying steeds at the moment. Joy oft turns her head to me, seeking my praise for how good of a girl she is being.

“Yes, one or two nights; my men and women of the garrison are well prepared, of course, but I would not leave them for long.”

It is a rare, still day, though heavy clouds linger. The rhythmic crunch of chocobo claws upon the snowy road seems to hang in the air between us as we make our way.

Without turning to me, he asks: “Have you something on your mind, my love?”

I blink, surprised that he has intuited this. “I would tell you no, but I certainly cannot lie to you - particularly as you have divined the truth of my heart from my silence alone.”

He chuckles quietly. “There are words, behind your eyes.”

“And words there are; but if it is all right with you, I would wait until we have returned to Ishgard, and you have had words with Ser Aymeric and my father on the state of our affairs.”

“It is to do with your duty, then? Your command?”

“Only insofar as everything is, for me,” I say with a laugh. “But no. It is a personal matter.”

He mulls this over a while; I steal a glance at him, and see that his brow is furrowed, his tail swishing thoughtfully. “You said, long ago, that you would hold a place, for me. That you had little time, for other lovers. But I am often away, and would not have you… deprive yourself, of company. If you desired this.”

I find myself chuckling to cover my surprise at this topic. “You are concerned that I should be lonely?”

“I would not impose fidelity upon you. It is your happiness that I desire.”

“And if I would rather pine away while you go to your work?” I ask with a little careful mirth.

“I would not have you pine.”

“My dearest, even if I had a lover for every day of the week, I would feel your absence just as keenly.”

Again he is quiet for a while. “I am sorry.”

“Sorry?! What reason have you to be sorry? Every day with you is worth a hundred days apart! And by that measure, I am full to bursting with joy, for you find your way to me, time and time again.”

I hope that he might take some cheer from this; when his expression changes not, I feel a frisson of fear.

I clear my throat. “If you are… trying to say that you do not want me to hold a place for you, please do not burden yourself with thoughts of -”

“My love.” He draws Joy to a sudden halt and reaches across, grabbing my forearm and stopping me in turn. “No. I only…” He lets out a long, tight sigh. “So much do you give me, do I take from you. And so little do I offer you.”

His name leaves my lips like a curse. I leap from the back of my steed and grab his hand between both of mine. “How dare you say such things, when you are my light - my light! You, who have brightened these dark days since the moment I met you, whose work inspires me, whose love compels me! My love, my heart, there is nothing I could give you that would equal all that you have given me. And yet…” Oh hells, I cannot stop myself now - not in the face of this worry of his. “And yet I must try.”

My breath runs quickly as I cast off my gloves. I must feel his skin against mine.

“In truth, it is I who have little to offer you. I have not even the name of my great House to offer, no inheritance to boast of. Only a knight’s name, a scrawled footnote in the ledgers of House Fortemps. And still, I would treasure this, ever; to write your name next to mine.”

His eyes go wide. “Haurchefant,” he whispers, steam rising from the word like incense.

“Marry me.” I bring his hand to my lips and kiss it; the ring I gave him all those moons ago is cool in the late morning air. “If you think your love is not yet enough, this is what you might give to me. To stand at my side, until Halone calls me at last to Hers.” I squeeze his hand between mine. “I do not expect your answer now. Hear what those who shore up the defenses in Ishgard would say; think on what you must do. And if you would go on as we have, it is well enough indeed. But if you should find yourself in want of a husband… oh, my very dearest. I am here. I will always be here.”

Silence hangs for but a moment, and then he has sprung from the back of his mount and into my arms, kissing me fiercely. When at last he pulls back, we are both a little short of breath. “I will think,” he breathes. “I will learn what I must.” He pulls back and looks at me, a little sadly. “I would not hesitate. But so many of those I hold dear, are still…”

“Of course.” I kiss him softly again, and set him down upon the snowy path. “I would bear you no ill will if you would prefer to wait, all things considered.”

He looks up at me, quite fondly. “Is this… what you wished to speak on, when we arrived in Ishgard?”

I chuckle. “Indeed it was, though my penchant for passionate speeches seems to have gotten the better of me.”

He hums as he returns to his steed, hopping easily into the saddle. “I will be merciful in my power to keep you in suspense.”

At this, I laugh outright, as I mount my steed in turn. “Oh, my dear, you know very well by now how well I tolerate being teased.”

The smile he flashes back at me is wicked indeed - and then, with the flick of his wrist, Joy is off again, and Ishgard awaits.

Perhaps it is best that my proposal slipped past my lips when it did; a little consideration just for him, that he might think on with some warmth. For the moment we pass through the Arc of the Worthy, he is embroiled in all the frenzied preparations that my people make for war, and at last he sees the full scope of it. I leave him to make his enquiries with the Knights Most Heavenly and go to wait at Fortemps Manor.

There, I am surprised to find Master Alphinaud and Mistress Tataru, conversing with my elder brother, while Emmanellain paces restlessly at the back fo the receiving room, studiously ignoring a stream of sound advice from Honoroit on how he might best make himself useful.

“Lord Haurchefant!” Alphinaud says; he seems quite energized by their recent success. I have not seen such light in his eyes in many a moon. “I take it from your presence that my comrade will not be far behind? And I am glad to see you well,” he adds, quickly, remembering his manners.

“Likewise - and I expect you are correct. He thought to try his luck in speaking with Sers Aymeric or Lucia, but whether he will be admitted on short notice difficult to say.”

I share greetings with the others, and inquire as to the whereabouts of my father.

“He is in talks with House Haillenarte,” Artoirel says. “Hoping to secure their help in petitioning the Holy See to allow more hired help into the city.”

“More power to him,” I say, the dour figure of my dear Francel’s father looming imperiously in my mind.

While I have had news of their travails and successes from my dearest one, I hear another side from Alphinaud, and other news besides. Tataru, as well, has been hard at work, and it seems she may at last have some few scant leads as to the whereabouts of my dearest one’s missing friends. “I wouldn’t get his hopes up yet,” she hastens to say, adjusting her hat primly. “Thes are delicate things, and outside of my realm of expertise. Finding the right people to follow them is the key.”

I am in the midst of offering my and my House’s help in any way we may, when the door of the receiving room opens, admitting my father and my dearest one, both. I leap to my feet, surprised greetings falling by rote from my lips as my eyes flit from one to the other, taking in their looks, desperate for any clues as to what they might have erstwhile been discussing.

“I happened to cross paths with our ward after my business had concluded at House Haillenarte,” my father says, his voice as smooth and easy as anything. “Given Lord Haurchefant had not announced his intention to accompany him, I thought we might make the most of this visit, and include a few other additions to our table besides. If you will forgive my rudeness, I must have a word with the House staff on this point.”

As he takes his leave, my love - having warmly greeted his friends - turns to me. “I would speak with you,” he says, and I know he means in private. “Though I must confer, first, with my comrades.”

“Of course, my dearest - my friends,” I say, bowing to the others. “Pray, know that you need not my word nor permission to make yourselves at home.”

I take my leave, and return upstairs to my room of old - now shared, whensoever he may need it, with my love. I find myself wondering again - doubting again - whether it is a selfish thing I have asked of him. What right have I to lay claim to him, to promise a legacy that is only barely extended to myself? He worried that I pined for him, that to be his when he is often away must diminish my life somehow. Will my proposal today allay his fears, or compound them?

I doff my armour, and call for a washbasin to refresh myself as I prepare to don the garments of a softer life, the life of those whose names bear the lineage of this great House. I am just preparing to take my place by the fire when he enters, knocking quietly to announce himself as he does.

“Dearest.” I turn and hold out my hand, and he comes to me, taking it in his, and pressing it to his lips.

“My love.” He regards me with a cautious eye. “I knew all was not well; from your words, from the looks and quiet worries of your garrison. But here…” He slides in against me, and I put my arm around him; my other hand he squeezes. “It is different here.”

“You have the right of it, my dearest. And you will have seen it from those who feel the threat most keenly. Those in service to Ser Aymeric, and those who call the Foundation home.”

“Mmm.” He is quiet some moments. “I see, now, why you thought to wait, to ask me.”

“And resoundingly failed to do so - and so please, if you are compelled by these circumstances to put off my proposal, or simply decline my offer -”

“No,” he says, quickly. “These things deter me not. Only…” With some effort, he pulls back just a little and looks up at me. “We have discussed what we must do. And… I would offer the same to you. To wait, or decline, when I have told you our course.”

“What…? Wherefore would I do such a thing?”

He fixes me with a look, and in it there is love and desperation. “For your faith,” he says.

And so, as he paces restlessly about the room, he lays out for me their intended course: to hunt down the great wyrm Nidhogg - not to slay him, but to speak with him. To beg for his mercy. And to find him, they would stride into the very nest of the heretic scourge, and dare to parlay with the Lady Iceheart.

I must sit down with the weight of this revelation. I stumble against my ottoman, sinking down onto it, pressing my hands to my head. Heat flares out to the very tips of my fingers, even as fear coils through my heart. “No - oh no, no, my dearest, you can’t -”

“I must.” He has crossed to the window; in the dread silence, his tail swishes fitfully. “I know not what else to do.”

“Anything - everything.”

“Have you not tried everything? For one thousand years?”

“And how many who have dared so foolish a thing have lived beyond the attempt? How many have seen the great wyrm and told the tale? To say nothing of finding the heretic queen, who has given up her very flesh to serve the primals you work to slay!”

“She spoke of her regret.” His voice is soft, but clear; I would call it cold, only in comparison to the heat that burns through me. “I told you this, before. She spoke of desiring peace. If she spoke true…”

“And if she did not?”

He is silent for a long moment. “I feel that she did.”

It is my turn to own the silence of this horrid moment, to whirl with thoughts and feelings. I do not doubt his intuition, his ability to see what we - what I - cannot; the selfsame intuition that routed that damnable heretic, oh so long ago. How strange a trick, that he should speak of using that intuition to befriend the queen of all heretics.

I sit up and look across to him. With the fading light through the window behind him, his silhouette in profile shows me no details; and yet every line I know so intimately. I let out a breath, trying to ease the heat away. “All my life, with all that has been uncertain, I have known one thing: we are at war. And does not this endless war stem from our enemies’ lust for our pain and fear? There is no parley to be had if this is so.”

“There is something else.” He turns toward me just a little, but I cannot see his eyes. “There is a pain. Old, and deep. I hear it in her words. I would… listen, if she will let me.”

“And if she lies?”

“Then… I will do what I must.”

A frustrated growl builds within me - I stand and huff it out through my teeth. “And then, on to Nidhogg? You will face him, as you did Midgardsormr? With but a silver-tongued boy at your side, and a sliver of your light?”

He turns sharply, ears flat. “You doubt me.” Oh, the hurt in those words pierces my heart.

“I don’t - I can’t -” I cross to him, and grab his arms. “He is fire and hate incarnate! I have lived every day of my life fearing that he might someday take all that is dear from me.” Now I can see his eyes, the quiet fear within them. Not for his course, or his damnable fate, but for this - this fear of mine, this rage, this agony of my faith. It strikes me, his fear - like a bolt of lightning on the path, for one brief moment showing the way... and all becomes clear.

“I must,” he says again; it is a plea. “If we might end this, if I might spare your people more bloodshed, I must face him. To speak, or to fight.”

“Then take me with you.”

His eyes go wide - his ears perk. “My love…”

I go down on one knee before him, still holding his arms. “My light. If you would give yourself so wholly to this, I will not be left behind. I will not watch you walk into the valley of death alone.”

For a moment he stares down at me, mouth agape. “I - I cannot ask this of you. To leave your post…”

“I cannot let you do this alone.” My hands are shaking; I squeeze harder. “By Halone’s name, I will not.”

He sinks down against me and kisses me, again and again, like every kiss is air gasped against brackish waves - I kiss him, and press him against me as the waves of fear and love and fury wash over me, beating against my soul. He is shaking now, and as he curls up against my chest I wrap my arms around him. I thought I could imagine how heavy were the weights upon him, but this… one thousand years of pain and agony, and he would stand alone against it all?

It is a long moment before he returns to himself, and me to mine own self as well. I stroke his hair as he presses his cheek to my chest. At long last, he says: “I do not go alone.”

“The boy has a stout heart,” I say, struggling to keep my voice even. “But he is hardly -”

“I speak not of Alphinaud.” He pulls away just a little and looks upon me. “I speak of the Azure Dragoon.”

My mind labours to take this in. “Estinien? He… supports this endeavor?”

He nods. “I think he expects not that we will speak. That we shall be forced to lay Nidhogg low.”

I feel the heat slowly ebb away, replaced with a familiar feeling; of course he would choose a hero of great renown to accompany him. A man who has spent every moment training to slay the great wyrm, who weilds the power passed down and honed for that very purpose. I find I feel relief even as I feel, again, that quiet longing; but the boy who craved a hero’s glory did not yet have a post, and its people to serve and protect.

I am not a hero. But with a quiet breath in, I remember my place - my new fantasy.

I kiss him, softly, and say his name with love. “My light. If these plans had come from any other, I would scarce believe them possible. But from you… oh, my very dearest. I give myself over to hope.”

His ears quiver slightly; I feel that the tension hasn’t wholly left him. “I… will understand, if you would not write your name, next to one who would parley with heretics, and dragons.”

I sit with this for a moment. “A knight of some renown once told me that it is important to know the difference between words, deeds, and beliefs. Your deeds have ever guided me toward the truth; my beliefs compel me to trust in he whom the Fury would have me follow, a man of strength and justice.” I kiss him again, with fierceness; with joy I feel him relax against me as he intuits my words ere I can utter them. “My proposal stands, if you will have me. Regardless of all else, be it distance or duty, I am yours.”

He rests his forehead against mine. His voice is a low rumble as he says: “I would marry you, but please - I would hear your words. What this means, in law, and in your heart.”

“In my heart… I am easy.” I move back a little, that I might see his face. “I expect nothing more than what we have made together already: that you should take your rest and comfort with me, whensoever you are able. I make no further claims to your fidelity - though should you share intimacy with another, I would like to be made aware.”

“I would not ask more of you, either. Only… your fire,” he says, gripping my arms as he hisses the word, and I know precisely what he means. “This, I desire for myself.”

I seal this promise with a kiss, and draw him in close again, squeezing him until he sighs.

At length he pulls back to study my face. “So it is for the sake of law, that you would be wed?”

“Not law, so much as…” I find it difficult to meet his eyes, now that I must explain myself. “We have spoken about our feelings on history, on lineage. I know that you have made your peace with your missing past, but… to think that there will be those, perhaps only one generation hence, who hear tales of the Warrior of Light, your great deeds and victories… but who may not know your name. You do not deserve to pass into myth and become no longer a man.”

He regards me for a long moment. So quietly, he says: “You fear that I should perish.”

“Yes.” The word falls from my lips ere I can think. “Yes. I fear this.” I let out a tight breath. “I… know that I cannot go with you. That I would be more a hindrance than a help, simple knight that I am, in the face of so great a foe. And so I will be here for you, praying for your safety. And making a home for you, one so warm and welcome that the mere remembrance of it will give you the strength to overcome all that lies in your path.”

He reaches up and touches my face, so softly. “I would have you at my side,” he says. “But I know your duty.” He stretches up and kisses me, so sweetly. “I worry on you as well, my love. I know your foes. How early might come the call, to join Halone.” He kisses me again, even slower, as though by his will alone time might be bound, and afford us an eternity of this quiet bliss. When he pulls back, his eyes are bright, shining fiercely. “Make me yours. Write my name beside your own.” He grabs my upper arms again, squeezing firmly. “Be my husband.”

“Yes - yes.” I pull him against me, blinking back the tears that threaten at last to spill forth. “Tell me only when, my dearest, and it shall be arranged.”

He draws back and looks at me a moment; I see in his eyes that he weighs many things one against the other: the fate of his friends, the fear of the unknown. “Now,” he says, at last. “Before we go, to the Western Highlands, in some few days. I would not part with you again, until you might farewell me as your spouse.”

“It will be done,” I say, my breath leaving me in a sigh of relief, even as anticipation coils to life in my belly. “If it is well with you… we shall be wed in the hall at Camp Dragonhead, with my garrison in attendance.”

“Yes,” he says, and there is relief in his voice as well. He smiles at me, and I see tears brimming. “I would marry you at home.”

My father seems not at all surprised by the look of pleased anticipation on my face when we descend, arm in arm, and join my family and friends for supper. My dearest one seems to have told him to expect an announcement, and so he invited Francel to join us, and a few other friends besides. Oh, how grateful I am, to look on my dear friend’s face this day.

Before we take our seats, I call for the attention of those present, looking to my father for his permission to speak.

“Yes, my son?”

“Thank you, my Lord. My friends… my family. I am so, so gladdened by your presence today. It is a difficult time for all, harrowing and uncertain in equal measure. But in the face of it, we must find reasons to hope, reasons to think of brighter days on the morrow. Reasons to smile in spite of invited sorrow. It is for this reason that I am overjoyed to share with you this news: my dearest one and I shall be wed, three days hence, in the hall at Camp Dragonhead.”

There are murmurs, and gasps, and a quiet “bugger me!” from Emmanellain, and then my father claps his hands in applause, drawing in the rest of those present. Francel flies immediately to my side, eyes wide and brimming, congratulations spilling forth from his lips, while Tataru leaps up into my love’s arms for a spirited hug.

“Oh, you silly thing,” she says to him through tears. “You’ve left me not enough time to prepare a proper party!”

Alphinaud seems rather gobsmacked as he watches my father come and congratulate us both, drawing us all three together in a hug that takes me wholly by surprise. At last the Elezen boy approaches. “You have my heartfelt congratulations, my friends - but we are to leave for the Western highlands only the day after your nuptials. Would it not be wiser to wait until our return?”

At this, my dearest and I share a look; without taking my gaze away, I seek out his hand, and squeeze it between both of mine. A last check that we are aligned; an admission, an embrace of that gnawing fear.

“No,” he says, a little quietly. He turns his gaze at last to Alphinaud, and there is a little apology in it. “I will not wait.”

The boy pales just a little at this; perhaps this is the first time the enormity of the task ahead has been made plain to him. For if the Warrior of Light feels now the pull of romance upon the leash of fear, the task is tall indeed.

The days before our wedding are busy, only in part due to the nuptials incoming; for he has many arrangements of his own to make, in preparation for his journey, and there is no break in my duties as word of the horde tells us their numbers continue to grow. And so we are apart nearly this whole time, with my love and Alphinaud remaining in Ishgard with Tataru, who insists on arranging some few wedding details on our behalf, while I return to my post. My men and women are cheered, when I announce the ceremony and celebration to come, and their good spirits - along with my own growing anticipation - make the intervening hours pass slowly indeed.

The day before we are to be wed, I receive from my love a missive, in his own hand, accompanied by a word to indicate that it is not an urgent matter. Though it is placed into my hand at midday, I savour the anticipation of reading it until I have passed off the final watch and am taking my comfort in my foyer by the fire.

My Love,

I am writing to you at the desk in your room. Soon it will truly be ours, I suppose. Though it feels thus already. Your warmth and kindness linger here. As they do, always, in my heart.

There are some few words I wanted to share with you, before we are wed. First, that I am sorry if I made you feel that you were not worthy, to join me. If I could choose one man to come with me, it would be you. I know you long to fight at my side. I long for this as well. I hope, some day, that we shall have this pleasure again.

Second, I would share with you, now that we have talked on what our marriage will be, that I want this, so deeply. I struggle, as you know, with want. But as I sit here, alone, and think that you will soon be my husband… I am so happy. If I had known the rules of these things, I might have asked you. But I did not wish to impose upon you. So thank you, my love. For asking. For wanting me.

Our preparations are nearly complete. Soon, I will see your smiling face again, and speak the words, and write my name next to yours. And when we part, still I will be yours. Regardless of distance or duty.

I love you, my Haurchefant.

Your betrothed (for yet one day),

D’----

Fury, to read this missive makes me feel again like a boy, struck in love - I am so giddy with feeling that I find myself pacing my room, again and again, reading his words. Until this moment there was the faintest pall about my thoughts, as though these past days had been but a dream. And now, at last, it is all real, as real as the missive I now hold in my hand.

I would so happily write him a missive in return, but he will be on his way, in all likelihood, before it arrives. No, instead I write him a letter to take with him, and read at his leisure; and it will bring me peace as well, to know that he carries with him some words of mine, while I send up my prayers to the Fury for his safety.

Francel has come to join me already, and so on the appointed day he stands with me at the Western gate and watches the approach of my love, with young Alphinaud and Tataru at his side, and my father and brothers with a small retinue of servants. And then I gasp and grab Francel’s arm in surprise as I spy the Lord Commander, Ser Aymeric, with several of the city’s most heavenly order of knights, bringing up the rear.

“Did you extend to him an invitation?” Francel asks, his voice a hush of almost boyish excitement.

“I did not - I thought the time… inopportune.” Like the Azure Dragoon, he is a few years my senior; by the time I took my knighthood they were as veterans already, laying the groundwork for their rise from soldier to hero. They were kind to me, each in his own way; Aymeric through philosophy, Estinien through gruff honesty and equally gruff encouragement in turn. But I felt always that they were a station above me, heroes in waiting; never quite my friends.

My love comes to me, and permits me a brief, sweet kiss before he must go and prepare with the help of my family. At my questioning look about the encroaching Lord Commander, he simply smiles and leaves me to ask for myself.

“Lord Haurchefant,” Ser Aymeric calls, as his caravan reaches at last our Western gate, received smartly by the First Guard of the garrison. “I would thank you for your invitation, but it seems I have taken you somewhat by surprise.”

“Indeed, Lord Commander. I had not dared to expect the honour of your presence. But it seems my betrothed could not be denied.”

“No indeed,” he says; his smile seems to colour his voice with a mirthful purr. “Nor his friends. But I am afraid I cannot linger; the moment the ceremony is complete, I must hie unto the Observatorium, to discuss matters related to our winged foes.”

“Of course, Ser. I beg you to take your comfort in the hall, then. I must see to some few things ere we might begin, not the least of which…”

“You wait for your officiant?” There’s a sparkle in his eye. Surely not…

“I do indeed,” I say, labouring to keep my voice even. “Though I admit, this task I left to my dearest one, and our friends who remained until today in Ishgard.”

“So you did.” His smile puts me in the mind of a pleased coeurl; not so different from one of my love’s looks, if I am honest. “And so I have arrived.”

“Ser Aymeric!” I go to one knee, my head bowed. “I am honoured.”

“Rise, Lord Haurchefant,” he says with a chuckle in his voice. “It brings me joy to do this; for men who have given so much in the service of Ishgard and its people.” He meets my eye as I stand again. “For friends.”

And so we are wed.

The hall at Camp Dragonhead, to my surprise and joy, strains to hold all those who would bear witness to our union; Whitebrim and Skyfire Locks must be near empty for all those who turned up at the great crossing this day. The service is short, as are all marriage services under the auspices of soldiery; in truth it took longer for me to don the armour of pomp and ceremony, gleaming plate mail in the colours of my house.

By comparison, my love’s look is understated: a short Maelstrom coat with tails, a fine shirt left dashingly open, thigh high sollerets with trim of shining silver. But better than all was the look he wore, when he entered, and laid his eyes upon me. I saw him draw in a breath - oh, I pray that my every feeling was plain upon my face in that moment. That he enjoyed my look of love, as I did his.

I barely remember the words we spoke, but the exchange of flowers will hang clear in my mind for many moons: I pinned my corsage to his lapel, and then I bowed my head to receive his, carefully pinned in my hair. And then Ser Aymeric spoke the final words, and my dearest one stretched up to meet my lips with his, and made himself my husband.

My husband.

Glad am I to have him on my arm as we accept our raucous congratulations, for I feel so light, so giddy, I might simply float away. I wish only that I could better feel him; plate mail is thrice the hindrance of my usual chainmail in this regard. But I am grounded by his presence, and by the smoky, comforting cadence of his voice beneath the din.

Ser Aymeric spoke true when he said he must be off straightaway; we labour to separate ourselves from our well-wishers for a moment to step outside and bid him a proper farewell.

“Would that I could stay, and enjoy your hospitality,” he says, with good humour tinged with genuine regret. “It will be quite the celebration, I am sure.”

My dearest one - my husband - favours him with a grateful smile. “You may take heart, at least, to know that you began it.”

“You began it,” he counters with a smile. “And I daresay you deserve it, my friends. I wish you the utmost happiness.” He turns to my love, his look sobering quietly. “And may the Fury watch over you, in your travels to come.”

He takes his leave, with his retinue, as the sun edges ever closer to the horizon, piercing for the first time today through the clouds to the West. We seem to be of a mind, my new husband and I, to enjoy the silence of the yards together for just a moment.

“It feels… different,” he says.

I cannot help but laugh. “It does.”

For a moment he stands in silence next to me - and then in an instant he whirls, plants his hands on my shoulders, and leaps up, legs wrapped ‘round my waist, and he kisses me, like that first goodbye when he came to me all those many moons ago. I kiss him and feel everything - joy, desperation, duty, sorrow, love. Fear and relief and known and unknown, all brought to heel as we take this moment, grasp it together, and make it ours - ours at last.

The door of the hall clamours open, and then - after a gasp and a little laugh - Emmanellain whistles to get our attention, his words lilting mirthfully: “Well well, look who snuck out for a little snog!” My love hops down and again takes my arm while Emmanellain waves us in. “Come on, love birds - Father wants to see you.”

My father waits for us, at the back of the hall, with a mildly chiding look. “I had hoped I might be given some priority,” he says, with equal parts hurt and humour in his voice.

My love bows his head. “I am sorry, my Lord. Only for the Lord Commander’s haste, was he permitted to skip the queue.”

“I shall be generous in my forgiveness,” he says. “And on that point…” He turns and raises a hand, and a steward steps forward, holding forth an object draped in fine linen to obscure it. It is thin, but tall and wide as a man’s torso, and I think I might know what it is. “Though, like my son, you bear not our family name, you are now a part of our High House. Your deeds in service of Ishgard stand you in impeccable stead, besides; never once have you hesitated to raise your shield in defense of our people, no matter how long it took for you to receive the recognition that you deserve. And so on this, your wedding day, I present to you a gift.”

The steward draws the cloth away, and reveals a gleaming shield, finely crafted; and on it, to match my own, the sigil of my House - our House.

“My Lord…” Clearly he was not expecting this. He reaches out to take it, but hesitates. “May I don it now?”

“If it will not interfere with your celebrations, you certainly may; though perhaps, now that we are family, we might address one another informally?” He puts his hand on my husband’s shoulder. “Call me Edmont, if you would.”

My love turns to him and bows. “Thank you, Edmont.”

“You are most welcome, D’----; and may the Fury bless you with Her strength.” He reaches out and cups my dearest one’s face in his hands, and with deliberate care, bends and kisses his forehead. “You are welcome.”

There are tears in my eyes when my father turns at last to me. As he had for my love, he reaches out, and takes my face in his hands; I bow my head, and he presses his lips to my forehead, and when I right myself my tears have spilled. “Father…”

“I wish you every happiness,” he says, his voice a little thick.

I can only nod my head, as my husband once again takes my arm; for the first time in a long, long while, I truly have no words.

We make merry for a few bells, long enough to see that the watch is changed, so that others among my men and women might partake. Together we two take care to speak with every attendant guest, be they knight, or friend, or family, and thank them for their presence. Gifts were advised against, but nevertheless we heap thanks upon Alphinaud for securing some missives from far-flung friends of my dearest one, notable personages indeed among the city states of Eorzea who lamented that they could not attend; and upon Tataru, for securing our officiant, and - by a means I cannot devise - for securing several barrels of Dannifen’s Joy, that we might share this sweet luxury with our honoured guests.

But it is the silence that follows these celebrations that I crave most keenly; at last we say goodnight for the final time, and together mount the stairs to our rooms. With the door closed behind us, it is when his hand quietly slips into mine that I at last feel truly at ease.

“It’s done,” I say, and I turn to him; I cannot move another ilm before I speak the simple words I’ve spoken to him in my head, again and again, all through these past few days: “I love you.”

He draws in a little breath - surprised, I think, by the simple power of those words. He reaches up, and touches my face, cups it so gently in his calloused hand. “My heart,” he says, his voice rough. “My husband.”

Oh, Halone. I will never be a hero. But to be his heart, his husband… I shall never want for reasons to smile.