Archive of Our Own

It is said that a hound may be made to salivate, if he is brought his supper to the tone of a bell; that selfsame ringing bringing to mind the anticipated feast to come. Oh, I now know this to be true, for when the great Aetherite at Camp Dragonhead spins to life, my heart ever leaps, and the hunger stirs within me - the hunger to kiss my husband’s smiling mouth and bid him welcome home.

Before we were wed, he rarely could find the time to slip away and join me thus. But now, it seems, our nuptials have emboldened him (at last!) to think of his own comfort, in sleep if nothing else; or perhaps it is his desire for my happiness that spurs his return. In truth, I care not which, so long as that great crystal spins and delivers to me the Warrior of Light, that for some few hours he might strip away this onerous title, and be only my husband.

The first night he returned, some one or two weeks after our marriage, I did not hear the Aetherite, for I awoke to my foyer door opening quietly. Only the vigilance of my training roused me, for he was quiet as anything - but after a moment of disorientation I heard the familiar sound of his sollerets being unbuckled, and knew it was him. I leapt from the bed and came to the door in an instant, wearing only my breeches, catching him nearly by surprise as he bent over his solleret, looking up at me with his rounded pupils in the dark.

“Dearest!” I cross to him and catch his lips with mine as he straightens; I gather him up in my arms, kissing him, again and again, squeezing him until he sighs.

“My love,” he says, against my lips, meeting every one of my frantic kisses eagerly. At last he takes my face in his hands and pulls back to look at me, smiling. “I wanted not to rouse you.”

“You would sneak into our bed and use me for my warmth, without a proper greeting?” I shake my head, restrained though it is in his embrace, still. “Oh, so cruel a husband do I have.”

Now he kisses me, deep and fierce. “Your husband would have kissed you to wake you, when properly undressed.” He looks up at me a moment, catching his breath. “I must leave at first light,” he says, matter-of-factly, though I spy a hint of regret in his eyes.

“Then every moment is precious.” I sink to my knees and resume the work of removing his sollerets. “Let us get you properly undressed, and I will have all of your news.”

He allows me the pleasure of this small service, as he starts to provide me with what updates he may, idly running his fingers through my hair until I have finished my work; he exchanges words for soft kisses as I stand and unbutton his shirt (though there are only one or two buttons fastened, eager as he always is to display his chest to the world.)

He is weary, I can tell, though he fights his impulse to sleep in favour of drawing me to one of the chairs near the cold fireplace, and slips into my lap. “We returned to Falcon’s Nest to provision,” he says, sighing as he settles in against my chest. “But we make for Tailfeather in the morning.”

“Tailfeather!” I shake my head in wonderment. “I have heard of it, of course - many of the chocobos used in our expansion efforts come from this stock.”

“She has friends among the settlement,” he says; a frisson passes through me, due to the ‘she’ upon whom he speaks: the Lady Iceheart. Though my feelings are complex and volatile (with repugnance chief among them), I admit that my curiosity is keen.

“I find it difficult to imagine that she will truly be of aid to you, but having spoken with her… who is she?”

He sits with this a moment, while I return his earlier favour and stroke his hair. “A woman, who hails from Falcon’s Nest; all but her, were lost in an avalanche, after the calamity.” His ear twitches in thought. “It is… early yet. I will not trust her easily. But she has listened, to us. Accepted responsibility for her choices. Even Estinien allows that she may be of help.”

“You speak of him familiarly,” I say, perhaps a little eager to change the subject. “I suppose I should not be surprised.”

He tilts his head. “He is… of a higher station, as Azure Dragoon, than a Lord?”

“Not… exactly. They are difficult to compare, of course. He and the Dragoons are directly in service to the Lord Commander, though he acts on his own authority, or so it seems. He has made quite a name for himself, besides. He is thought of, here in Coerthas, much as you are in the rest of Eorzea, I should think. I wonder if your work here has given him some cause for jealousy, though it seems his purpose is of more import to him than renown.”

“He cares none for renown,” says my dearest one, with a measure of relief, and mutual understanding. “Though I have heard him spoken of, in these tones of reverence, here. Though… there is also fear.”

“Little is known, broadly, of the source of his intuition, the Eye. It seems a ghastly thing, nearly… heretical.” Dangerous words, perhaps; but I know it is safe to share these thoughts with him.

“Mmm.” He looks up at me thoughtfully. “He seems near your age, though I have seen little of his face. Did you train with him?”

“Some. He is a few years my senior, and had already made quite broad steps toward his calling, when I earned my knighthood.”

He mulls this over for a few moments. “Did you ever aspire to be the Azure Dragoon?”

“No, but… I did dream of similar things, as a boy. The ring I gave you, which would have gone to my mother… I told you once how I wished it were a sacred talisman that would reveal me to be a hero, like the stories of old. A little something of that childish hope persisted into my time training as a knight. But I quickly found that my skills were more… ordinary.”

“You are not ordinary.”

I sigh, with a little smile. “I shan’t argue with you, my dearest. You haven’t the time.”

He shifts to face me, and takes my face in his hands. “And because I am right.” He kisses me perfunctorily, then slips again into his lounging posture. “I would have your news, my love, before sleep claims us both.”

I tell him what I may, of the recent skirmishes - missions of reconnaissance by the Dravanians in all likelihood - and the hoarding and rationing of supplies that have come into effect. “Trade is drying up, for all but the stuff of war. I like these merchants ill, if I am honest - though I would say no such thing to their faces.”

He chuckles, and I feel it as much as hear it, curled up as he is against me. “Emmanellain laments his parties, then?”

I laugh softly. “Oh, most keenly.” 

I turn to personal news for a time, speaking of my father and elder brother, while he shifts again and stretches, listening with keen ears and gazing up at me with increasingly tired eyes.

“I am glad I came,” he says, a yawn stealing his breath away before he leans in to kiss me. “It is good to be home.”

I scoop him up in my arms and stand. “Let us to bed, my dearest. You must have some strength for tomorrow’s journey.”

We are both asleep before long, and wake together all too early. Despite his insistence, I rise with him, and see him off at the Aetherite with a kiss so sweet he will surely taste it for days to come.

He joins me next upon reaching Tailfeather, for there is an Aetherite there used by the hunters; he has heard more, it seems, from the Lady Iceheart, and so he bids me to take my final repast of the day with him privately.

Having enjoyed some moments of quiet together as we settle in at our little table, he is reaching for the bread when he asks, cool as anything: “What… makes one a heretic?”

All at once, a hundred teachings from my youth spring forth in my mind, talk of godliness so loud that one might not hear the contempt that is whispered beneath it. It is some moments ere I summon forth my own thoughts. “You might ask one,” I say, keeping my voice even with some effort. “Or you might ask my countrymen - though were you to ask a hundred men, you may receive a hundred answers.”

“I have asked you. I care not for the answers of others.”

“To me… a heretic is a man, or woman, who has chosen to pay the wages of this war with their own countrymen as currency. To offer up their blood, their brethren's blood, to prolong this fight, rather than end it.”

He takes this in quietly as we consume our repast. “You think, then, that if the heretics returned to Ishgard, and fought instead against the Dravanians…”

“I could not say that it would be enough to turn the tide. But surely, without the fear of those who might walk secretly among us, and pass to the enemy our intended movements… if families were not broken apart by accusations of heresy, true or no -”

“Or no?”

I sigh. “Though the sins of false accusations are ours to bear, such things would have no chance to occur if there were no heretics to begin with. But… I have not forgotten the heretic ‘inquisitor’ that you routed, when first you came here.” I toss my napkin down, my appetite suddenly leaving me.

He reaches across the table and lays his hand over mine. “I am sorry, Haurchefant. I meant not to… draw you back, again, to that time.”

“Why do you ask me of heretics? What answer do you crave?”

He looks down at my hand, squeezing it. “Ysayle - Lady Iceheart - is… as I am. Possessed of the Echo. She has spoken of a vision, of ages past. Things… not remembered, by those of Coerthas today.”

I pull in a breath at the utterance of her name. All this time she has been a specter to me. But now, named so, she is… a woman, in my mind. Elezen.

“Estinien believes her not,” he goes on; with a parting squeeze of my hand, he stands, and begins pacing my foyer, tail swishing. “I asked you about heretics, for I wonder at their means, their methods. Some have seemed, to me, unstable. Not right of mind. These may be dismissed easily. But others…”

“Madness does not always appear as such.”

“I am cautious.” He turns to me on the word, across the room. “I listen, but I do not act. Not until…” He sighs. “Until I see.”

“And if you do not?” I rise, and slowly cross toward him. “You have said this ‘Echo’ is fickle. If you do not see your truth…”

“Then I must weigh the words of a heretic.” He holds out his hands, and I take them in mine. “And I would ask one I trust, for his opinion.”

“I… cannot be impartial,” I say, frustration lacing my words.

He smiles, a little sadly. “That is my burden, my love.”

I regard him. “You have not yet shared with me, this story of hers. From her vision.”

For only an instant, I think him like to draw away from me - but it is nothing more than a flash in his eyes. As if to counter this, he squeezes my hands firmly. “I would not hide it,” he says. “If you will have it now, I will tell it. But…”

“You do not know her yet.”

I see his shoulders sag ever so slightly with relief. “Tailfeather… is important to her, it seems. I will learn more of her, while we provision. Which is why I must…”

I lean in and kiss him. “Leave at first light?”

“Before.” His ears droop. “She retired early, this night, and so may be awake all the earlier.”

Again I kiss him, and again; our repast forgotten, with the scant hours ahead of us, I pull back at last. “We had best go to bed early, then - once you have satisfied your appetite.”

His fingers dig into my shirt. “Oh, I hunger,” he says, and I know he does not mean for victuals.

When I asked the Champion of Eorzea for his hand in marriage, I knew it would bring with it challenges, not only between we two as men, but between the different parts of myself. My learnings, my upbringing, full of disparate voices whose chorus sings one hymn: a song of endless conflict, of an enemy that flies in the face of the love and strength of Halone. This is the song of my first self, my younger self; the self of duty. 

And yet, since I have taken up my post here, and come to see the men and women who serve our House as friends, and family; and since I have met the many souls who pass through the crossing, from different places, who love and laugh and make a place for themselves in this world, I find that I am yet another man, whose heart sings out a plea - for comfort and happiness for all. Yes, even our enemy, were such a thing possible.

These halves of me have long seemed at odds; but now that I have married the man who would walk into the heart of enemy lands, with the Azure Dragoon at one shoulder, and the Heretic Queen at the other… What choice do I have, but to follow?

And still, as I go about my work, my thoughts whirl, pulled every which way by my two selves. What can she have seen, this woman, whose name is Ysayle; who lost her family and her village when the ice and snow came to Falcon’s Nest? Surely her thoughts are clouded with grief, and could this not have led to whatever vision she has claimed? As my love had said, ‘twould be easy to dismiss her claims if it was known that she is mad, and grief will surely do this.

But the man at my love’s other shoulder, too, has the grief of a family and a village lost. Might madness be justified, excused for some, and not for others?

As my thoughts tumble, I resolve to wait until my love feels certain that the story is fit to tell, for he considers such things with discernment and care. I will trust in him, and the Light within, which - though it may be aught more than the look of my love upon him - seems a little returned in him, as his journey has again given him cause to move.

It is when he comes to me next that he says the words I have been dreading, ever since that wretched day, so long ago, when six knights were needed to bar my passage to his side: a new Primal is risen, and he must put it to the sword.

I am taking a turn about the watchtowers when he arrives, and so he joins me on my rounds, sharing a friendly word or two with my men and women as we pass them, and sharing quiet details of his journey into the Dravanian forelands in between. With eager ears I listen to stories of the insect-like beastmen they have befriended, and the strange hive-like nature of their erstwhile brethren.

“The scale of the world outside our borders never ceases to astound me,” I say, as we at last make our way back to our rooms, the watch having been passed off perhaps half a bell early due to the arrival of my oft-absent husband.

“Have you ever travelled, outside of Coerthas?” He closes the door behind him, as I move to the fire, kneeling and tending to it, so that we might briefly sit together in its comforting glow. “You spoke of… holidays, in summer,” he goes on. “With your family. But…”

“They were within our borders, though the waters of those lovely lakes have long since frozen over.” I stand, and turn into his waiting embrace. “Some few times, as a young knight, we ventured slightly into the Black Shroud, to quell the threat of the Ixal, but other than that…”

“I wish I might bring you with me.” He looks up at me so softly, his hands squeezing my upper arms through my armour. “Ever have I found comfort, in travel. To have you at my side…”

“I would join you with no hesitation, were my duty no longer to bind me to my post.” I bend and kiss him, with a gentleness that seems to catch his breath. I regard him quietly. “You will return to me, when the deed is done? When the Primal is slain?”

He nods, ears perked sharp. “I fight, with the strength of your love. Always.”

“And that of your friends, I hope; I shall expect nothing less of them, if you consider them such.”

“We shall see.” He steps back a little and then kneels, to work upon removing my sabatons. “To fight a Primal, with another who has the Echo…”

I set to work doffing my chest piece, a tight little sigh escaping my lips. “My dearest, are you certain that she can be trusted?”

He mulls on this for a long moment. “If she would betray me, I have bested her, before.” He casts one of my sollerets aside, moving to the other. “I will be cautious. But I think her lust for peace is true.”

I wonder if he is ready yet to share the story she has told, her vision from the great wyrm’s past; but he is silent as he finishes his work, and as we don the garments of comfort together.

“Why does it still feel different?” I ask, as he sits with me upon the rug before our fire, laying his head in my lap. “All of this is just as it was before we were married, and yet…”

“We are yet newly wed,” he purrs, his eyes closed as I run my fingers through his hair. After a moment, he opens his eyes, his brow furrowing. “Would you… take a honeymoon with me, if time allowed?”

I cannot help but laugh. “My dearest! Do you think I would be content at your side only if my sword was at hand? I should love to spend some days of peace with you. Though I need not say that such a concept is but a dream at present.” He knows, better than I, how tenuous is each day of seeming peace, as we live in the shadow of the amassing horde. “Where would you take me, on this imagined course of ours?”

For a moment his expression seems clouded; then it clears, and he grunts. “It is for you to decide, for I have no preference.” He smirks. “Unless you confess, now, that you have listened not to my tales.”

I laugh again, and pinch his smirking cheek. “Slander! My dear, sweet husband, you know full well that I hang upon your every word. ‘Tis for this reason that I cannot be asked to choose, for your stories have shown me the wonder of so many places. I should not be satisfied until I had seen every last one.”

“A grand honeymoon,” he breathes, eyes closing again. “But were I to choose… I would bring you to Costa del Sol. The warm water, the soft sand…”

A deep sigh escapes me. “That sounds wonderful, my dearest.” I caress his ear, and let my own eyes slip closed. “Tell me more. Take me there.”

In his thoughtful, quiet way, he paints for me a picture of this imagined honeymoon; when he has finished, I take him to our room, and see to his every whim and pleasure, at my insistence. And though our time together is short, it is rich with touch, and laughter, and love, all to shore him up against the foe we speak not of.

When he goes in the morning, he asks that I stay abed, and there accept his kiss goodbye, in reminiscence of the early days of our time together. As he kneels by the bed, his lips linger upon mine, and for the briefest moment I feel a flash of fear, and I fight the urge to draw him into bed again and beg him to stay.

Instead, I reach up and cup his face, and tell him how deeply I love him; and after he goes, as I lie in the darkness, waiting to hear the great Aetherite spirit him away, I whisper prayer after prayer to the Fury to keep him safe in my stead.

Though I would rather learn of his victory from his very lips, I am heartened when word comes, some few days hence - and neither is it second hand. Instead, it arrives in the form of a missive in my husband’s own simple, steady hand, by messenger via Aetherite from Tailfeather.

Haurchefant,

I am well. The Primal is no more. We go to scale the great mountain, Sohm Al, and I know not when I may return. My friends fight hard, each in his or her own way. I think, when next I see you, I will be ready. To tell you the story I have promised.

I pray all is well with you. I love you.

D’----

My dear Francel pays me a visit, a fortnight after this missive comes, and - hungry as he ever is for news - I bid him follow me as I make haste to the Intercessory where we might peruse it together in relative privacy. “A wordy writer he is not,” I say, with a grin, as I hand the single, small page to Francel for him to read. “That he took the time himself, however, is quite precious.”

He frowns a little. “What is this story he would tell you?”

“A mystery, as yet.” I sit back in my chair, stretching my legs out. “Some truth, or so it seems, about the history of our war.”

“Oh.” His look darkens; like many of Ishgard, he still keenly feels the loss of someone dear to him. “I cannot think how anything about this conflict could be left unsaid; with a thousand years of histories, and sermons, and songs, what could be left to add?”

I shake my head. “I have elected not to think on it. He will tell me what he has learned, and what he has seen; and no matter what it is, I have my post and my duty. As do you.” After a moment, a memory comes to me, somewhat unbidden, and I laugh. “Do you know, he asked me if I would go on honeymoon with him?”

“Truly? Will you go?”

“It was a hypothetical question only; I would find it difficult to make such arrangements in the best of times. And we are not in the best of times.”

He tilts his head, the feather on his hat swaying slightly as he does; I am immediately put in a mind of how he used to do this as a boy, always coming to me with questions - things he was told not to bother others with, most like. “What is it like, being married?”

For a moment I struggle to put words to it - for what has changed, in truth? “It is… a reification of our love. Something that lives within me, but that yet reaches out to another. Like a prayer. It feels as though I might follow the cord of my love, and find him at the other end - no matter how far away he may be. Perhaps if I tugged it just right, he might be drawn back to me on a whim.”

Francel smiles quietly while I speak. “I am so happy that you have found him. He seems…” His smile dims only slightly. “Perfect.”

“He is not perfect,” I say, with a grin, snatching back the letter. “He is not easy with his emotions, and prone to bouts of melancholy, or impotent rage. And he thinks so little of his own needs - even now! - that he oft forgets to eat when not in my company.”

“Well, would he make time for this honeymoon, if you would?”

“Oh, but I cannot.”

Francel turns a little smile on me. “Not this moment, perhaps. But… this war is not on your shoulders alone, Haurchefant. It will not be won or lost by your absence.”

“But what of his absence?”

“You have said he travels by Aetherite, yes?”

“Well, yes, but -”

“So might you not honeymoon near an Aetherite?”

I shake my head. “It is… not so easy.” I let out a breath and stand, feeling the need to move; I clasp my hands behind my back and pace a little. “He has returned some three times, since we were wed. Each time he leaves earlier than the last, worried about being seen to shirk his duties, to be thought not wholly dedicated to his calling. Even if I might be permitted some leave in the shadow of this impending siege, the demands upon him are too much.”

Francel regards me quietly for a moment. “You don’t feel like you can ask him, do you?”

“I…” Oh, he has seen straight through me. “You are right, of course. I don’t. Though I am not certain if it is because I worry that he will say no, or that I will feel awful for having made him deny me.” I put my hands on the table and lean on it, hanging my head a moment, taking in a breath. “But you are right. I could… ask.” 

A knock at the door of the Intercessory makes us both start - I snap to attention, and call for them to enter. The page does, and bows. “A missive for you, my Lord, from the Warrior of Light.”

I share a glance with Francel, and in but a moment I have crossed the room and taken it in hand, thanking the page absently but profusely as I quickly break the seal. After reading it, and deeming it safe to share, I hand it to Francel. 

My love,

Much has happened. I am sorry, that I have not sent word, for some time. I will have new tales of travel to share with you. And it shall be soon, that I see you. Though we travelled some way by Aetherite, we must now escort the Elder Seedseer by land, from Gridania, all the way across Coerthas. She, and her people, will stay one night in Camp Dragonhead, as we make our way. I hope it is well, that I have offered our hospitality.

To see your smiling face again brings me joy to think about.

Take care, my Haurchefant.

D’----

“The Elder Seedseer?” Francel says, mouth slightly agape as he quickly reads the missive once again to see that he has read correctly. “I thought the Padjal were bound to the forest!”

“Perhaps only so much as I am bound here,” I say, though my heart is lighter than it was mere moments ago, and I am not of a mood for self-pity. “To think, he is now in the Black Shroud, and should return soon! Will you stay, my friend? He would be overjoyed to see you again.”

“I cannot,” Francel says with regret, as he hands me back the missive. “Father has called us home to Ishgard. But… please tell D’---- that I shall pray for his success.”

“With gladness, my friend.” I glance down at the page, where his simple script brings to mind that special cadence of his, the shape of his words. How lovely to hear them again, as always; even with the lurking truth from history that they are bound, at last, to share.

Ah, how strange and wonderful it is, to welcome such a guest as the Elder Seedseer and her retinue in this time of waiting for war! I daresay my people are heartened to hear that these outsiders will be briefly gracing our halls - a far cry from the typical grumbling and hand-wringing about foreign influence. Perhaps this is at least partly due to an occasion, so few and far between of late, to feast and make merry for some few short hours; and so when our scouts bring word that the party approaches, I go to greet them at the Southern gate with a spring in my step.

At last the procession is in sight, and at the head the Wood Wailers and Elder Seedseer herself. About her, flitting through the air, I see something I did not expect: a white, furry beast, winged, with a red pom swaying above its head.

“Is that… a moogle?” asks one of my guardswomen; behind me, I hear the murmurs of other lookers-on.

“So it would seem,” I reply, though my attention will not long be drawn away from my primary task: spotting my husband. At last, I see him, bringing up the rear with Alphinaud, listening to him with one ear while the other pivots, alert for sounds of danger. His eyes, of course, have locked on me, and I permit myself a broad wave of greeting.

As they arrive, I bow deeply, and my men and women follow my example. “Elder Seedseer! What an honour it is to have you grace our halls, be it ever so briefly. On behalf of House Fortemps, I bid you welcome to Camp Dragonhead.”

She bows her head, affording me a view of the horns atop it - so different are they, from those of the Au Ra folk such as Lady Yugiri; and yet, much the same, they detract not from her youthful beauty. “I thank you, Lord Haurchefant, for your hospitality. The Warrior of Light assured us that we might expect a warm welcome, despite the cold.” (And despite my peoples’ known churlishness, no doubt.)

“Indeed! Come, come, a feast of welcome awaits, in the hall where the fire is proper roaring.”

Smooth as anything, my love has already slipped his arm around mine and fitted himself against me; with a grateful look down at him, I resume my duties of hosting, relishing every moment even as I count the heartbeats that separate me from my time alone with him. 

Though the Wood Wailers are at first a little standoffish, it is not terribly long ere they find their comfort in my hall, among my men and women; for their own part, gawking at the newcomers has been minimal, even when the moogle sees fit to whirl around, bouncing in the air as though suspended upon a string, his cries of “Kupo!” ringing strangely from the stone walls.

“It is our moogle friend who is much at the center of our current endeavour,” Alphinaud says to me, catching me in a rare moment of losing myself to wonder. “Though the Elder Seedseer’s assistance will no doubt be just as vital to our efforts. I find it quite remarkable that she has agreed to traverse such a distance - but such is the goodwill felt toward the Warrior of Light.”

From Alphinaud I learn a little more of their current work, and the connection with another society of moogles that they hope to foster in order to learn more of this strange, ancient land. Across the room, my husband - embroiled in conversation with old friends and new - catches my eye, smiling to see me conversing with his fellow Scion (and thinking, perhaps, that I have been trapped; I watch as he begins to extract himself, in readiness to join me again.)

“... and in remarkably sound condition, considering its age,” Alphinaud goes on as I return to myself, having lost some few sentences during my reverie. “But I suppose a thousand years is not so long, for a being that is - for all intents and purposes - immortal. And with none but they to occupy the land, it is no wonder that relics should remain from the time when man and dragon lived in harmony.”

I feel my blood run cold with shock. “From the time when… what?”

His eyes go wide. “Ah, well - you see…” He clears his throat. “I am sorry, Lord Haurchefant - it seems my time away has made me forget myself. I will be more careful speaking on this openly in Coerthas.” He looks across to my husband, who is now moving toward us through the crowded hall. “Has he not spoken of this?”

“He had not, as yet - though I think it was his intent to do so, on this particular visit.” I clap Alphinaud on the shoulder. “Worry not, my friend.”

He nods, though I can see chagrin upon his face, as my love at last reaches us and takes my arm. 

“My friend,” he says to Alphinaud. “Is all well?”

“Yes, of course,” Alphinaud replies, a little too quickly. “Pray, excuse me - I have some thoughts about the next leg of our journey. I would bring them to the Elder Seedseer for her consideration.” With this, he bows (unnecessarily) and takes his leave.

My husband looks to me with curiosity, but I quell his worries with a look of good humour, as I press down the feelings that have come from the truth inadvertently shared. “Well, my dearest? How much longer until I might at last have you to myself for some few precious hours?”

He smirks, and there is a playfulness in his gaze, though I know not yet the reason. “Not so long.”

Our repast is merry enough, but short, for the Wood Wailers would move with the dawn. I arrange for an honour guard to accompany them to the Gates of Judgement on the morrow, for there they needs must ride by flying chocobo over the Sea of Clouds, and - harrowing as it may be to fly above the whirling abyss - I would have them served by the birds stationed there who so often make this trek. 

The Elder Seedseer thanks me for my attentions. “Pray, do not trouble yourself to see us off on the morrow,” she says, even as I am about to make the offer. “You have been more than kind. I would repay a small measure of the kindness that has been so freely offered by your husband, time and time again.”

“I expect no repayment,” he says, right on cue. “But your help is appreciated.”

She bows her head. “May it be a seed, from which further kindness between our peoples might grow.” For the first time, I see a tiny break in her stoic yet warm composure, as regret crinkles the corners of her eyes. “I am sorry that I could not be present for your wedding, my friends. I was surprised, and delighted at the invitation.”

My love shakes his head. “Many could not come,” he says, quietly.

“It is for this reason that I felt such keen regret upon declining.” She looks to me, her countenance apologetic. “It is uncommon for my kind to leave the Shroud. Even so, I found the decision haunted me. It is so rare for the Warrior of Light to ask for aught.” She smiles, and bows her head. “And so I am full glad that I have had this chance to meet you, and offer my congratulations, belated though they are.”

“Thank you, my lady Seedseer.” I let a small sigh pass my lips and look to my love. “Perhaps, one day, when your friends are found, when the world at last takes a breath of pause from the chaos… we might properly celebrate our union.”

The Elder Seedseer smiles. “I would be honoured to attend, and fully put this wrong to right.”

At last, the hour is come, that we might retire together; though with it, the gnawing fear of what we must speak on. And though my mind calls out a hundred excuses I might make to bid him hold his tongue, my heart must know the truth he has learned, and will brook no further delay.

The hubbub of Camp Dragonhead Manor fades behind us as we mount the stair to our rooms; now silence hangs, cold and still, like a perfect pond of ice. Not until our door is closed behind us does he deign to crack it.

“We… might wait, to speak on things,” he says; he crosses to our fire, arms wrapped about his chest as though he were cold, though I know better. “Too many times, have I come to you, with worries and trials. I want not to… burden you.”

“My dearest husband.” I cross to him, stepping behind him and wrapping my arms about him. “No part of your being here shall ever be a burden. Even if…” I sigh, and lay my cheek on the top of his head. “Even if you come to tell me of a time, in an age long forgotten, when men lived in happiness, with dragons as friends and neighbours.”

He stiffens. “You have been told of this?”

“Alphinaud let it slip, this eve. It seems… he thought you’d told me.”

He’s quiet a long moment. “I am careful,” he says, though it comes out sounding like an apology. “I would not bring you this weight, if these be only dreams, or… lies.”

“And yet, for a truth?”

He shifts his arms, encircling mine with his, clutching my forearms. “Then I would be careful, of your heart.”

Still, he does not speak further; when several moments pass thus, the question comes from me, unbidden: “And who ended this peace?”

The sound starts so quietly it is a long moment before I place it - a growl, from deep in his chest. I feel his muscles twitch, and I release my embrace of him just before the sound crescendoes into a near-howl. 

“Men,” he spits; he stalks across the foyer, ears pinned, tail whipping. “Men, who had no need, no fear. No defense, only - desire.”

In this fitful state, he tells me all, as he paces - how the first seeds of conflict between our peoples had been quelled by an act of deepest love and sacrifice; how hundreds of years of the peace it had earned had been traded for a single covetous want. How the storm of vengeance that has raged on ever since was our price for this brutal, foolish act.

The picture he paints is one I should abhor and deny, with every part of me, and yet… I will be damned if I do not admit that it rings true.

Do men not ever grasp for power? Do men not ever throw their fellow men to the wolves in pursuit of it? Most men, no; I believe - I have seen - that most men are good, would choose good. But can I say for certain that history was written by such a man, and not a man who would pluck out the eyes of his friend to better his own lot?

We have paid the wages of this senseless war, with our own blood - a thousand years of blood.

Though the words have ceased spilling forth from him, he still stands apart from me, facing away, tail whipping, though the lashes come less oft now. I should be feeling the same - should be bursting at the seems with anger, or denial, or sorrow.

But all I feel in this moment is… cold.

“My dearest,” I say, at last, dragging up the words as if from the bottom of a frozen well. 

He turns, and seeing the look of me, his expression softens, and his ears flatten. 

A thousand things flit through my mind: a thousand stories, all now ringing with a thousand lies. As they crest over me in a wave, the words that come are not those of a knight, but the whimper of a boy, alone, lost in the snow. “Hold me.”

He throws himself across the space between us and crushes me in his arms, pressing his cheek against my chest. “My love,” he says, the words breaking a little, and now I am broken, holding him against me, tears streaming down my face.

He stands with me a long time; at last he pulls back, and looks up at me, smiling sadly. “To bed,” he says, firmly and quietly, reaching up to wipe away a fresh tear from my cheek with his thumb. “You are shivering.”

Indeed I am, though I had not noticed, numb as I feel. He helps me doff my armour, and then - quickly stepping out of his own sollerets - he pulls me into bed beneath the covers, and folds his warm body around mine. Even still, it is a long moment ere I feel warmth within myself again, and my shivering subsides.

At last, he stretches up and kisses my forehead, then sighs, resting his own against mine. “Yours is a cruel husband, who would make you feel thus.”

I shake my head, only slightly. “No, my very dearest. He is a kind husband, who thinks ever of my happiness, even with all of the burdens… every burden.”

He tilts up his chin and kisses me, so softly. “Let us have no burdens, here. Let us simply… be. Just for now.”

And so we are. 

Ere long I find myself taking in a deep breath of waking, as sleep took me, unawares. Blinking open my eyes, it seems to me to be quite late; the Manor is near silent, and the light from the fire in the foyer is low.

He is still coiled ‘round me in his shirt and breeches, though his eyelids seem a little heavy; he found some sleep himself, it seems.

Let us simply be, he had said; and here, in our bed together, that pall of shock and grief I had felt seems like a dream I had, a passing cloud of thought; for how could I have him here, my dearest one - my husband - and feel no joy at his presence?

I pull him close and kiss him, and he sighs and parts his lips, and oh, I am here, we are here - in spite of man’s wager of blood. Great men doomed their children’s children for a pittance of desire, and still, in the endless ashes, his teeth graze my skin, and my nails claim his flesh, and he calls out my name, for I am here. I am alive. And I will love, and love, and love.

We sleep little this night, all things considered, though another time or two sleep takes me by surprise. I feel deeply restless, as though there is some duty that I must attend that I cannot quite remember. At times I feel I must speak, and the words pour forth, and he listens as I pace my foyer, or as I lie upon my bed, staring up at the canopy with his head upon my chest. But more oft, I find that words leave me, as my thoughts and feelings whirl.

I knew that he would change the world. How could I have thought that he would not change my own?

“Oh, I am sorry, my dearest husband,” I say, as I hear the sound of morning servants’ rounds, and realize the night has slipped us by. I sit up, and he follows, turning to watch me. “This is not how I would have spent this precious time with you.”

He smiles, a secret smile. “You will not be rid of me, so soon as that.”

I blink at him; though I feel more myself, still a fog lingers in my mind. “Dearest?”

“With Alphinaud as their guide, and with the men and women of the Wood Wailers, there is little need for me to cross Coerthas with the Seedseer. And there is an Aetherite, from the ancient days, atop the great mountain of Sohm Al. Until the time that we might convene…” He leans in, bringing his lips oh so briefly to mine. “I am yours.”

Despite my muddled thoughts, this unexpected news brings me much joy, indeed. “Well then,” I say, smiling, a little relief finally settling into my weary body. “I will not rush to send you away.”

Though the Elder Seedseer had bid me forego a farewell on this early morn, we two are yet awake, and restless besides; and so we make ready for the day and meet her at the stables, where the chocobos are being saddled for the first leg of their journey to the Gates of Judgement. Alphinaud is a little surprised to see us, and I think I spy a little lingering chagrin as he appraises me; it is likely that I show my lack of rest upon my face.

“You do well to leave so early,” I say, my eyes briefly drawn away by the strangely flitting moogle as he darts around the chocobos, earning cautious looks at best and low warning warks at worst. I turn my gaze back to the Elder Seedseer. “A squall is expected this evening, though you are well ahead of it. Do ask after my brother, Lord Artoirel, in Falcon’s Nest upon your arrival - he will see that your stay is comfortable, however brief.”

She bows her head in thanks. “I pray the weather does not bring you undue distress.” There is a little sparkle in her eye, if I am not mistaken; perhaps her affinity with the elements has given her some small insight that I am unable to discern.

My love agrees to meet with her at the expected time, and as they make their way from the stables he shares one or two words with her, while Alphinaud sidles up next to me.

“Lord Haurchefant, I wanted to apologise -”

“Don’t.” I try to level him with a steely gaze, but this ruse will not hold, as a regretful laugh escapes me. I shake my head. “It makes no difference from whence I have learned the truth. ‘Twas at my own behest that I had remained in the dark; neither of us felt ready, it seems. But there is no perfect moment to shatter a man’s view of the world.” I clap the boy on the back. “I daresay, you made it easier on him; the burden of those first few words was lifted from his shoulders.”

He nods, taking this in, though he still seems uncertain. “It will not be easy for your people to learn the truth,” he says, carefully.

“No, it will not.” I stop as we come to the center of the yard; men and women bustle about us with their mounts in tow, one such bird being brought in our direction. “And so I pray that your words to the Great Wyrm ring true; for a promise of peace may be the honey that follows the medicine.”

“We will do this,” he says, with the conviction only a young lordling might muster.

“See that you do,” I say, as he is brought his chocobo for the journey to the Gates.

I remember little of this day, if I am honest, for I found comfort in the everyday tribulations of the garrison; though having my dearest one near was a balm to my soul. When at last I passed off the watch and we took our comfort together, I am ashamed to admit that I was asleep mere moments after my head touched my pillow - and even though the squalls rolling through were banging at the shutters all night, or so I have been told, I did not hear the slightest thing.

And so I am alarmed when I at last come to, and from the sounds of servants in the halls, I know it to be quite late in the morning - and worse, my husband is not with me in bed. I dart out to the door of my foyer, only to find a tray of breakfast and tea waiting in the empty room. And then I hear his laughter approaching in the hall, and a word of thanks from him, and the door opens to admit him.

His ears perk at the sight of me. “My love,” he says, closing the door and crossing to me. “I hoped to return, and rouse you, at last.”

“Dearest,” I say, the word dripping urgency and regret, “I have no time for breakfast, I must -”

He places a finger against my lips to quell my prattling. “The squalls linger,” he says. “There will be little work, today.” He stretches up and kisses me, quite languidly. “I asked if your men and women might suffer you two days of rest. All is in their hands.” He chuckles. “They thanked me.”

“I…” In truth, I have no words. Two days of aught but his company? Never has such a thing happened, since first I met him. I let out a breath and feel the worry ebb away. “Then… I am yours, my dearest. What would you have of me?”

He smiles, his lovely calloused hand caressing my cheek. “Our honeymoon, at last.”

I recall our talk about this: all the things I would like to see with him, all the wonders he would share; all of the things I feared he must deny me, were I to truly ask for them. But in this moment, I cannot imagine a more perfect honeymoon than sharing breakfast and tea at home, knowing he will share the same with me again on the morrow.

Once I have properly dressed in comfortable clothes for lounging, we take our breakfast together, and then our comfort, and simply sit a while on the rug before the fire; and listen to the sounds of the storm without and the staff within, and the crackling fire at our feet.

“Did you ever imagine that you would be wed?” I ask, as I stroke his hair, his head once again in my lap. “I know you do not recall the years of your youth, but…”

He shakes his head slightly, his eyes closed. “I have thought little, of my future. In the time I know, the time since the calamity, I have looked only to… today. To help those I may. And to live until sunset, and wake again on the morrow.”

“How is it, then, that you have become such a beacon of hope? Of a promise of a better tomorrow?”

His eyes open, regarding me, half-lidded. “Tomorrow will come. We may only change today.”

“Then… why marry me?”

“Because I love you today.” He reaches up and lays his hand on my chest, palm open. “Because you made me want you tomorrow.”

I cover his hand with mine. “You have me, my dearest. Today, tomorrow. Ever.”

He is quiet a moment. “When… my work, here is done. And my friends are found. When we might celebrate, again. Would you…?”

“Take a proper honeymoon with you?”

He nods; his ears have flattened a little. With worry, that I might deny him, and cling to my duty, as though it truly bound me to this place. My mind returns to the Elder Seedseer, who thought herself similarly bound, and found that - for the sake of one dear to us, who gives, and gives, and gives - it is worth asking why we might not step away. Just for now.

“Yes,” I say, squeezing his hand. “Yes, I want this. Even… before that. When your work in the Churning Mists is done. Whatever the state of the world. I will make the time, somehow. As you have, for me, in spite of all your burdens. Even if I must beg Cid Garlond for use of his airship, that we might travel with all swiftness.”

I see relief in every part of his body. He rises, and slips into my lap, and kisses me. “Thank you, my love.”

I sigh, pulling him in close, squeezing him against me. “It is… sometimes difficult to want things for myself, to ask things of you, when I also want so badly to be… perfect,” I say, the words a little muffled as I speak into his hair. “Everything in your life is so momentous, so complicated. I want to be simple for you. To take burdens away from you, not lay more of them in your lap.”

“I want them.” He pulls back and looks at me quite seriously. “If I must collect burdens, I would take some, from the man I love. From my husband.” He kisses me again. “They are mine, now.”

“And yours are mine,” I say, covering his beautiful face with little kisses. “What truths you learn, what pain you unearth, I want it all.”

“I want you,” he growls, and locks his lips with mine, and for the first time of many on this honeymoon of ours, we take our pleasure together, sealing these promises with the searing heat of passion.

Oh, he may change the world, my husband, my Warrior of Light. But my love, my love, will sing out into eternity.