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It was easier than I imagined. Effortless. To throw myself between my love and the spear.
As it came, all light and terror, I felt my body do what it must, what it had been trained to do: a warning called, a shield raised, one foot slid back to brace that body against what was to come. To save the life of my fellow man. My calling, as a knight.
My body moves in the chaos of this moment, but my mind is clear, like the frigid ice of the Swiftrun river reaching effortlessly toward its sister strait. In this moment I feel free, unbound from time and trial; and when free, as ever, my mind returns to him. The man who has changed the world. The man who has changed me. The man who must live on.
The man who came to me, only a fortnight ago, with joy in his eyes, to say that the Sultana of Ul’dah had awoken, and all lingering doubts of his place in that awful scheme had been expunged at last. Indeed, it was joy enough to carry us through our true honeymoon, while the Ironworks and Skysteel Manufactory came together to grant him passage to his next - and perhaps his greatest - endeavour: the slaying of Nidhogg.
With naught needed of him while Master Garlond went to his work, it seemed a moment carved specifically for our purpose. With the blessing of my father and my garrison, and an offer of passage upon the Enterprise to bear us swiftly to Costa del Sol, I set aside my duties, and made myself naught but a husband.
Oh, how long it has been since I have indulged in a swim! And never before in waters so warm, and salty besides. Despite his discomfort with how these clear yet briny waves affect his hair and his tail, my husband joins me, goaded into feats of strength and speed, and splashing about with me like boys (with a matching boyish grin upon his face.) And though there is a desperate edge to our lightheartedness, I will not let the impending fight push out the joy of these moments with him, as we sit together on the sand, with the sun on our skin, and the wind wafting over us with tranquil serenity.
Even in the quiet privacy of our cabin we speak not on what he must do, nor what might become of him; but that edge of desperation creeps into our lovemaking, leaving us grasping, reaching - begging for a release that will quell the deep, dark fear of the morrow.
And so he was mine, those few days, in the sun and the surf; mine as we awaited the arrival of the Enterprise when at last he received word that all was ready.
Master Garlond greets us with a somewhat sarcastic tone, though there is warmth in it. As he brings us aloft, he laughs. “I’ll be damned if I go down in history as the chauffeur of the Warrior of Light.”
“So you would prefer… mechanic, to the Warrior of Light,” my husband says, nearly deadpan but for the smile in his eyes.
This earns him a hearty laugh. “If it’s one or the other, I suppose I’ll make do with that.” He catches me leaning on the rail, watching the world shrink and the horizon expand beneath us, and chuckles. “Never gets old, does it?”
“No indeed.” I pry my eyes away and meet his gaze. “Even as a man who has flown chocobos across the Sea of Clouds, there is nothing quite like this.”
“Well, you’d best make yourself comfortable, and enjoy the trip; we’ll be in Camp Dragonhead to drop you off in a few hours.”
On another day, I might be content to simply watch the world roll by beneath us, as I did on our voyage here some days ago; but this day, it is the Miqo’te who stands beside me, and slips his hand into my own, whose presence has my full attention.
We have few secrets between us; perhaps none, though I would not begrudge him those which he feels necessary due to his work. Always I have felt comfortable speaking openly with him about my feelings, and my fears, and he has afforded me the selfsame openness. But of this next endeavour of his, we have neither of us spoken of it - at least, no more than a word or two about technicalities: where the great wyrm has made his roost, and who shall be accompanying him (the Azure Dragoon alone, as it turns out; Alphinaud shall remain in Ishgard, and of the heretic queen Ysayle, it seems she has withdrawn since the truth of her so-called summonings was made plain to her.)
My husband is a man of few superstitions, but he has, on occasion, suggested that the speaking of things may bring them about. Were his foe any other, therefore, I would not press him, safe in the knowledge that he would prevail, as always he has. But this foe… this foe I know too well.
I know the terror Nidhogg has wrought, in this thousand years of torment. I know the families he has torn asunder, the towns he has razed. I know the gnawing fear that has been born into every man and woman of Ishgard, a legacy of pain and suffering without end. And I know the strength of those who have come before, who have sought to bring him low; the power they have wielded. The conviction in their hearts.
And all have been but trifling things, measured against the fury and might of Nidhogg.
As we make our way, silence hangs between us - not uncomfortable, but weighty nonetheless, a silence that speaks a thousand words. Many times I work my throat, trying to let some few of those words free; but like a bottle filled with stones, upended, each word prevents the passage of another, and so they are all rendered still.
The voyage seems to last an eternity, and in a fashion I am glad of it, for it is yet more time that I have him at my side; but as the scenery becomes white and the wind turns cutting cold, I know we soon must part. At last, I shake the bottle, and the words come pouring out.
“You will prevail.” This comes out harsher than I would like, and I wince, even as I press on. “I know you will. But even so - and even though you know this, through and through - I must tell you again: I love you. Every drop of hate the great wyrm feels is matched by an ocean of my affection. I will not suffer his hate to have more sway than love.”
My husband turns and looks up at me with worry, slipping his other arm around me. “I will return to you, my love.” He has seen through to the deepest part of my fear, as he always does. “I would not leave you alone.”
“You may not wish to,” I say, with a forced smile. “But we are not always the masters of such things.”
“I will not.” He reaches up and grabs my upper arms firmly, looking up at me with determination. “You have said, that there is no end, to love. And so I cannot leave you. If you would have my love, it is yours, and I am with you. Ever.”
Tears spring to my eyes - oh, he knew, he knew I wanted to hear those words, in case of -
Just in case.
As we begin our descent toward Camp Dragonhead, I quell the trembling of my lips by pressing them to his, long and firm. At last, I pull back, stronger for it. “And I am with you. With every breath.”
And so I hold him one last time, as though t’were truly the last; and then I disembark, and watch as the Enterprise takes him away from me, and toward his destiny.
I am hardly myself, these next few days, as every breath is held; if my people had not demanded it, I think I would have worked until my body gave in and forced sleep upon me. But they are quick to remind me that good health is needed if I am to properly attend my post; my maidservant goes so far as to invoke the wrath of my husband if I do not care for myself as I would do for him. And so I sleep, but fitfully; and take my rest, when sleep will not come.
Amid this agony, there is a small reprieve: some business gives me cause to visit Ishgard, and therefore my father and my Scion friends who have stayed behind from this portentous mission. None of them sit idle - even Emmanellain, through no intent of his own - and I am heartened to find them at work, shoring up alliances, calling in favours, and making ready in every way they can for the descent of the dragons.
A small part of me hoped, I think, that I might more easily find rest there, the place being not so much home to my husband and myself as is Camp Dragonhead. But of course that night, when I retire to my room of old, I cannot help but remember the first time I brought him here - and instantly crammed my foot into my mouth by eavesdropping on him like a truant child.
Oh, this was the first time he was truly cross with me; a strange feather in my cap, for I have never seen him thus with any other. And then, of course, came his forgiveness, sweet and kind; it is the remembrance of this (juxtaposed with the fear of his fate) that keeps me from sleep, this night, as I wait for word of his battle with the wyrm.
The kitchen is dark and quiet this night, as I go about making a pot of tea to calm my thoughts. Just as the water comes to a boil, I hear a small sound near the doorway, almost imperceptible - a soft-soled step. I turn and see a familiar face, mostly shadowed in the soft light from the hall.
I smile. “Cup of tea, my friend?”
Alphinaud’s gaze meets mine, and he freezes, as though caught in a game of hide and seek. “That… would be lovely,” he says, cautiously. “If I am not interrupting.”
“Not at all.” I fetch a second mug, and pour a little hot water in each to warm them as I steep the tea. “I had hoped that I was the only soul too restless for sleep this night, but I cannot say I mind the company.”
Slowly his step brings him to the table, where he seems to hesitate a moment. “When I was young,” he starts, “I rather loathed sleep, though I knew how important it is for one’s health and constitution. Mother took pains to keep me from reading late into the night, but even so, she would often find me curled ‘round a tome in the morning.”
I listen as I pour the water out of the mugs and bring them to the table, followed by the teapot in its cozy. “It is difficult to make the time for sleep, when so much of the waking world calls to us.” I take a seat at the table, and gesture for him to do the same.
Alphinaud sits across from me. “Would that it was for such a simple reason that I cannot find my rest this night.”
“I warrant you’ve a hundred reasons.” I sit back in my chair a little, letting out a long breath. “As have I. Though some few of them, I expect, are reasons that we share.”
“I thought… it would be easier, with time. But now…” He folds his hands on the table and stares down at them for a moment in thought. “Now I have friends who remind me of the peril of our undertakings. And the cost that may be paid to undertake them.”
“Not an easy thing to learn. Though once learned… difficult to forget.”
He mulls quietly as the tea finishes steeping, and I pour us each a steaming mug. As I slide his across the table, he asks: “How do you bear it?”
“Bear what, precisely?”
“The… waiting.” He pulls his mug toward him, but does not yet drink, steam wafting up quietly as he puts words to his thoughts. “I know the work that I do here is vitally important, much as is yours with your garrison at Camp Dragonhead. I know not all can face the greatest foes of our time head-on. And still…”
“There is no replacement for fighting alongside one’s comrades.” I take my mug in hand, and blow to cool the liquid ere I take a sip.
“Not when one truly understands what is at stake.” He stares down into his tea, a cautiously resolute expression upon his face. “I did not always. In fact, I have only recently begun to appreciate just how much he…” He stops, eyes widening a little. He dips his head. “Just how much I have taken for granted.”
“For what it’s worth, I daresay he likes being taken for granted - though that does not mean that we should bow to this whim.”
“Indeed - as another friend wisely said, when I did so.”
“You speak of… Estinien, I expect?”
He nods - and I see that it is not only the fate of my dearest one which weighs upon him.
“I have known few men so driven,” I go on, holding my mug near my lips as I wait to chance another sip. “Though as with all driven men, it is what sustains his drive that worries me. None would fault him for finding strength in avenging what he has lost, of course, but…”
Alphinaud is silent for some moments in thought, deigning at last to sip his tea. At length, he asks: “What sustains your husband’s drive?”
I cannot help but laugh - something about the words ‘your husband’ from the boy’s lips. “You have known him longer than I. Have you no guesses on the matter?”
“I…” He dips his head again. “Once more, I am reminded of my shortcomings. I should know. And if I did not… it is to him that I should have posed the question.”
“I did not intend to cause you undue distress by my teasing.” I set my mug upon the table. “He would have struggled to tell you, I’m certain. But I think… it is loneliness and love, which sustain his drive.”
Alphinaud’s brow furrows. “Loneliness?”
I nod. I appraise him for a moment before expounding. “You are from a place with a storied history. Lineage, not only in terms of your family, but your people as a whole. You may not realize it, but you certainly draw on these things when going about your work with the Scions. But he… has only what he has made for himself, in the few years he remembers.”
“I… suppose. Even though he has friends and allies…” He winces slightly, thinking - I am certain - of the friends and allies who as yet remain unaccounted for. “It is not the same as having a home to return to, or common wisdom to draw on. No place where one might commune with like-minded people.”
“And so he moves.” I smile. “And loves fiercely, while he does. Even though his presence may be fleeting.”
We talk quietly, or else sit in silence together for a time, sipping our tea, listening to the scant sounds of the night - an occasional servant’s step in the halls, or the muffled sounds of knights on patrol through the Last Vigil.
At last, I say: “I apologise, my friend, for I realize that I have not answered your question - the one you posed when first we sat down together. How I bear these moments, when I am obliged to wait.”
He smiles and chuckles quietly, a melodious sound. “I had quite forgotten, myself. Pay it no mind, unless you feel strongly about your answer.”
“I think that I do.” I pick up my mug in both my hands, seeking the last bit of warmth that remains. “My answer is that I must bear it, for his sake, and my own; and so I send my prayers, and my love, every waking moment. And in those times between duties and other distractions, when I feel the tight claws of worry clinching ‘round my heart, I fill it up with love to strengthen it, until it is fit to bursting, and I sing my prayers so loud that the heavens must ring with them. From this do I ever take my strength, for love cannot be bound, or taken away. It can be accepted or ignored, but nevertheless, it will always be .”
He has no words in response to this, apart from a thoughtful look. At length, he finishes his cup as well, and stands. “Thank you, Lord Haurchefant. Your passion is warmly appreciated on a cold and tense night such as this.”
I rise as well, and bow my head. “At your service, ever. But pray, there need be no titles between us. After all that has happened, you are as much as family, should you deign to accept us.”
His eyes widen, and then he casts his gaze down, though I see a small smile upon his lips. “I will not take this for granted, my friend. You have my word.”
I smile. “In that case, it is as family that I kindly say: hie thee to bed, young man, ‘tis far past your bedtime.”
He laughs. “I will, but I make no promises as far as reading beneath the covers.”
But it is not to rest that I return.
The alarum sounds mere moments ere I am to finally disrobe in hopes of taking my rest - and so, with the hurried help of the House Steward, I instead don my armour and make ready to bring my sword and shield to bear where they are needed. The whole house is roused, and as I run through the halls I catch sight of Alphinaud at the door of his own room, brow creased with concern.
“Please - stay, and watch over them,” I say, pausing to put a hand on his shoulder. “If I have the opportunity, I will send news.”
He nods, drawing himself up. “House Fortemps shall remain safe in your absence, my friend.” Already his spellbook is at hand, and I must admit that I am grateful for it. With a nod, I part ways with him, and dash out into the street to take the measure of things.
The Pillars, as always, stand calm and well-protected, but as I move through the streets my ears pick out the sounds of distant fighting in the Foundation. I hasten my steps.
As I near the Aetherite plaza, what I find there beggars belief: a force of heretics, well-armed and armoured, pressing in from the Arc of the Worthy, blades locked with the city guard, who fail to hold the line as they await reinforcements. Already the air fills with smoke and ash; supports and scaffolding are put to the torch as the heretics make further ingress.
Some few others of my garrison on leave here in Ishgard join me in our support of our city’s forces, but for a city ready - or so I thought - to repel a force of dravanians, our paltry resistance to this bold foray leaves me frustrated.
Where are the damnable Heavens’ Ward? Must they wait until the enemy is at the Archbishop’s doorstep to show themselves?
A section of scaffold, burning, crashes down into the street, the calls of men and women caught beneath it bursting through the din - I rush to them, prying lumber away with the leverage of my shield, cursing as we pull our people free while the heretics near the winding stair to the Pillars. With a man leaning on my shoulder, I make my way to the Holy Stables where some succor is to be had.
If they are not stopped soon -
As a stable hand relieves me of my charge, I hear the great Aetherite in the plaza spin, and turn to see who has been delivered unto us, bracing myself for a force of attuned heretics ready to bring up the rear.
Only a single heretic do I spy through the smoke, however, whose face I have never seen, but whose bearing marks her as the vaunted Lady Iceheart. My heart skips a beat. Could she have betrayed him? Had she been biding her time until this very moment?
Then she turns, and I follow her gaze to two more figures, emerging from the cloud of ash: the Azure Dragoon, his armour shining crimson in the flames… and a Miqo’te, whose silhouette I could mark at a thousand yalms.
I sprint toward them as they take their measure of the chaos. Calling out, my voice so small against the fighting and fires, my love’s ear pivots, and he turns and barrels toward me, leaping -
I catch him from the air and his body crashes into mine, and I kiss him, and kiss him - a mere moment that feels like a blessed eternity. He pulls back in my arms, and takes my face in his hands for just a moment, his own face writ with joy and utter relief, and then hops down as his friends draw near.
“They press toward the Pillars,” I say, indicating the way. Without a further word, they turn and run, and I join them. Oh, how my mind whirls with questions! But as we make our way to where the guard draws thin and the heretics mass, I feel such joy in my heart.
He lives. He is here. He lives.
“Praise Halone, you are safe!”
The sun has only just crept up over the horizon by the time we return to House Fortemps. My father awaits my return in the receiving room, but his eyes widen at the sight of my husband.
I grin so brightly that the rising sun would pale in comparison. “My safety was never in doubt, Father. For I had the Warrior of Light at my side.”
“A welcome surprise - and deserving of no less praise to the Fury.” He pulls us each into an embrace. “You must be exhausted, both of you, so I will not waylay you long. But I must hear your tidings, from without Ishgard, and within.”
We sit with him (my love pressed against my side, his arm coiled around mine) and tell my father what fate befell the great wyrm, and the breath of relief when the Heretics were made to stand down by the very Lady Iceheart herself. Part-way through the telling, we are joined by Alphinaud, returned from the Forgotten Knight where he had gone at the first all-clear to check that our friend Tataru was safe.
“But there is more to the tale,” I say, as I fight away a yawn. “When the Lord Commander is at last free to join us, the Azure Dragoon means to bring him here.”
Alphinaud nods; he, of course, knows much of what will be shared. “Then we must take what rest we are able,” he says. He turns to me and offers a slightly sheepish smile. “Perhaps we will have more luck, with some few worries off our shoulders.”
And rest I will gladly take; but as my husband and I make our way upstairs, I find that something calls to me yet more fervently. As we close the door to our room behind us, I ask: “My dearest, would you share a bath with me?”
He looks up at me, grateful, almost desperate. “Yes.”
We divest ourselves of our armour after I call for a bath to be drawn; though the sun has now risen, I have the shutters closed and some few candles lit, to help keep us in the mode of rest. As we enter and he takes the measure of the space, my dearest one looks up at me, softly, wordlessly, a request in his eyes. I untie his robe, and he turns, shrugging it from his shoulders and into my waiting grasp.
It has been some time, it seems, since he had a thought to his own care; I had thought my own need quite pressing, but as always his is magnitudes greater. “Come,” I say, shrugging off my own robe, and bending down to kiss him where shoulder meets neck, tasting on him sweat, soot, and the road, the fragrance of a man who lives as he moves.
I guide him to the great soaking tub, water steaming, and bid him let me wash him ere we soak; how quiet it is, with only the sounds of the water and our steady breath. As we make ourselves ready, I am struck by how present he feels, how real; how the creeping pall of myth that seems to whirl about him when he goes to his work melts away, revealing only the man.
At last, we sink into the soaking waters together, and as he leans back against me I can feel the relief radiating from him, tension uncoiling after so long.
I would speak, but I find I cannot. It is not terribly oft that I find myself without words; but truly, what can one say in the wake of all that has happened? Even as I try to think on it, my thoughts skitter away, unwilling to settle and reckon with this, the dawn of a new era, the first day of the age beyond the war. An age that might at last let us turn away from fear and bloodshed.
An age in which I might allow myself at last - at long last - to imagine what the future might hold.
In the quiet warmth and softly-lit darkness, I hear a sound that is music to my ears: his soft snoring. I smile and settle myself, and listen to the sounds of his breath, the sounds of his life, as he takes his rest at last; and so, of a fashion, I take a rest of my own.
The water is merely tepid when he stirs, ears flicking as he takes in his surroundings. “I have slept,” he mutters, his voice rough.
“A little. We might retire, and have a modicum of proper sleep.”
He sits up and turns, regarding me over his shoulder. “I would be awake with you, instead,” he says. “I crave your news. Your voice.”
I smile. “Then you shall have both.”
I know the comfort he seeks, in this ritual of ours, born of the very earliest of our days together. Clad in our dressing gowns, we return to our room and curl up together in my chair before the fire; and though the whole world is changed, we make all of it small enough to hold in our hands together. His great deeds, my small strifes and worries; all just words now, memories shared. His, and mine - ours.
At the knock on the door announcing the Lord Commander’s arrival, we both start awake. My words muddled, I call out a thank-you; letting out a breath, I look down at my husband, whose ears are un-pinning. “I suppose there is no further delay to be had, in ushering in the new world,” I say, with a smile on my lips - which he leans up and kisses.
“Were I selfish, I might demand a delay,” he purrs, with quiet warmth.
“Perhaps in this new world of ours, you will allow yourself a little more selfishness.”
He mulls on this; it seems for a moment that he will ask me something, but then he simply smiles, and kisses me again. “Perhaps.”
Hard light cracks against my shield, but the spear does not deflect; it presses in, and in, and I grit my teeth, lower my stance -
I was prepared, I thought, for the world to change. I was not, however, prepared for it to go on changing - as of course it must, for such is the way of all things living. It must, and yet I would bid it slow in its turn, if only briefly. Let us have a moment to breathe the fresh air of this new day.
But such a respite is not to be had. Not while the man who must shepherd our people languishes within the dungeons of the Vault - such an audacious insult, to a man who has given so much! I knew men of the past had done evil deeds, to bring us these thousand years of war; never did I imagine that men of the present would harbour that selfsame evil. That they would keep this broken world in pieces, so that they alone might piece it together - at great gain for themselves, and at an unthinkable cost to so many others.
And so, with the city guard divided, and the truth now known - that lowborn folk share in the same boons and burdens as we of the High Houses - the Scions must beg the aid of those downtrodden folk to free Ser Aymeric and make a stand for the future. In this endeavour they seek the alliance of a figure whose moniker I have only once or twice heard spoken: the Mongrel.
Despite my dubious parentage I am a Lord, and thus would not aid my husband were I to join in this endeavour. And so I turn my hand instead to help with the clearing of debris from the fires, and other such work of restoration.
As I pour myself into the service of the city I begin to hear whispers, rumours about Ser Aymeric, and the reason he has not been spied this day. Some wonder if his parentage has now been his downfall, with the Archbishop vying to secure a new heir. Others think he must have been found to be a heretic himself, and was responsible for the recent ingress, and is thus being detained.
It is as I aim to bring word of one such rumour to Ser Lucia that I stumble upon my husband and his friends fighting at her side in the eerily empty courtyard, vying against one of the Knights Twelve and his retinue. Dimly I wonder - as I draw my sword and go to their aid, calling out to announce my joining the fray - if this is a stranger scene than his arrival early this morning?
But in truth, all is moot, for I will never speak ill of an opportunity to fight at my husband’s side.
We drive the cocky knight to retreat, and I sheathe my sword, turning to my husband with an appraising look. “I would chastise you for this public spat, my dearest, but in truth, it seems few dare show their faces in the streets this day.”
“The Knights loyal to the Archbishop quell any sign of revelry in the streets,” Ser Lucia says. “And so even with the great wyrm dead, the city holds its breath.”
“It’ll only be so long, then, before everyone starts turning blue.” A fetching lass with ears that belie her half-blood heritage checks her machinist’s weapon before settling it again into its holster. She appraises me with a swift, bold look. “You’re the hero’s husband, then? Suppose you’ll be coming along when we bust the other half-blueblood out.”
“That is the idea,” I say, aware that my husband is smirking up at me, enjoying the way this woman has appraised me. “And you would be the Mongrel of whom he spoke?”
“Oh, we need no titles between us, now we’ve busted a nose or two together,” she says, crossing her arms. “Hilda’s more than fine. Now, back to business.” She turns her sharp gaze to Ser Lucia. “I suppose you’ll be needing to gather your pups as well, before we barge in on the party?”
And so the stage is set, and these two women of vastly different lineage part ways in search of the actors who will help to carry off this performance. And, as ever, my husband waits for the call to take his place upon the stage - though on this occasion, I wait in the wings alongside him.
It is like to be just before the breaking of the dawn that we set forth; my husband has some preparations to make ere he is willing to join me in what rest we might scrounge. And so I return home, hoping that my presence there will spur him to join me with all swiftness.
I am weary enough, after my day of honest work, and a capstone of fighting - so that when I receive a summons from my father I nearly beg that he will wait until after this business is done. But until my husband returns I am loath to crawl into bed, and so I beg a few moments to doff my armour and refresh myself, and then report to my father’s study as bidden.
He smiles up at me as I enter, and rises from his chair. “My son. I am certain you are much in need of rest. I will be brief.”
I relax my pose somewhat, hands clasped behind my back. “I expect I will not sleep well this night, my Lord - at least, until my husband is returned.”
“Then I pray he returns with all swiftness.” He eyes me thoughtfully for a moment. “How do you fare? With all that has occurred, and all there is to be done, there are moments that have left me feeling somewhat… overwhelmed.”
“I… have had a little longer to think on these things, I admit. The privilege - perhaps the burden - of the man upon whom the Warrior of Light confides.” I let out a breath. “I still struggle to place the truth now known into my heart, where a different story still speaks its lies. And… I want to believe that most men are good, even when so much ill-intent persists.”
“Most men are good; I have the sons to prove it.” He chuckles. “And one to make me wonder.”
I allow myself a laugh. “He tries - at least, when there is some clout to be had by it.” Feeling my fatigue creeping in, I am compelled to ask: “What was it, then, that you wished to speak on?”
“Not your younger brother, aye. No, I only felt that… with this great moment of change bearing down upon us, I must think deeply upon those things which I cherish, and would not be parted from. Even should all else crumble.”
Ah, now I understand. An echo of the worry I felt only some few days ago, as my husband made ready to face the great wyrm. I smile. “Have faith, Father. As I said before: my shield will not break, my arm will not falter.”
“See that it does not - and the same goes for my son-in-law.” His nearly implacable expression loses a little of the quiet tension that was just beneath the surface, giving way to a subtle smirk. “I heard that your reunion during the heretics’ attack was quite… acrobatic, on his part at least.”
I feel a little heat rising to my cheeks as I laugh. “Yes, well. He had earned it, I think.” I shake my head. “Even with the city half ablaze, someone’s eyes were on us, I see.”
“There is always an eye for gossip in Ishgard.” He sighs and sits again in his chair, weariness evident in his bearing. “I believe I gave you express permission for such things, when first you were courting. No matter - when all is made known, he will be lauded alongside the Azure Dragoon. Such heroes might be afforded some few… social faux-pas.”
“If my love bids me kiss him atop the very Vault when our work there is done, I will not for an instant think of denying him.”
My father’s expression fades into a serious one again. “It is a strange business, what you must do,” he says. “If I had ever imagined that I should be party to such a thing…”
“I admit, it gives me pause to draw steel in those halls.” I let out a breath, and with it, a little frisson of uneasiness. “But with all that has happened, I cannot deny what is right. I will do my duty, not to uphold what was, but what should be - what must be, for the good of our people. If we are to survive this great change, we must have a man great enough to guide us through it, high- and lowborn alike. We need Ser Aymeric.”
My father takes this in quietly; after a moment he, too, lets out a breath, and smiles up at me. “It would not do to let the man who officiated your wedding languish in the dungeons, I suppose.” He regards me again for a moment, a trace of worry in his look. “But you must have your rest, if you are to help usher in history.”
A swift footstep in the hall is followed by a gentle rapping on the open study door. “My Lords,” the page says, bowing. “Master B—— has returned.”
The page is resoundingly thanked, and I turn back to my father with a grin. “Well, I shall find my rest much more easily this night,” I say, bowing politely. “Good night, Father.”
“Good night, Haurchefant. May you rest well, and rise tomorrow prepared to do what must be done.”
Other voices call out, friend and foe, but I will not turn away. I will not shirk my duty -
The sigh my husband breathes as the door to our room closes behind him has a little melancholy in it, to my surprise. At my questioning look, he casts his gaze down, bashful. “I wish… for some few hours, that we could take our rest at home. In Camp Dragonhead.”
“Our room here does not satisfy you?” I go to the wardrobe and begin to doff my armour.
“It feels as… a home, away from home.” He works upon his sollerets, unfastening the straps in his unhurried way. “After all that has happened… I am unsettled, yet.”
“I would have thought it the company that mattered most,” I say, my tone teasing yet warm. “But now I see the truth of the matter.”
One of his sollerets hits the floor; the other. I am just straightening after my work upon my own, when he crosses, and stands behind me, arms slipping around my waist. I squeeze his hands. His silence says everything.
“Shall we sleep a few hours, my dearest?” I keep my voice soft and even as he cinches his arms tighter around me, presses his cheek against my back through my gambeson. “I suppose we must be prepared for anything.”
He is quiet for a long moment. “Before today, it was long since we had fought together.”
“Indeed - far too long since I have felt that joy.”
He makes a strange sound, a humph that strays toward a growl. “It is not to fight which is a joy, for me. It is… movement. Control. A help to others. To do what must be done.”
“You certainly seem to find some joy in it.”
He lets out a breath, though a little chuckle comes with it. “And I find joy, in having you at my side. Especially… for this cause, in this place. Your soil, as you said, so long ago. For they are your people. And so… I will fulfil my promise. To do more than send you word. To take you with me, for this work.”
“They are your people now, too. The better part of your inheritance by our marriage, I should think.”
He steps back a pace, and his fingers slip beneath my gambeson; I lift my arms, and he pulls it up, stretching up on tip-toe to rid me of it. “They are mine, in how all people are mine. My charge, to protect.” He tosses my gambeson to the side as I turn and regard him, watch his eyes take me in with a look between comfort and desire - and also something else, which I cannot yet place.
With a tilt of his chin, he beckons me to kiss him, and I do, long and eager. When at last our lips part, his eyes are closed, his ears slightly soft. “Now that Nidhogg is no more…” He looks up at me now, a strange light in his eyes. “Might you… make a different future, for yourself?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
He smiles. “If I inherit your people, then so, too, do you mine. All the people, who might take our aid.”
My hands on his hips clinch slightly on the fabric of his shirt. “Are you suggesting… that I resign my post?”
He shrugs. “If your part in our work tomorrow, is made known… perhaps you might retire a hero.”
“Retire?!”
He laughs at my incredulity, stretching up to kiss me. “Not from your work. From your post, only.” He hesitates a moment, as he weighs his next words, balancing them with almost timid care. “To… join me. In helping those, who you have inherited.”
“My dearest, I…” Oh, how could I turn down such an offer? But he knows my oaths, my calling - things I always imagined would chase me to my grave. Is there truly a future for me without them? Might I swear new oaths, now that the world is new? I clutch his shirt in my fingers. “I… I would join you. In a heartbeat. But there is still so much unknown about our future here. And… I must see how I might help to shape it, ere I consider leaving my post.”
“It need not be today, that you decide.” He smiles up at me softly; he reaches up and cups my face in his palm, and despite his calm tone, there is a quiet desperation in his eyes. “I only wonder, if I might dream of further days, with you. Not only stolen, between our duties, but… a marriage, of our causes.”
His hand on my cheek, calloused and rough, his touch so soft…
My shield hot, searing my forearm -
“I want this.” My hand covers his and holds it, firmly, and I know at once this is a promise. He pulls himself up and kisses me again, and my arms slip around him, his form so familiar against me - strong, and firm, and easy.
“My love,” he says, the words breaking a little with relief. “Oh, my love…”
“I want this,” I say, again, and again, between kisses. In this moment it matters not when, nor how; only that we are aligned. He wants this, he wants me - to make a future with me. A story where our tales continue to intertwine, like his hands as they move through my hair -
A crack, a scream - white pain shot through my broken shield -
I fall back on the bed, and his body crashes against mine, claiming me, wanting me -
That scream shatters all in a flash of light, and I am falling through stardust black, reaching -
I dream of a sunrise sky framing his face, shattered with fear, with guilt, as he begs me to stay, rips my glove from my hand, presses my palm to his soaked cheek -
To throw myself between my love and the spear was effortless. But this - oh Fury, oh Hydaelyn, oh twelve above - do not unmake him. Spare him this pain. I would see him smile again. Give him cause to -
I breathe in, through the darkness, grateful to leave that horrid dream behind, the sound of my breath moving through my body as loud as a calamity in this quiet place.
I feel… cold. A shiver runs through me, and I reach with awkward fingers for the blanket, but it is not the fabric I expect, soft and luxurious and warm. It is starched linen, of the kind one finds in -
“Haurchefant?”
I blink my eyes open, and slightly turn my head, wincing. “Father?” My voice is hoarse, as if I have been screaming.
“Thank the Fury, you are awake.”
My mind has difficulty placing me in the flow of time; I feel as though I have been plucked from within a raging river and set upon the bank with no notion of what lies up nor downstream. Had I not just taken my rest at last, with my husband in my arms, as we prepared for our ingress into the Vault?
But no - no! We had climbed those great winding stairs, beset by strange creatures and knights, and those erstwhile holy men had swallowed up ghastly spirits, making puppets of themselves. With my dearest one at my side, and Ser Aymeric safe at last, we had reached the landing where the Archbishop meant to set aloft by airship, and then -
Then -
The light, the scream, the crash of his body against mine, shattering -
“Where is he?!” I struggle, groaning, bandages pulling tight and making me hiss in pain, across my chest, my neck, even my face. I sit up through it all and look about the infirmary. It is a room large enough to house a dozen wounded men and women, and yet…
And yet mine is the only bed occupied.
“My son,” my father says, his voice firm but quiet.
“I…” My jaw clenches from the pain that radiates from my left side; from the last moments that rush back into my mind. “I stopped the spear. I saved him. I…”
Light. Scream. Crash of his body. Shattering.
I suck in a breath. “He…” The anguish in his scream fills my mind. The fury. The desperation. I swallow, like dull razor blades. “He didn’t…”
“He did.” My father’s hand goes to my shoulder, firm and steady despite the sorrow in his voice. I cannot look at him. I cannot see the truth upon his face.
And then he says the words that break me.
“... He is gone.”
There is nothing within me. Only cold. I cannot move.
So many promises were fresh on my lips. To save the life of my fellow man. To make a future with him. My calling, as a knight, as a husband.
I failed him.
“Take me to him,” I say, though my voice sounds far away. “I must… I must see him.”
“That… is not possible,” my father says, a slight tremor in his otherwise steady tone.
I whirl to stare at him, bandages cinching across the skin of my face and neck, catching on something hard there, like scattered rocks. I hiss and start pulling at the gauze, tearing at it, teeth bared. “What do you mean it’s not -”
“I mean there is nothing left of him!” He nearly shouts the words, and they seem to cut him as deeply as they sear into me. “The spear of light, it…”
My hand is on my face, where the bandages had been; I feel small pricks against my palm, my fingers. My fevered mind latches onto this, desperate to think of anything else - I start pulling at the bandages across my chest, until they come away…
“It destroyed him,” he says, quietly. “And the crystals he bore…”
Buried in my bruised skin, I see at last the shattered fragments. Shrapnel in six colours. His crystals of light.
The words come out of me in half a whisper, more for myself than anyone: “He… saved me.” As my mind whirls with images of those last moments, all the things I might have done, the agony of his scream ringing in my ears, the crash of his body against mine -
I press my hand hard into the shards, riding the pain like a wave. My body quakes. “I - I failed. I failed him. I - I -”
“My boy.” My father pulls me gently against him, and I crumple. Insensate words leave my lips, pleas, curses, as tears flow down my empty face. He pulls me closer. “My boy, my boy.”
Oh, Fury. Oh, Hydaelyn. Oh twelve above. Why have you suffered me to live?
My dearest. My husband. My hero.
My light.
My light has gone out.