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After the final confrontation with Nidhogg, Montblanc could not quite look the Lord Commander in the eyes.
On a peaceful evening, when times had been somewhat simpler—the dust had yet to settle and the ash to get cold, in the in-between time after the fierce chaos of battle and the next world-damning urgency—Aymeric had asked.
They both had made a habit of it, after the Dragonsong war had ended—whenever they could find a moment, they would meet around a meal and spend the rest of the evening together. In the privacy of the Borel manor’s parlour, the bard would sing of sorrow and loss, ageless and unfathomed; and of the everlasting hope of breaking free from the relentless clutches of war. They would sing of love enduring, never to get their eyes off him in doing so, and Aymeric would have need to bite his tongue not to say—or do, Fury forbid—something indisputably foolish. As the night unfurled, he would ask them to stay till the morrow, and Montblanc would refuse each and every time.
Yet that night Aymeric had asked—for it was plain to him, how the bard avoided his gaze, how they refrained from singing altogether. Yet he knew from personal experience that Montblanc of the Thousand Songs was not named thus for naught, their repertoire seemingly nigh but endless; and had surmised that when they desired not to talk—when words were not enough—they played the recorder instead.
'Is aught amiss, my friend?'
It appeared at first that the Warrior of Light had not heard, the ballad continuing unabated. Then, as ending notes faded, they stopped to look past him—once again. They were close on the couch—close enough for Aymeric to feel the warmth radiating off them—and yet he felt cold as winter in the Coerthan highlands.
“You seem distraught. I may not understand your plight,” he added, his voice naught but velvet. “However, if you’d be willing, I would gladly share in your woes.”
Aymeric very well knew they could lie—as they oft did—for he was well-practiced in discerning truths from deceits. One had to, when navigating the intricate web of Ishgardian society; even moreso when noble birth couldn’t endorse one’s willingness to bring about durable change. He nonetheless hoped they would confide in him what seemed to burden them so.
“And if I’d rather not share anythin’ with you?” came the answer, and his mouth went dry.
“Then I shall refrain from asking,” Aymeric replied in turn, as softly as he could. ”And be content to be here for you in any small way I can provide.” He had meant every word, regardless of his personal feelings.
Silence then rolled as thick fog between them, and he patiently waited—for the bard to talk, or take their leave, he could not tell. For all their flourish and extravaganza, it seemed Montblanc kept their true feelings to themselves. Aymeric was reminisced of their travel to the Churning Mists, and of the sorrow that shadowed the Warrior of Light’s steps, as well as their companions’—not least his own. Neither the bard’s lively and joyful songs nor his hearty cooking—Master Alphinaud had been willing, but proved to be a terrible cook—had seemed to improve the mood; the bard had nonetheless put on a brave front so that none could glimpse what lurked behind.
Aymeric had seen through it, of course—how could it not, when he had done the same?
Montblanc took a deep breath and he was brought back to the present, the faint echo of their laughter—as they had danced amidst the Dravanian forelands at his request, on another of those sleepless nights that had seemed to plague them all—fading into nothing.
“He asked me to kill him. And I would have, if not for Moss and Alphinaud,” came the confession at long last, and their tone—forlorn and heavy with regret—grounded him in the here and now. “And I can’t bear the thought that—”
The rest died on their lips. For a second, their eyes finally met, and Aymeric saw it all—the fear of being of naught use but to bring further bloodshed; and the guilt, so much guilt, which would have remained with them for the rest of their life, would the deed had come to pass.
He recognized instantly what appeared to plague Montblanc’s thoughts; for that selfsame guilt had scorched his heart in its terrible wake, haunting his every step to this day. He too, had aimed at a beloved one—he too, had attempted to end the life of the Azure Dragoon of Ishgard.
His penance was bound to remain Aymeric’s sole companion, now that his dearest friend had left.
“Would that I didn’t know how that felt,” he said with a measure of melancholy. “But I do.”
Estinien hadn’t asked him, and yet he had taken the shot anyway.
“Duty sometimes commands the hand to act against those we hold dear, and vowed to protect. The heart weeps afterwards.” Aymeric declared, his voice laced with chagrin—and regret to match Montblanc’s own.
Estinien had told him there was naught to forgive—that were he not so single-minded in his convictions, he would not have trusted Aymeric at his back. And he would aim at his oldest friend again, and again, were he to revisit that fateful moment; for it was his duty as Lord Commander of the Temple Knights of Ishgard, regardless of the fact it would break him till the end of his days each and every time.
For a blessing the dragoon had survived, and all that remained were the harrowing nightmares of carrying a cold, dead body clad in crimson over the Steps of Faith after the Great Wyrm had fallen.
“Full glad I am that—that you stayed your hand,” Aymeric whispered, the mere thought proving too much to bear. “Ah—Forgive me.”
He had not been prone to tears in his adult years—to his knowledge, nary a few had witnessed him shed but a single one, those which had flowed in memory of his parents seen by Estinien alone—and yet tonight they were as falling snows over Coerthas. Aymeric had not confided in anyone about this; it somewhat felt effortless, however, to do so in the presence of Montblanc. For all their flaws, the bard’s friendship was hard-won, but true. In the encompassing silence did he feel the weight of their knowing eyes, fixed upon him—till the miqo’te reached out to him, their hand a healing balm upon a dressed wound, warm on the skin of his cheek even through its glove.
“You love him.”
It did not sound like a question at all—it would come as no surprise that the Warrior of Light had guessed this simple truth indeed, perceptive as they were, eerily so—and in their affectionate tone not a trace of envy could be found.
What to answer then, but what was—and had been for more than ten years—buried deep in his heart?
“Have I ever not?” Aymeric confessed, a faint smile playing upon his fair features.
Neither he nor Estinien had ever named what had unfolded between them over the last decade. They never spoke of the intimacy of sharing their doubts and fears and hopes with each other, nor of bathing their hands in the other’s blood as they dressed each other’s wounds as best as they could; they never spoke of their fingers oft found timidly intertwined as sleep took them in its embrace in the wilds, when they patrolled the Dravanian lands as Temple Knights. Least of all would they speak of all the hasty kisses shared in the shadow of the barracks, or that of a caelumtree, away from prying eyes.
They were younger, then; not yet leaders of men and women eager to fight and die in an unjust war.
The hand cradling his face was suddenly no more, and as the bard took both his hands in theirs to lay between them Aymeric realized that in his reverie he had kept silent, oblivious to the concern he could now see writ plain upon Montblanc’s face.
“Are you alright?” they inquired softly.
There was the man behind the many masks—no pretense, no deceit but eyes the color of gold, watching him with such unguarded fondness it made his heart ache. He had not allowed himself to show vulnerability in a long time, and till now would have labored to believe the bard would ever do so with anyone save their closest companion, Moss.
And yet here they were; laid bare in most unexpected ways, their fingers laced together on Aymeric’s lap. He could not remember when that happened, and found he did not care to. All that mattered was Montblanc, showering him in their warmth, their jewelry catching the candles’ light reminiscent of the very stars scattered in the vast expense of the night.
“Quite, thank you,” Aymeric declared, soon regaining his composure. In his distress he had been selfish, and thus owed them an apology. “Forgive me, I had not wished to overshadow your troubles with my own.”
What gnawed at them he could only guess, owing it in no small part to the former Azure Dragoon’s keen sight—for thanks to him Aymeric had been privy to the truth the Warrior of Light strived to conceal behind the vibrant silks and toothless facade from the start.
Their past was of no concern to him—Lucia, his steadfast First Commander and dear friend was proof of that. Besides, that Montblanc of the Thousand Songs was no paragon of virtue nor selflessness was inconsequential in the light of all the good they had done for Ishgard and its people—notwithstanding for the realm at large. The bard had told him once that they couldn’t care less about their bloody war; but that in caring for their companions and the friends they had made here, they had warmed up to their plight all the same.
(Were Lucia here, she would tell him he had been biased from the first—as she had told him on numerous occasions already.)
“I know not what’s in your heart,” he stated in his usual soft-spoken manner, lightly squeezing Montblanc’s hands in his. “But you are more than the hand guiding the blade, of this I have no doubt.”
Something flashed within their eyes, and Aymeric wondered if in that moment, they realized he knew, and had known for quite some time. They said nothing regardless, and so he spoke again.
“I will prepare a pot of tea. Would you care for a cup?”
The bard nodded, and the manner with which their fingers reluctantly parted from his was not lost on Aymeric.
When he came back they had surprisingly not moved an ilm, humming a somber melody Aymeric did not recognize. As he entered the room their gaze fell upon him, a small, hesitant smile tugging at the corners or their lips. Offering one in turn, Aymeric laid the tray on the coffee table and handed them a cup—its acrid smell without compare, for they took their tea as bitter as possible, without an onze of sugar.
Montblanc accepted it with a word of thanks. As soon as Aymeric was back on the couch they came close, whilst he elaborated on the myriad ways one could prepare tea in Coerthas—he wasn’t sure it was of particular interest to them, but the bard listened to his every word nonetheless.
They fell back into their usual rhythm before long, sharing the last gossip Emmanelain had gleaned in the city, or discussing the next proposal to be submitted to the Lords and Commons, among many other things—all the while dutifully avoiding to speak of Estinien. At one point the bard had laid their head on the side of Aymeric’s arm, and in a rare moment of silence took his hand in theirs once again, their gloved fingers absentmindedly running along his veins.
“What does it make of us, then?”
Aymeric would have been a liar, had he said he had not expected the inquiry—for this unavowed courting had had them dancing around each other for months. He had been enjoying their company immensely, and presumed not to be wrong in saying they had, as well—he felt it through the beating of their heart, singing for him in like manner as his own.
Would that in his honesty, Aymeric had not hindered the growth of such a precious companionship.
“Whatever you wish us to be,” he sincerely stated as he repositioned himself on the couch to better face them, clasping their hands tightly to not let go of them. “I quite understand however that it would be difficult to tell, knowing what I feel towards another.”
Alarm briefly passed over Montblanc’s features—Aymeric hoped the anguish he had felt in that instant did not seep through the cracks—ere long followed by a most welcome and reassuring smile.
“No, no—it would not,” they affirmed, their tone softer than the breeze. “I get it, I really do.”
In the space between words did Aymeric catch their meaning—for the guilt and sorrow and regret gripping their heart, the suffocating ache of living whilst knowing what could have come to pass by their own hand; all of it mirrored his own. And if he could harbor love for two, why couldn’t they?
“I must repeat myself then,” Aymeric said as he carefully started removing the glove of one of the bard’s hands, his emboldened gaze fixed upon them. “We shall be whatever you wish us to be.”
Aymeric had never wanted much for himself, but truth be told, he selfishly desired for them both to be more—although he would never resent Montblanc, would they rather have them remain friends instead. He had been infatuated from the very start, ‘twas true; but it was on that one night in Dravania—that the bard had spent awake so that their companions would sleep—that his heart became theirs. He himself had been on first watch, yet so entranced was he by them—neither the Warrior of Light nor Montblanc of the Thousand Songs, but simply, unreservedly Montblanc, crowned by the very stars and haloed by moonlight, weaving songs for the departed and those lost in the dark with a voice as gentle as it was mournful—that he could not find sleep either.
Till the end of his days would it remain theirs, of this Aymeric was absolutely certain.
“My heart is yours to take,” he declared as he brought their hand to his lips, laying the foundation of his love in the form of a chaste kiss. “And do with it as you please.”
The look they gave him through fluttering eyelashes alighted him, and in so doing overthrew the last of his self-restraint. Another kiss followed, and then many more—slowly trailing along a path of scars Aymeric had assumed the gloves were there to cover. His world narrowed down to naught else save Montblanc; how their pulse quickened under their skin, how their breath came in short, lips in need to part for air—he required no further invitation, and took the plunge.
For once, on that evening Aymeric did not ask them to stay till the morrow—and yet they did. The sun found them in the early hours of the morning, bathing their entangled forms in its pleasant light from one of the open windows of his bedroom.