Chapter Text
Though he would maintain for years that naught else but sheer luck had led him to his place as the Warrior of Light - his uniqueness not borne of ability or birthright or blessing - there were qualities that those closest to E’salih could point to as evidence of suitable candidacy. The man was possessed of a certain conviction, a strength of spirit that seemed to wake the same in his fellow adventurers even in his days taking billets in the Carline Canopy. Above all, though, those who knew E’salih could speak to a wholehearted compassion for the world around him that extended to all things. No wonder the branches of the Black Shroud seemed to bend so easily for him, its capricious elementals stayed by his presence; no wonder the haze of aether that so often mantled Mor Dhona seemed to recede whenever he took to his residence in the Rising Stones. It was that compassion, more than anything else, that marked him as a man to be trusted, even as his fame grew and word of his deeds spread.
It had not always served him well, were you to ask him. Many were surprised to find he walked most places that he could not reach by aetheryte; he could not guarantee the safety of a chocobo in every place he went, thus he had no personal steed and took only the occasional porter, gently refusing repeated offers from Bentbranch. He had sustained injuries on more than one occasion trying his best not to kill those who stood in his way unless absolutely necessary - the pockmarks of Garlean artillery wounds marked him alongside scars from poachers’ arrows and the discolored burns of tribesmen’s spells.
Such care even extended to beastkin, when he could spare it. On one occasion he’d carried a coeurl kitten from Sastasha’s cattery full through the entirety of the grotto, its yowls from his rucksack a cacophony that made what would have been a stealthy approach all but useless. The creature lingered in the Sands for only a few suns before a proper caretaker was found; the tumbleweeds of cat hair and stale stench of ammonia, however, lingered for even longer - just long enough to upset the wolf pup he returned with from Thanalan a sennight later.
Few places escaped the unintentional warpath of the good samaritan. Eventually, given all he had done for the realm, it was something of an honor to be blessed with one of the Warrior’s rescues: a nest of baby squirrels, an antelope calf, a sparrow with a broken foot. Stop in at any inn and like as not, they’d have played host to both the Warrior and some creature he’d saved from the natural cycle of life and death.
Dragonhead, however, sat as a notable exception to the rule. What hardy creatures could survive the biting cold of Coerthas did not often find themselves in danger for long - aevis were as deadly as they were intelligent, and if the Dravanians did not find the injured or sick then the other hungry wildlife would. Thus as the fortnight of the Warrior’s first stay came and went, none of his extra guests ever darkened their doorstep - until the heretic incursions bring him northward once more.
To the guards posted at Dragonhead’s southern entrance, at first it looks as though the Warrior is injured, arms clutched to his chest against the whipping wind that stirs flurries from the freshly-fallen snow. One begins to shout for aid, but the other quiets him - it is not injury but a bundle that he protects from the biting cold. It almost looks like a swaddled babe, the soldier who almost shouted notes, and the absurdity of that thought ties his tongue until the Warrior is nearly upon the fort. He nods to both of them, rushes through a hasty apology muffled by the cold-weather wear he’s donned, gestures once to the lump of fabric in his arms, and then hurries onward into the square, then through the heavy wooden doors of Dragonhead’s main gathering space.
“Well, well! What a surprise, and a sight for sore eyes indeed!” Completely unaware the Warrior had been on his way into Coerthas in the first place, Haurchefant is no less jubilant for how unexpected the reunion is. Curious, his mind strays from more immediate thoughts of a warm meal and welcome companionship to whatever might be bundled against E’salih’s chest. “My friend— are you quite alright? What is it that you carry?”
“Good evening— Ack. Sorry, Haurchefant, I’ve come with news from Mor Dhona, but—” As he speaks, E’salih begins the process of un-bundling the tan cloth, now recognizable as one of the warming layers of fabric he tended to bundle himself in whenever he visited Coerthas. To his continued confusion, the first hint of its contents Haurchefant catches is a horribly-ruffled feather. Then two, then an entire wing - and then the creature within thrashes violently, prompting a swear or two in response from E’salih.
Finally, after a measure of struggling - during which all three of Haurchefant’s offers of assistance are woefully refused - the Warrior presents a yearling hawk, bedraggled and damp and staring balefully out from its cloth prison as though it truly believes it could kill both elezen and miqo’te with naught but its fierce gaze.
“It was tail up in the snow just off the path up from Revenant’s Toll - I think it got caught in the blizzard.” E’salih brushes a few downy feathers from the cloth mournfully, his smile apologetic as he turns his attention upon Haurchefant at last. “I couldn’t just leave it there.”
“Of course you couldn’t! You are as noble a soul as ever, E’salih.” Haurchefant, as usual, means every word of praise he offers; he misses the bashful twist of E’salih’s ears backward, the anxious sway of his tail behind him. “Shall I fetch a stablehand? Send for a gryphon handler? I will see to its care myself, if you wish—”
“No, no, it’s fine— Haurchefant, no. You’ve got all of Dragonhead to manage, I won’t add animal handling to your list of duties—” Haurchefant opts not to interrupt and inform him of the stabled Ishgardian chocobo he tends to daily, though perhaps it would lend some credence to his offer. “I’ll care for it myself. I just need a few supplies from the stables. From the sound of things I’ll be here for at least a sennight, anyway.”
“Whatever your need, it shall be granted, I promise you.” All of Dragonhead knows, by now, to heed the Warrior of Light’s wishes wherever possible, but it would perhaps do to remind them. “Get settled and warm, and then we will speak of this missive from Revenant’s Toll - your timing could not be better.”
Despite E’salih’s initial protestations, Haurchefant does eventually take on some of the duties of caring for the poor creature in the days following. A broken wing splinted and its frostbite tended, the cloudkin is free to convalesce in an unused storage closet off the Intercessory, with regular visits from both men to bring it meals and check on its progress - the entire process of which it absolutely loathes, its shrill cries becoming regular enough to function as a demented sort of alarm clock. Not quite well enough by the time E’salih makes his return to the Rising Stones, the task of caring for the bird then falls solely to Haurchefant, who carries on with aplomb. A sennight later, the bird nearly makes its escape into the rafters of the Intercessory, and Haurchefant deems it well enough to be released, sending word to the Warrior stating as much.
“Quite ungrateful, isn’t she?” Asks Haurchefant days later, watching the quickly-receding form of the hawk as she is at last released from her perceived captors and into the sheltering branches of the Shroud once more. E’salih lets out a quiet laugh.
“She wouldn’t be the first.”
“I shall be thankful for your kindness in her stead, then.” He replies resolutely, offering a low bow. “And in the stead of all others, past and future, who are fool enough to take the Warrior of Light for granted.” He means it, every word, his smile as bright as ever as he comes up from the bow to a look of surprise on E’salih’s face.
It is a measure or two before the Warrior finds his voice again — if Haurchefant had caught him off-guard, he doesn’t regret it. It had been no less than the truth, after all, and it seemed an appropriate time as ever to remind the man of it.
“Such is the hero’s lot, unfortunately - to toil for the good of others without expecting anything in return. But... thank you, Haurchefant.”
“It is but the least I can do, my friend.”