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“Ivant! Hey, Ivant!
The young knight in question looked up from his dull tasking of armour polishing at the sound of his name, squinting as one of his fellows rushed through the armoury in mad excitement. He carefully set down the helmet he’d been working on as the knight skidded to a stop in front of him, barely avoiding tripping over his own feet in the process.
“Have you heard? Have you heard?” The knight gasped, and this close Ivant recognised him as Panoux, a childhood friend of his that joined him in Dragonhead about a month back, “The Lord Commander’s reinforcements have arrived!”
Ivant stared at him for a long moment, “And this calls for running around yelling like a madman because…?”
“It’s the bloody Warrior of Light!” Panoux burst, his expression bright with hero worship, “In the flesh! Here! Physically!”
Oh dear.
Ivant picked up the helmet and resumed rubbing it down with his oil cloth, “Here physically, but not to be spoken to,” he reminded his friend, “I think he has better things to do than enduring your one-sided crush.”
“It’s not a crush!” Panoux flustered, his pale cheeks turning a bright shade of pink. Ivant didn’t bother dignifying that obvious lie with a response, “It’s admiration. Did you know he defeated Nidhogg practically single-handedly?”
“Yes, Panoux, and so does every other person in Ishgard,” Ivant rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t spin out of his skull, “He’s also killed several Primals, destroyed many a castrum, become king of some foreign land, liberated two countries almost simultaneously and exposed a thousand-year-old conspiracy. I know.”
“To think we have a living legend like that here!” Panoux sighed dreamily.
Ivant really had better things to do than listen to Panoux wax poetic about the bloody Warrior of Light for the umpteenth time. The first three had been cute, but now it was bordering on grating. Yes, sure, the Ser Aza was amazing and, according to rumours, drop-dead gorgeous for a Miqo’te, but Ivant could only take so much of ‘Warrior of Light this’ and ‘Warrior of Light that’ before he wanted to brain himself with his own helmet.
“He won’t be here long, if he’s the reinforcements the Lord Commander sent,” Ivant pointed out, secretly relieved about that. Ser Aza didn’t visit Dragonhead Camp all that often because of… scandalous reasons the old guard were leery of giving out details on, so he was certain that he was stopping over for as long as his task required. “No doubt he’d be sent onwards to deal with the Behemoths by nightfall.”
“Oh, yes, the mating night…” Panoux’s excitement wilted slightly at that, “I had forgotten.”
“If you’re lucky, you might get put on the escort,” Ivant said, feeling a little guilty at seeing his friend look so downcast, “With him around, you wouldn’t have to worry about doing any work or getting killed.”
Not that that would happen. The task of handling the Behemoth’s mating night only went towards the most experienced and battle-hardened knights. It wasn’t to fight the damned things, no, that would be the height of foolishness, but a steady nerve and good instincts were required to observe the entire event in case the Behemoths ended up stampeding towards civilisation. By nightfall all of the camps and villages would be locked up tighter than a priest’s chastity belt as they waited it out and usually it passed by without incident.
Except this year the Behemoths were gathering far too close to Whitebrim for comfort. Knights had been sent from the Holy See to bolster the walls, in case worse came to worse, but for the Lord Commander to send the Warrior of Light himself… either he was being overly cautious or the situation was more dire than initially led to believe.
“Hm…” Panoux looked thoughtful, “That is true. If I… well,” he smiled sheepishly, “We’ll see. Are you almost finished here, Ivant?”
“Almost,” he confirmed, “Just a few more suits left.”
“Done by nightfall?”
Ivant gave him a look, clearly knowing what he was angling for, but humoured him as he said, “Yes.”
“Excellent! Well, I’ll leave you to it, then,” Panoux lifted his hand in farewell, “Prepare for tonight!”
“It’s not going to happen!” he yelled after his friend’s retreating back, shaking his head with a quiet snort. Honestly, Panoux needed to spend more time looking at reality than chasing after dreams. There was no way two greenhorn knights were going to be sent alongside the Warrior of Light to deal with a group of rutting Behemoths.
Secure in that knowledge, he returned to polishing up the metal beneath his hands, already planning how to spend his time during the lockdown that night. Sitting in his cot bed reading a nice book sounded nice.
Ivant was going to fucking murder Panoux with his bare hands.
“I hate you,” he hissed at his friend, who was radiating smugness from behind his helmet with such intensity he wanted to throttle him, “Hate you so much.”
“You said it yourself, we won’t have to do anything but watch,” Panoux hummed, almost bouncing on his toes but just holding back. They were waiting to be briefed by Ser Emmanellain in the war room – a fancy name for what was essentially a glorified stone box-room with a bird’s eye view map on a squat table. So far there had been no sign of the legendary Warrior of Light, but Ivant supposed he was already off riding into battle against the Behemoths on the back of Midgardsormr or something ridiculous like that.
“Yes, because sitting in the freezing snow watching Behemoths fuck sounds like an amazing way to spend my night,” Ivant grouched, genuinely irritated. He didn’t want to risk his life sitting out there in the cold. He had an off-night. An off-night! Those were rare as golddust! “You owe me, wanker.”
Panoux flapped his hand dismissively, and Ivant was about to punch him in the ribs when the door to the war room opened up. All the knights congregated in the room instantly smartened to attention.
Ser Emmanellain walked in, his manservant hot on his heels and… oh…
A Miqo’te of short stature swaggered in. There was no other way to describe it. Everything about him commanded immediate attention, and Ivant couldn’t help but stare as the man’s yellow, dragon-like eyes scanned over the gathered knights with an unreadable expression. It was, admittedly, the first time Ivant had ever seen a Miqo’te up close, and he found himself staring at the man’s ears. They flicked back and forth, as if listening for something, and it was incredibly distracting.
Panoux made a quiet, high-pitched noise like his soul had just left his body. Ivant discreetly trod on his foot.
“Alright men,” Ser Emmanellain said, standing before them with a smile that aimed for confident but looked strained instead. Ivant had heard rumours that he had been under incredible pressure recently to keep up with the legacy of Ser Haurchefant, and it was beginning to show. “We have been gifted with a reliable ally for our duties tonight. I’m sure all of you are familiar with Ser Aza?”
Everyone’s eyes fixed onto the Miqo’te. Ivant could see some of the old guard – those that directly served Ser Haurchefant – give Ser Aza a respectful nod. Ser Aza just waved his hand in a shockingly casual greeting, his mouth curving into an attractively boyish smile. He looked like he was expecting to go for a nice stroll out in the snow, rather than potentially doing battle with horny, angry Behemoths.
“Good,” Ser Emmanellain cleared his throat, moving over to the map. Everyone moved to crowd round it, though Ivant noticed that Aza stayed by the door, staring off into space as he obviously tuned out of the briefing. He felt himself sniff disapprovingly at that.
But he didn’t allow himself to linger on it too long. He was drawn into the curtly but efficiently delivered briefing with a sharp ear. It seemed this squad of ten knights was a mixture of experience – Ser Aza’s presence meant that Ser Emmanellain felt comfortable in using this as a way to give the younger knights a sample of how to manage the mating night, instead of it being delegated to the same group over and over until they aged out or died.
“We will be leaving just before sundown, which is in approximately forty minutes,” Ser Emmanellain concluded, “Don’t be late. Dismissed.”
The knights drew themselves up to attention, and began filtering out of the room. The Warrior of Light, at some point during the briefing, had taken a casual lounging position against the wall next to the door. Ivant found himself staring as they approached, amazed at how short the man was. When he thought God-slayer, he imagined a mountain of a man, but no. He was like a Belah’dian Jennet – small, compact and stocky – and barely reached the same height as an Elezen tween.
He accidentally made eye-contact just before he reached the door, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prick up as the Miqo’te looked him over slowly. It was like having a dragon stare him down, trying to consider whether he was worth the effort of eating or not, and Ivant struggled to swallow.
After a long, frozen second, Ser Aza looked away dismissively.
Ivant practically escaped the room, letting out the breath he’d been holding shakily. His heart was thumping against his ribs and he felt annoyed towards himself. He only just walked past the man and he was acting as if he just survived a knife-fight in the Brume! But there was… an intimidating aura about him. He couldn’t explain it. It was as if some deep, animal instinct in him recognised a greater predator and instantly wanted to burrow its way through the earth and away.
“By the Fury…” Panoux’s awe-filled voice filtered through Ivant’s daze, “I just walked past the Warrior of Light.”
Oh, blessed Halone. “Can you be anymore pathetic?” Ivant said snippily, quickly burying his lingering anxiety as he levelled a flat stare at his friend.
“Say what you will, Sourpuss,” Panoux practically sang, “It’s not going to bother me.”
Ivant rolled his eyes, even if it was hidden behind his helmet, and tried his best to bury his misgivings. With a warrior like Ser Aza at their side, this outing should be as dull as a patrol between the Observatorium and Dragonhead. With any luck he’d be back in his cot by midnight, snoring away.
He needed to stop tempting fate.
“Halone grant me strength,” Ivant whispered under his frozen breath, half-buried under a snowdrift as a Behemoth lumbered literal yalms away from him. His body shivered despite his efforts, the quiet clattering of his armour knocking together making him clench his jaw from sheer stress. The beast, huge and bulging with scarred muscle, snuffled the ground with its maw slightly open, baring its stained, large fangs that were longer and thicker than his damned arms.
He had no idea where the other two of his little section were. Panoux had been close to where the Behemoth was currently sniffing, but judging by the lack of screaming and crunching, hadn’t been found yet. He fervently prayed that that remained the case, even if it meant the Behemoth ambling in his direction. His friend was an idiot with an equally stupid crush, but he’d rather endure an eternity listening to him ramble Warrior of Light trivia if it meant he lived through this night.
The Behemoth let out a low, throaty noise, a rumble that practically vibrated through Ivant’s ribcage. He buried himself even deeper into the snow, trying to calm his short, frightened breaths as the beast’s head swung slowly from side to side, as if searching, its thick, matted mane swaying. Ivant could almost feel the ground shudder when the Behemoth prowled forwards, its massive paws sinking through the snow as it slowly, slowly, slowly, moved towards him, nostrils flaring.
Despairingly, Ivant realised too soon that the Behemoth was downwind of him.
He daren’t move. He remembered in the briefing – if you think you’ve been spotted by the Behemoth. Don’t. Move. Don’t even twitch. It might smell you, but its vision was actually quite poor, especially in the dark, snowy weather like this. Sometimes it was best to risk being stepped on than to bolt and be snapped up in those powerful jaws. He told himself this over and over, even if his body quivered with the panicked need to run. Don’t run. Don’t run. Hold. Hold. Hold.
The Behemoth drew closer, its breath misting the air in great, heavy pants. Ivant desperately wanted the ground to swallow him up right now.
Closer.
The Behemoth was close enough that he could smell its carrion breath, that each heavy footfall sent a tremor through his body. He lowered his gaze to the snow right in front of his frozen nose, clenching his numb, gloved fingers tight as he prayed and prayed and prayed, hating how Panoux so readily volunteered them to observe this area, despairing how he was such a blind idiot that he didn’t spot the prone form of the Behemoth until they all but tripped over its bulk, hoping that he and Panoux survived this so he could murder his friend for-
Hot, stinking breaths washed over him. Ivant barely swallowed a terrified whimper.
He daren’t look up, even when he could hear the Behemoth draw deep, forceful breaths directly above him, even when a paw, heavy and clawed, landed mere ilms from him. The Behemoth knew he was here, he thought a tad hysterically. Would it start digging into the snow to find him, and rip him apart in the process? Or would it nose the ground and swallow him up in one go? Or would it simply step on him, crushing him in the process. What a letter for his poor mother to receive: stepped on by Behemoth because he was a moron. Halone would laugh when he stepped into her halls.
A rumble like thunder sounded above him, practically deafening him. Ivant squeezed his eyes tightly shut, offered one last prayer-
A chocobo suddenly ‘kweh’d.
The Behemoth stilled – then moved. To the left. Its muscled chest looming over him as the ‘kweh’ sounded out again; Ivant detachedly recognised it as a challenging cry. A chocobo. Challenging a Behemoth. If Ivant wasn’t certain that he was hallucinating from sheer terrified stress he would have burst into sobbing laughter.
“Now, now, Rations, don’t antagonise the poor thing.”
Ser Aza.
Ivant did lift his head then, by a mere fraction, enough for him to peer through his snowdrift cover to see – well, for one, the lowered head of a Behemoth only ilms away from him, which would be an image to chase him in his nightmares for weeks to come. But several fulms away two silhouettes stood – one Chocobo, one man-shaped. They stood fearlessly, utterly unconcerned about the beast staring them down.
Ser Aza was a fucking madman, he thought faintly.
“Are you hungry, lil’ Behemoth?” Ser Aza called, his voice gaining a taunting lilt. It was a provocative tone, one that made the Behemoth snarl, “Not good enough to join in on the fucking, so you’re digging about for food like some herbivore, huh?”
Fucking crazy.
The Behemoth slammed its paws on the ground, making Ivant jump, and let out a bellowing roar so loud his ears rang. Ivant was also fairly sure he peed himself a little, just a bit, his fingers unconsciously scrambling at the snow beneath him as if it was possible to just tunnel his way to safety.
Past the high-pitched ringing in his ears, pas the throaty, guttural growls of an infuriated Behemoth, Ivant could hear Ser Aza laughing. Laughing. Like this was the most glorious time of his life and loving every minute of it.
“Yeah, that’s it. C’mon,” Ser Aza’s voice gained a- an edge. Almost crazed, panting, and even in the darkness, even from this distance, his yellow eyes were bright with a frenzy that brought Ivant terrible memories of dark-scaled dragons slithering over the broken bridge, crushing knights underfoot and baring their fangs, always hungry, hungry, hungry; “C’mon. Fight me. Fight me! FIGHT ME!”
The Behemoth answered Ser Aza’s roar with a snarl, lunging forwards with such force that it almost made Ivant roll a little. He managed to stay in place, staring open-mouthed as the Behemoth smashed down on Ser Aza’s position, a cloud of snow being thrown up to the backdrop of a Chocobo warking angrily. In the darkness, past the falling snow, Ivant couldn’t see shit, except the Behemoth twisting and lunging and lashing out, moving further and further away as Ser Aza’s crazed laughter egged it on.
Insane. Crazy. Madman.
Ivant crawled like his life depended on it – because it did – away from the furious fighting and over to where he last saw Panoux. Here, sticking out of the snow, was a thorny bramble patch half-trodden on by the Behemoth. It was there that Ivant found Panoux cowering, staring with a mix of admiration and fear and smelling a little like urine. Considering he looked like he’d been half an ilm from being stepped on, Ivant decided to say nothing of it.
“Halone have mercy, Halone have mercy…” Panoux was muttering, barely acknowledging Ivant’s presence, “I was almost… almost…”
“Panoux,” Ivant gripped his friend’s shoulder, trying to squeeze despite the armour, “You live. You live. Just stay down while… while Ser Aza…”
They both stared over at the writhing shapes in the close distance. That massive greatsword the Warrior of Light lumbered around flashed and flared with an eerie, red and purple light, leaving fading streaks long after its swings. The air felt charged with something that made Ivant’s skin prickle uncomfortably, the shadows twisting and dancing under some malevolent influence. Whatever power Ser Aza wrought, it was not one that he thought the Warrior of Light would possess.
Then – there was a death cry. A wet, heavy gurgle of a beast and a massive discharge of aether that had then ducking deep into the brambles, thorns biting deep as clumps of dirt and snow rained down on them. The ground shuddered as something heavy dropped against it, and afterwards there was… silence.
Eerie silence.
Panoux was breathing hard and fast next to him, shuddering like a leave, “Halone have mercy, Halone have mercy, Halone…”
Ivant, pushed so far beyond fear that he had entered some sort of tranquil state of numbness, pushed himself up onto his knees.
The Behemoth was dead. It was sprawled clumsily on the ground in death, the snow around it blasted clear away by several fulms. The snow that wasn’t blasted into the aether was streaked with dark stains, splattered in graceful, thin lines. He couldn’t see what exactly killed the beast, but Ser Aza…
Ser Aza stood at the Behemoth’s head covered almost head to toe with blood. His sword was embedded into the ground, his hand gripping its hilt but not using it as a prop as he stared down at his foe with bright, yellow eyes. He looked like something out of the tales of Nidhogg – where many a story detailed how the dragon would hide itself in the form of a man and become devastation incarnate, fighting like a monster and a vengeful God both. Ivant barely restrained himself from making a warding gesture, terrified more of the man before him than the Behemoth he had just slain.
Ser Aza looked up – at him.
Then, he hefted his blade out of the ground and swung it over his shoulder, resting it there as he casually ambled over. Something shifted behind him, and Ivant realised it was his Chocobo, that had somehow miraculously survived the battle.
“You alright?” Ser Aza asked, his previous madness utterly gone as he stopped in front of them, peering down as if they were particularly interesting insects he had found under a rock, “Any injuries?”
“N-None…” Ivant said, frozen in place. Panoux was still praying to Halone next to him, “We’re… fi- oh.”
Wait, no, the third man. Feeling shame puncture his numb horror, he looked around for the missing third knight.
Ser Aza’s gaze slid to the right, where the brambles covered the lip of a cliff. It was a short, but sharp drop, and with a sinking feeling in his stomach, Ivant remembered that the third knight had bolted in that direction when the Behemoth first reared up. He may have…
“Hmm…” Ser Aza plodded over, walking through the brambles like they didn’t exist, up until the edge of the cliff, and leaned over, “Oh dear.”
Ivant closed his eyes. Dead, then.
“Least it was quick,” Ser Aza continued, as if hearing Ivant’s thoughts. He probably could. At this point mind-reading wouldn’t be unbelievable as one of the Warrior of Light’s terrifying skills. “There’re many who have had dirtier deaths.”
And were you the one who gave it to them? Ivant thought, not daring to move when Ser Aza walked away from the cliff and back towards him.
The Miqo’te’s head was tilted, like a curious predator, his ears flicked forwards and his yellow eyes intent. Ivant met the stare as evenly as he could, his hand dropping onto Panoux’s shoulder. His friend had gone quiet, but he could feel him breathing beneath his palm.
“Perhaps you should take your friend back to the main force. The other Behemoths have been taken care of,” Ser Aza said, looking down on him with his back to the moon hanging high in the sky. It cast his face in deep shadow, his yellow eyes glinting. Dark-scaled dragon. The bridge. Bright, malicious yellow eyes. Ivant fought back trembles as the memories threatened to clamber forwards.
“What of…” Ivant croaked, unable to look away.
“I’ll take care of it.”
And that was that, apparently. With a grunt, Ser Aza slipped the sword off his shoulder and behind his back entirely, the noise of magnetic locks activating cutting through the eerie silence. Ivant watched his every move, watched as Ser Aza walked back to the Behemoth, patting his Chocobo on the beak as he passed. The affectionate gesture struck him viscerally, though he couldn’t say why. It looked wrong.
What the hell are you? Ivant wanted to ask. What was that madness that gripped you? What kind of Warrior of Light fought like a savage beast?
Ivant forced himself to look away instead, deciding that he didn’t want to know the answers to those questions. He gripped Panoux and painfully pulled him over his shoulder in a knight’s carry, unable to spare even a brief second of annoyance at his friend fainting from fear. If anything, he had the right of it. Ivant wished… wished he could purge this night from his memory.
He turned his back on Ser Aza and began the slow, arduous task of carrying him back to the main group. Every instinct he possessed screamed at him for looking away from such a big predator, but he forced it down.
Behind him, Ser Aza laughed, light and carefree. Somehow, it was more terrifying than his maddened one.
“Goodness me, Emmanellain,” Aza sighed, “You sure are a taskmaster.”
Emmanellain ran his hand through his sweaty hair with a stuttering laugh, looking very much like he’d just done another round of the Grand Melee. He was bloody and scuffed and bruised, but he looked proud and satisfied despite his exhaustion, “I’m the taskmaster? You’re the one who decided to go toe-to-toe with several Behemoths in one night!”
“Just the runts,” Aza said dismissively, “Some of your knights stumbled over a few. I think I scarred two of them for life.”
Emmanellain let out a heavy exhale, puffing his fringe out of his eyes in a very unnoble like manner, “I think you have scarred me. Never would I have thought you could swing that blade of yours hard enough to crack a Behemoth’s skull.”
Aza’s mouth curved into a grin, “Well, it’s all about how you use it…”
Emmanellain turned away from him, unable to hide a smile, “Are you staying for the clean-up? There’s a hot meal and a warm bed waiting for you if you want it.”
It was an invitation Emmanellain gave out each time Aza came through Dragonhead. It was one he always refused. It was still offered though, to the point where it became a morbid little joke between them. Aza smiled wearily.
“Sorry, but I should report my success to Aymeric,” he said, “Maybe next time.”
Emmanellain nodded, then looked back, “Thank you, for your help. I… I’m aware that Haurchefant would have…”
“Haurchefant would’ve done many other things,” Aza said gently, “But you’re not him, so you need to do what you will do.”
“Yes, of course,” Emmanellain ran his hand through his hair again, shaking it out, “Well, then, this is farewell then. Um, give my thanks to the Lord Commander – Chancellor.”
“Sure,” Aza said easily, “It’s been nice to catch up with you.”
He untangled himself from the rest of the patrol after that. They were close to the bridge that led to the Holy See, and while the rest of them continued back to Dragonhead, carrying the body of that one unfortunate knight, Aza turned towards the bridge, Rations a faithful shadow.
“I’m gonna drown myself in that bath when we get back,” Aza muttered, the scent of blood thick in the back of his throat. The excitement of a hunt, of winning against something as powerful and overbearing as a Behemoth, was ebbing into a bone-deep tiredness. It had been exhausting fighting so many so consecutively, but it was a pleasant burn all the same.
He smiled to himself, remembering the last one. Standing defiant in front of that Behemoth, roaring back at it, meeting each bone-crushing blow with his own strength… so heady. There was nothing like meeting the raw, indomitable power of a Behemoth and crushing it underfoot. It was a shame most people couldn’t share in that feeling, though – which, strange, because surely a Behemoth isn’t that far beyond a warrior’s skill?
As he approached the gates, the guards there recognised him and waved him through, their masks hiding their stares from view. Aza waved to them, because it was polite, and stepped through the gates and towards Ishgard.
What a fun night it has been. If he was around for next year’s, he should ask if he could participate again.