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Edmont smiles as the visitor steps into the manor’s entrance hall and speaks without thinking.
“Welcome home.”
It's foolish. Anybody can see with just a glance that for this Warrior of Light, ‘home' is somewhere far away. His skin is too tanned for one, kissed recently by the sun of distant lands. His voice is wrong, his way of speaking far from Ishgardian, with the coarseness of any adventurer when he gets excited. Besides, there are vases in the manor that are taller and wider than the Lalafell by far. He's altogether a foreign entity if taken by sight alone.
The sentiment feels right and, foolish and erroneous as it is, the warrior takes it in his stride. ‘Home’ is a myth they seem to share.
“Thank you. It’s good to be back.”
Instead of his familiar lance, the warrior sets a sword and a shield bearing the family crest just within the door.
“You're no longer a dragoon?” Edmont asks, curious.
“It would be a waste of a shield to not use it,” the warrior replies with a small smile.
The door looks better for the addition of the weapons. Like old times. Edmont doesn’t question it further.
Within minutes the manor is filled with life. It’s not just Edmont that’s pleased to receive such an esteemed guest, every member of the household down to the lowliest scullery maid is eager to wish their welcome. Soon the warrior is sat in one of the smaller dining rooms across from Edmont himself, wine and salted meats on the table, candles burning brightly, and conversation flowing like that of old friends.
But they’re not old friends. Not really. Edmont isn’t certain which word is closest to the fond, deep warmth he feels for this powerful little man. It's not a feeling borne from respect although Edmont has that in spades, not having the capacity to even picture the battles and trials the warrior is recounting. It's not mere gratitude either, although that runs in him so deeply he fears it somewhat.
It’s hard to think about what binds them together, to reduce it down to a single word, when the answer will inevitably be in the past tense.
And, as always, it rises in conversation. The warrior has been talking of the sands of Ala Mhigo, of how the wasting heat had made him miss the brisk chill of Coerthas and Ishgard. Edmont sneaks an extra popoto onto his plate as he talks.
“I went to Camp Dragonhead first,” he's saying. “And I was so busy getting to know the sight of snow again that if my chocobo was any stupider than it already is I would have fallen right into the Witchdrop. Have you ever seen it?”
“No,” Edmont confesses. “But I have heard it cursed often enough.”
“It's a damnable, irritating feature of the landscape,” the warrior agrees. “But it's... it's not all bad.”
The statement lingers for a moment and they share a look which signals the upcoming change in topic. Even before the warrior continues, Edmont can almost see another place set at the table from the corner of his eye, another voice raised in fond retelling.
“Haurchefant liked to take us there from time to time,” the warrior says softly. “The absolute madman.”
“Did he insist upon you singing walking songs all the way down?”
“Oh yes. He liked the way it echoed. Like singing with a choir of angels, he said. I can’t sing in key to save my life so I suppose he was talking about himself.”
The warrior laughs warmly, lips set in a joyous grin at the memory, and Edmont can feel himself doing the same. He can picture it so easily, Haurchefant leading a merry stroll into the depths of a treacherous chasm, voice ringing out across the void, filled with the joy of life and love and all good things found in small moments.
“It was always quiet down there,” the warrior continues. “Well, once we'd dealt with the dragons.”
“Dragons are easier to handle than the sharp eyes and tongues of gossips,” Edmont says with a wry smile. “I heard his complaints enough.”
“Not that he was ever subtle. About anything.”
“And not that he was anything but your most adoring fan.”
They lapse into silence, neither looking at one another but instead into the empty air between them, into the brighter parts of their hearts. It's an easy silence, as comfortable as if Haurchefant was filling it with praise and pride as he always had.
“Did you know,” the warrior says at length. “He actually tried to start an enthusiasts group for me once? When we barely knew one another?”
It had been in Dragonhead, and Haurchefant had wanted to make signing up mandatory for his new recruits. Edmont knows. It's a story he's heard from them both before. But there’s comfort in repetition and his guest wants to tell the story again and so he leans back in his chair with a smile.
“Did he really?” he says. “Tell me all about it.”
Tell me. He'd said the same to Haurchefant when his son had first spoken of the dazzling Eikon slayer. The smile he had worn then was the same as the one the warrior wears now. Edmont is content to watch and listen and love them both.
Whatever the reason, this really is home for the Warrior of Light. And with his presence, and his stories that provide glimpses into the life of a son he wishes he had held more closely, Edmont feels more at home too.