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If you’d asked him a few years prior, Haurchefant would have made some very foolish guesses about what sort of man a primal-slayer might be.
Now that one is thawing his fingers by the fire in Haurchefant’s office, he finds himself rather pleased with how wrong he’d been. Their visitors have been chasing their tails trying to make progress with the nobles for almost a week now, and Haurchefant has started looking forward to Vilmar’s sporadic visits.
“So, what challenge have they thrown your way today, my friend?” Haurchefant asks, getting up from his desk. Vilmar had taken off his hat when he removed his gloves, and his ears twitch ever so slightly when he favors Haurchefant with a smile. His eyes are tired, but the warmth in them is honest.
“Today’s challenge is one of my own making, actually,” Vilmar says, shaking his head. “I was hoping to ask you for a personal favor.”
Haurchefant fails to keep his surprise off his face, but it melts into delight easily enough. “Oh? I would be happy to assist you in any way I am able.”
“Do you know where I might find a coat suitable for Alphinaud? There’s no readily available tailor and he isn’t dressed for the weather at all.”
“Is that all? Clothing cut for Elezen youths won’t be much of a challenge to track down,” Haurchefant says. “I can’t promise anything in line with current fashions, but I doubt it’ll take me more than a bell or two to find a woman whose son has outgrown a jacket.”
Vilmar visibly relaxes. “Oh, thank the twelve. His shivering has been breaking my heart.”
That gives Haurchefant a moment’s pause. “Is this not an errand he sent you on?”
Vilmar shakes his head. “No, I’ve come of my own accord. I’ve met a handful of men with frostbite since coming here, and I’d rather not see a friend meet the same fate. I’d lend him one of my own jackets, but my shoulders are too broad. I doubt he’d wear a coat he’d be swallowed by, given how much the boy values his dignity,” Vilmar says with a sigh, before he gives Haurchefant a hint of a grin. “I can only wonder what that must be like.”
And there it is again, that playful self-deprecation that goes so far against what Haurchefant expects from those who fancy themselves heroes.
“It’s kind of you to indulge his sensibilities,” Haurchefant says, smiling. “Although I’ve found it is usually the man, not the manner of dress, that grants dignity. You, my friend, could look dashing in a coat tailored for a Roegadyn.”
Vilmar laughs. “Gods, I’d look like a child trying on Mother’s nightgown. Forget being swallowed by the thing, I’d drown.”
“And look ravishing all the while, I’m sure,” Haurchefant reassures, setting a hand on Vilmar’s shoulder. He must barely be able to feel it through the plating of his armor, but he leans into the touch nonetheless.
Well now. That’s certainly encouraging.
“Get enough ale in me and I’ll probably be willing to try it out,” Vilmar says, smiling easier now.
“Sounds as good an excuse as any for us to share a drink. If you’re unable to locate a Roegadyn fellow with a jacket to spare, you could always borrow one of mine.”
“Hmmm, you’ve got the height on me, that much is true, but I think we’re about a match around the shoulders. Do I get to undress you before I put on your clothes?”
“If the situation calls for it, I don’t see why not.”
“Then perhaps I’ll leave divesting my Roegadyn friends of their jackets for another time, if I have a volunteer already,” Vilmar says, grinning.
It occurs to Haurchefant that he hasn’t really seen the man smile like this before. It seems too large for his face, sneaking into cheerfully flicking ears and a playful tilt of his head. There’s no shyness behind it, which makes him wonder if this is what Vilmar is usually like, without overbearing responsibility grinding against raw grief like salt pressed into an open wound.
“Indeed. It would be my pleasure,” Haurchefant says, letting the hand on Vilmar’s shoulder drift just a little lower, settling on his upper back. Those delightful ears give another twitch and Vilmar laughs.
“Setting aside the issue of my borrowing your clothes, how much would you like for Alphinaud’s jacket? I have money.”
Haurchefant shakes his head. “I’ll not charge you for a secondhand coat, my friend.”
“You’ve done plenty for us already--” Vilmar starts, but Haurchefant pats him on the back.
“What kind of host would I be if I let your youngest companion freeze? If anything, your foresight to ask has saved me a great deal of dishonor in the long run.”
Vilmar smiles again, and this time it’s softer. “Well, if you insist. I won’t argue with you. But I'll be the one buying you the drink when this is all over, alright?"
“An acceptable compromise.”
Vilmar takes half a step back then, holding out a hand for Haurchefant to shake. He takes it and, when Vilmar lets the contact linger, doesn’t pull away.
“It’s a deal.”
* * *
By the end of the day, Haurchefant has found a soldier’s wife who kept her son’s clothes when he grew out of them. She volunteers to deliver them herself, which robs Haurchefant of an opportunity to see his favorite visitor, but he doesn’t push the issue. He does try to avoid behaving like Emmanellain.
He next spots the Scions in the courtyard just before dusk. Alphinaud’s ridiculous attire is hidden behind a fur coat that he’s pulled close around his neck to keep out the wind. Even from a distance, his body language is notably less miserable.
He’s talking to Vilmar, but as Haurchefant watches, Vilmar catches sight of him. He stops mid-sentence and turns to beam at Haurchefant, raising a hand in a greeting. Haurchefant’s chest tightens and he waves back, feeling downright bubbly.
He can tell by the way Vilmar turns sharply back to Alphinaud that his friend has just been told off for getting distracted, but he can’t bring himself to feel bad about it.