Work Text:
Thumbing the strings of his harp in contemplation, Alvaar picked out a soft tune as he listened to the notes. He made a slight face as Alphinaud quickly rose to his feet with a snap of his latest book but per usual didn’t try and stop him. Physically anyways.
“Ah, I believe it’s time that I retire,” he announced brightly. Almost like the Arcanist wasn’t beating a hasty retreat. “See you on the morrow then Alvaar.”
Gaze already fixing back to strings as he continued tuning his instrument the Bard shook his head. “Yes, go on off with you. But I’m told a man of culture should have an appreciation for song Leveilleur.”
“On that we agree, but I think perhaps our tastes in song rather differs my friend. Still, fair fortune in your efforts, Aldaviir,” he shot back without missing a beat.
That was a blatant lie.
While true he had certainly grown up with a variety of music in Sharlayan, none of it quite matched what Alvaar played. Even songs that Alphinaud had heard before were just… different when coaxed out of that worn travel harp and sung with that clear tenor.
Sad songs pulled at the heart until tears filled your eyes and raucous tunes set your feet to tapping. The Bards ability with song fairly dwarfed what he’d read of them in his studies. Once Alvaar put his fingers to strings, the Warrior of Lights true magic came to life; not one of aether, but one stranger still. And in its own way, just as potent as any spell.
The Arcanist had seen it enough times in their travels. Watched whole rooms fall under the persuasive sway of Alvaar’s songs until all eyes were on him.
He’d also seen that cheery mischievous side of him too, although he was rather certain Alvaar must have forgot. Back when the Bard wasn’t known the world over as the Warrior of Light, and his behavior had been more fanciful. When the handsome Elezen had tempted more than one patron with movement and song at the start of a night’s stay, and met up with him the next morning practically glowing and notably without having to pay.
As much as it had annoyed him then, he almost missed it now. Leaned against the wall of a nearby hallway, where he could safely listen without being seen, he noted that Alvaar’s songs didn’t have that same happy energy to them. They were still just as skilled and persuasive. Still pierced straight to the heart and tugged at emotions. But the happy tunes people asked from him paled to what he could remember.
They had never quite recovered their spark after Lord Haurchefant had been killed, though no one else seemed to notice it.
The truth of Alvaar’s skill, the truth of Bardic magic at its core, was always about heart. Least, that was how the Bard himself had explained it. It was about feeling something so passionately, so honestly, that you could put it to song. Make it resonate and change the world around it.
When they had first worked together, Alphinaud had found Alvaar a bit odd. His face was always set with a quiet sort of calm despite the bardic attire he wore. Nothing like the minstrels the Arcanist had known, who wore their personality as loudly as their clothing. How did a man with such a quiet and placid demeanor stir the hearts of those around him with voice alone?
It was only when he’d found him one evening at the Roost, harp in hand, his hat gone, and dancing merrily on one of the many tables that it all made more sense. That under the calm was a man who had felt the full range of emotions so intimately they rose effortlessly to his call.
He’d read somewhere that the difference between technique and mastery was in understanding the embellishment. The little bit extra you added in to make something personal, to give it heart. It was, as Alvaar had explained, what made a Bard. How a minstrel could play the same song as him, but only a Bard who had wholly felt the emotions lying in that song’s intent could turn it into magic. Could freely arrange those notes with pause and movement to give them feeling.
It was a gift that made the heat of Titan’s lair bearable for a party of adventurers. What had turned aside the freezing storms of Saint Shiva. The rally of a battle cry that had brought down Ultima and Ascians and made Gods into little more than stumbling blocks.
He didn’t hate Alvaar’s performances. The truth was, Alphinaud wasn’t any less enchanted by Alvaar’s skill as anyone else. But it was also why he didn’t want to be around where the Bard could see him listening. Perhaps it was just an excess of pride, but he didn’t care for letting Alvaar see his reactions. He didn’t want to be part of the loud candor of drinking songs or find himself dancing with some stranger to a waltz. Nor did he fancy the way songs of tragic love moved him to tears when he had seen it for himself. When he had watched the light in the Bards heart nearly snuff itself out in grief as he’d held his dead lover in pained silence.
The trouble of listening to Alvaar sing was when you knew the story behind a heartfelt song. When you could remember it clearly, and so feel it the way the Bard had.
It was a large part of why Alphinaud would never admit that he listened to and loved the Bards songs. The more they travelled together, the more of those feelings and stories he understood. And somehow, the more he felt like he was peering too closely into the man’s private life.
It was why he really wanted to hate love songs. Invariably, as the night dragged on and the Bard began to drink to keep his voice honed, he would pull something softer from his repertoire. And without fail he could remember where that feeling came from.
On one of many trips to Camp Dragonhead to provide support, they’d been caught under snowfall so thick they’d had to wait out the day. And with nothing left to do, the Bard had lifted his harp and for once Alphinaud had nowhere else to be. So he was nearby to see Alvaar performing with a light step and a strong voice as the denizens of the fort partied around him. When he’d crooked a smile at Lord Haurchefant and his voice had taken on a silken sweetness with his verse. One of the first of many love songs he’d heard Alvaar sing and even remembering it now he still felt the same faint flutter in his heart. The truth of the man’s feelings woven inextricably into that song, gentle and kind. A smile unique and reserved only for him. Ardent passion and understanding; acceptance given and returned. A promise of always being there to provide comfort and support in the most savage of storms and heartfelt thanks for returning in kind. The feeling of carrying someone with you no matter how far the road took you, and a vow to always return home…
He hadn’t been surprised at all that Haurchefant had only grown more enthusiastic about the hero in the coming months. He’d been somehow even less surprised, if not completely free of feeling scandalized, when he’d later caught the pair cozied up together in Haurchefant’s chair with a sea of bottles on the desk. Alvaar seated casually on the man’s lap as he nuzzled against Haurchefant’s jaw with a soft laugh and perfectly happy caught up in the Lords arms listening to his stories.
Alphinaud wasn’t naive to courting or even to one-night affairs, but it was perhaps one of few times in his life he’d really seen people so wholly and stupidly in love. Like something out of a novel, two lovers with eyes only for each other.
It was the first time he’d ever felt like he was seeing a side of Alvaar he wasn’t supposed to see. Like he’d crossed some invisible line between them. And somewhere, in some unreasonable part of him, the knowledge had stung for reasons he didn’t understand.
It was an awful thing to relive each time Alvaar set those songs to string. It was even worse knowing the memory of those feelings which lingered in that voice were the happiest his friend had ever been.
He would have given most anything that they could return to them, that it might repay even a part of the debt that the Warrior of Light was due. Instead all he could do was sit and listen and remember and wait. Until that harp fell silent and Alvaar would be too drunk to remember what happened to him. And he’d rise, collect Alvaar’s things, and lead his friend back to his rented room. Remove what trinkets and baubles and gear he could after the Bard collapsed into bed and fight the blankets free to be over him instead of under.
Usually it would be easy and he could retire himself after the Bard had passed out cold. But sometimes if Alvaar had reminisced too much as he played, he would sit beside him and rub at his shoulder while the Bard cried for the things he had lost. Offer quiet reassurances that he wasn’t alone.
Because Alvaar wouldn’t be if he had anything to say about it. While they would ever have duties pulling them in different directions, he would do his damndest to be there when Alvaar needed him, even if that was just to say ‘welcome home.’
It was why he didn’t pull away when Alvaar’s hand gripped his as he’d been rising to leave. Instead he just met the Bards quietly pained gaze and understood the unasked question. One of precious few things the man would ever ask of him and only when the night had dragged on late, his heart heavy with bitter memories and his brain addled with too much alcohol.
Climbing in beside the lanky Elezen, he let the Bard carefully pull him close and hug him gently. Curling up around him protectively where he could bury his face against the Arcanists hair, Alvaar would fall quiet and hold on long after he eventually fell asleep.
It was something Alphinaud hadn’t known how to handle at first, panicked as he was, but like many things where the Warrior of Light was concerned, he needn’t have worried. For all whispers of Alvaar’s illustrious career of debauchery, he’d never done anything untoward where he was concerned. Perhaps held him a little too tightly once or twice, but nothing worse than that.
The Bard had only wished to not fall asleep alone was the slurred answer he’d received from his friend when he’d asked the first time. It was something he could understand quite well, especially given his twins long absence after a life spent so closely together. Though he wouldn’t ever say it he rather missed Alisaie’s presence beside him, especially given their penchant for impromptu naps and sharing sleeping spaces.
So he let Alvaar fall asleep before carefully slipping free and rising to his feet to finish his tasks. A fresh canteen of water at the Bards bedside and worn travel satchel close at hand for whatever hangover might linger in the morning. Ensured that Alvaar’s hat and other removed gear were safely stored away and free of damage. And then with one last fuss of the blankets, he turned off the lights and retired to his own room.
And Alvaar would be back to his calm collected self in the morning, sipping coffee while he waited for him at a table in the inn. Usually with breakfast covered but still hot waiting for him with that impeccable sense of timing he had.
And if Alvaar remembered anything he never mentioned it, and as he never had any intention of bringing it up himself the matter stayed silent between them.
Which was fine for him. Once he might have admonished the Bard for his actions or let him know what he’d done so he could be recognized for the good deed. He took a measure of pride in the fact that he didn’t and the mark of progress it made in his character. The world was ever showing him its capacity for cruelty and he could at least understand the desire for reprieves if not quite the methods.
For all the things Alvaar had done silently without expecting (or rightfully demanding in some cases) recognition, this was surely the least he could do.
If Alvaar could shoulder the burdens of the Warrior of Light without complaint, then he could at least support him in that endeavor however it was needed. Even if it was silently reminding him that he wasn’t alone.