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i.
Too often duty in the East Shroud led to unfortunate encounters with treants or stray packs of roaming Ixal. But every once in a moon, perhaps only when the Twelve themselves willed it, Sanson was blessed with little more than a nice, peaceful walk through the forest. On one such day, below a thick canopy which dappled the trail ahead in speckled rays of sunlight, Sanson caught the faintest hint of a melody on the gentle breeze. It wasn’t an uncommon sound by any means (many took up music as a hobby and bards were rife in Gridania), but to hear it so far off the beaten trail drew his attention. This part of the Shroud wasn’t exactly safe, and though nothing seemed to indicate any trouble, for his own peace of mind Sanson decided to follow the sound if only to ensure the musician wasn’t in any danger.
It took a few minutes to determine from which direction the melody was coming, but once he had, Sanson made the trek quickly. The music grew louder as he traveled closer. He began to realize very quickly that the person playing was extremely talented: plucking the harp and singing a lovely tenor in joyous harmony. He wondered if it wasn’t even familiar, perhaps, heard in a pub or two on social nights with his fellow Adders. Regardless, it proved an unexpected treat for his ears, and he followed the voice straight to its source with increasing interest.
Eventually, Sanson came upon a small glen where the canopy opened up overhead. Seated on the log of a fallen tree was a beautiful elezen man, his eyes closed and his fingers working the strings of his harp in rapid and precise movements. Suddenly embarrassed, Sanson ducked behind a nearby tree and rested his back against the trunk before he could be seen, taking a moment to gather his wits. It wasn’t often someone managed to catch him so off-guard, but the man in the glen looked nigh angelic where he perched, golden rays of sun shining down upon him as he sang with the experience and showmanship of a true and practiced bard.
Sanson shook his head and chastised himself. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen a handsome man and it wouldn’t be the last. He was being a fool. All the same, he took another quick peek around the trunk and looked him over a bit more closely. The man had pale blue eyes and soft brown hair. His harp looked to be well-used and better-loved, the polished wood gleaming despite its obvious age. It wasn’t until Sanson noticed that he was dressed in the garb of the Gold Bulls that realization struck, and for better or worse, his interest soured almost immediately.
Guydelot Thildonnet. Notorious slacker with a mouth foul as the void and a penchant for directly contradicting authority. He’d heard whispers time and again about the trouble the man stirred in his pursuit of entertainment or his never ending quest to shirk his duties. Tales of his charms were many, but Sanson was distinctly uninterested in spending time with anyone so intent on making a nuisance of themselves.
Sanson leaned back against the tree and huffed in annoyance, the man’s song yet ringing in his ears. As soon as he’d finished playing, Sanson would leave, he resolved. He’d finish the song, and then it would be like he’d never stumbled upon him at all.
ii.
Their final, frigid night in Falcon’s Nest, Sanson tossed and turned without an onze of relief. He felt guilty. Moreso that he ever had, perhaps, for anything. In his desperation to find even a scrap of evidence in their search for the Ballad of Oblivion, he’d pushed Celaine to perform a song reserved for mourning her fallen comrades. Poked and prodded, nigh begged, even, until her treasured friends lay bleeding in the snow and only then had she sung, haunting and beautiful and decidedly not for Sanson’s ears. Laced with shame at his own bull-headedness, his remorse was eating him alive. No amount of apologizing felt strong enough, and though they’d be leaving for Dravania in the morning, he couldn’t help but suffer sleeplessness in the meantime.
Finally giving up, he rolled over in bed one final time and then climbed out from under the covers. In the darkness, as quietly as he could, he dragged on his coat and boots and headed outside. The keep was utterly silent; the snowfall had long since ended, but the clear and starry night only seemed colder as a result. The two House Durendaire guardsmen on duty huddled around a fire near one of the buildings, chafing their hands above the crackling flames. Sanson carefully tread to the wall looking out over the expanse of the Highlands and sighed. Fresh air would do his mind good and, if nothing else, his bed would feel far more comfortable once his toes were like to fall off from cold.
Above, the Northern Lights had already begun their brilliant display, greens and blues shifting in tandem against the blackened sky. Sanson had seen them before, but they never became any less beautiful: a spectacular lightshow courtesy of Hydaelyn herself, one of the small blessings Coerthas yet cherished in the forsaken wasteland the Calamity had made of their home.
Sanson enjoyed a few moments of silence before he heard, somewhere, the distinct sound of notes being plucked on a harp. Search though he tried, he could not locate their source; nonetheless, he knew with certainty that it was Guydelot. He hadn’t spared a glance at the bard's bed as he’d left their sleeping quarters, but he’d been able to tell the elezen was just as affected by the tragedy of the day as Sanson had been. The song he quietly strummed was slow and mournful, a fitting elegy to the fallen. Sanson listened with reverence and did not move to seek Guydelot out.
Sanson had learned many things in the days since they began their journey, not the least of which being that Guydelot wasn’t quite the irredeemable louse he’d been led to believe. He was unorthodox at the best of times, it was true. And his mouth was just as foul as Sanson had been warned. But in his own way, given his own space, he’d worked well with Sanson and the Warrior in their effort to track down their quarry. Most surprising of all had been his quest, utterly unprompted, to deliver news to a soldier of his beloved’s pregnancy. Bad and useless people didn’t do such things. Guydelot may be frustrating, but he wasn’t utterly hopeless.
Sanson focused on the Northern Lights and considered what that meant for their tenuous arrangement as allies.
Guydelot played for a long time and Sanson listened patiently to every last note, wondering if it wasn’t the elezen’s very heart talking through his music. Every song seemed a little less hurt than the last, a little more spirited but still properly reflective. The musical arsenal of a true artist dedicated with single-minded devotion to his craft. Sanson could admire someone like that, he decided. No matter how unorthodox he may be.
He traced one gloved hand through the snow accumulation atop the wall and scrunched some up in his palm, well-chilled by the late night winds. If they played their cards right, Dravania would give them the answers they sought. They needed only trust in one another.
iii.
“It isn’t a question, Guydelot,” Sanson snapped, his patience straining. “If you’re going to be a part of this bard unit, you’ll have to learn to make compromises.”
“Compromises, aye,” Guydelot insisted, “But I ain’t about to bend over backwards for some bleeding Adders who don’t know the first thing about what we do!”
“They’ll learn in time,” Sanson reminded him. “If you could find some patience--”
“Sod patience!” Guydelot shouted, “I haven’t an ilm of it for them, or you.”
His biting words rang between them for a moment, then Guydelot turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming Sanson’s office door behind him. Sanson sank back into his chair and tried to ignore the way his frustration steadily bled into regret. He tried to return to his paperwork, but failed within moments. Perhaps he’d been too harsh. Guydelot had been a godsend in founding the bard unit ever since they’d returned from their hunt for the Ballad of Oblivion, but his penchant for questioning authority hadn’t vanished. If anything, it’d only grown worse.
All the same, he’d become a valued friend. And Sanson didn’t much care for fighting. It was usually best to just let Guydelot cool off and come back to their conflict later with fresh eyes. But by the fifth time Sanson found his quill standing static against his parchment and his eyes glazed over with thoughts of his friend, he found himself standing up and heading out the door after him.
Outside the Adders’ Nest, Sanson scanned what he could see of the streets for signs of the elezen, but he didn’t appear to be anywhere nearby. Odds were he was long gone and Twelve only knew where he’d taken off to.
“Lookin’ for Guydelot, Chief?” Sanson startled and his attention turned to one of his recruits, U’Mora, who stared back at him with earnest curiosity.
“I, er,” Sanson stammered, “That is, yes. I am. How’d you know?”
“Yer always together these days, I just figured,” the miqo’te shrugged. “Any road I asked him where he was off to and he muttered somethin’ about heading for East Shroud. Looked right pissed, though. Might let that one temper a bit before pokin’ around.”
East Shroud. Sanson suddenly recalled the glen where he’d first spotted Guydelot playing his harp what felt like centuries ago now. Though he couldn’t be certain, that seemed as logical a place as any for him to run off to.
“Thank you, Private,” Sanson said, and performed the Serpent salute. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Aye,” U’Mora nodded, and returned the salute. “Good luck!”
Sanson took the aetheryte to East Shroud and from there it was but a brief walk to reach Guydelot’s favored hideout. Sure enough, as Sanson approached, he heard the strumming of Guydelot’s harp and paused mid-stride with a sudden wash of embarrassment.
Perhaps… He shouldn’t have followed him all this way. Sanson liked to believe they were friends now, but what if Guydelot saw him as nothing more than another nagging superior? The song Guydelot strummed sounded a bit more forceful than it should, as if the strings were yet being plucked by infuriated fingers. Losing his nerve, Sanson ducked off the path and sat down behind a tree.
It was late afternoon and the swell of summer had made the air hot and thick with humidity. He and Guydelot had been working overtime to ensure every last detail of the bard unit was prepared for inspection, and they were both exhausted. No wonder they’d fought. No wonder Guydelot had gotten so frustrated with the necessary bureaucracy. Sanson needed to remind himself from time to time that not everyone was so patient with running in endless circles.
Guydelot played for what seemed like ages, until at last the music began to sound less infuriated and more as it should. His harp took on a calmer sound, and eventually, he began to sing. Sanson stole a glance from behind the tree, and his heart gave a painful squeeze at the sight of his friend seated on that self-same fallen tree, beautiful as he’d been that day all those moons ago.
Sanson would apologize the next time they met. But for now, he’d simply listen.
interlude.
“You play the individual notes well, but the heart and soul of a piece is its chords,” Guydelot explained.
Sanson stared down at the harp in his hands and felt a bit like a child. In an effort to prove he’d learned a thing or two since they’d begun these lessons, he had plucked out the entirety of a tune in notes alone. While it’d captured the melody of the words accurately, Guydelot was right in the fact that he’d stirred little else with his performance. Truth be told, Sanson was beginning to feel as though he wasn’t all that good at this actual music making business.
Seeming to sense his slip into another bout of self-doubt, Guydelot clarified, “The Allagan Empire wasn’t built in a day. You’ve got plenty of time to practice and you’ve made a good start of it. I only want to help you improve.”
Sanson nodded, holding the harp out and putting his fingers into position to play the first chord of the song they’d been practicing. He was grateful for Guydelot’s tutelage, as he’d improved leagues since the day he first played a series of sour notes and Guydelot frowned so hard Sanson thought his face might stick that way. He only wished he could speed the process up a bit.
“There’s the crux of your problem,” Guydelot said. “You ain’t holding it right.”
“I’m holding it exactly how you said to,” Sanson insisted, his eyebrows drawing together in frustration.
“Your fingers aren’t sitting right,” Guydelot clarified. He stepped forward and gently adjusted Sanson’s fingers, one by one, until they were sitting on the strings in a way that felt much more natural. Sanson watched the entire process in a minor daze, the pale span of Guydelot’s fingers against his own ever an object of deepest interest. He tried not to flush and strummed the chord. It sounded sweet, as it should, but the moment he put his fingers back on the harp to repeat the action, Guydelot sighed.
“Let me just--” he said, squeezing around Sanson and sitting down directly behind him. Sanson’s eyes went wide and Guydelot’s hands and arms came around to encompass his own. Slowly and methodically, Guydelot adjusted every ilm of Sanson’s posture and hands until he was satisfied with the results. Sanson resisted the urge to so much as twitch while Guydelot touched him, his pseudo-embrace far more unintentionally sensuous than he’d anticipated.
Guydelot scooted back a bit, but remained sitting behind him. “Now remember how you’re sitting. Remember the position of your arms and fingers.”
“A-aye,” Sanson nodded, committing the natural feel of his pose to memory, “Alright.”
He played a chord, then played it twice more. It sounded the same each time, and he did his best to restore his posture to the same position each time. Proud of himself, he turned around to look over his shoulder and Guydelot smiled at him so softly his heart seemed to swell in his chest.
“We’ll make a bard of you yet, Sanson the Stiff. Just you watch.”
Distracted and dizzy with affection of his own, Sanson dragged one of his fingers just a tinge too hard against the strings and it snapped in half, an unpleasant twang resounding as it did so. His face fell into deepest embarrassment. Guydelot sighed good-naturedly and patted him on the shoulder.
They ended their lesson there for the day.
iv.
Being abducted proved to be boring, more so than anything else. Once Nourval had secured his arms and legs and brought him to his hideout, Sanson spent most of his time lying on the ground and feeling the rumble of hunger in his gut grow from a slight suggestion to a fierce need. Beyond the initial scuffle, no one sought to harm him. He wasn’t questioned or harrassed. He couldn’t slip the ropes, he had no weapons, and he was malms away from anyone he might be able to flag down for help. Nourval’s henchmen took turns keeping watch over him, smug with the knowledge that their bait would surely be taken any moment now and the journal would be theirs once again. Resigned though he was to the idea, waiting was the sole action Sanson could take. And so wait he did, and wait, and wait.
It was only after he’d nearly memorized every last blade of grass surrounding him that a disturbance finally reached Sanson’s ears, and he perked up at what sounded like the Warrior of Light’s voice. Though he couldn’t make out the words from far away, he recognized when Nourval’s voice joined the fray as well, and then suddenly the scrapes and scuffles of a battle overtook the arena and Sanson knew he was saved. He heaved a sigh of relief, adjusting his aching arms for what he hoped would be the final time, and listened intently.
Above it all, unmistakable, Guydelot began to sing the Wanderer’s Minuet: a tune that empowered those allies who heard it to feats of greater strength. Guydelot was furious; Sanson didn’t need to see him to know the truth. And though he was tired and sore and hungry from nearly two days without food, Sanson couldn’t help it. He smiled. Lying on the ground for hours had given him little else to think about other than when or if Guydelot would come to rescue him, and loath though he was to admit it, no small number of the rescues his mind supplied him with ended in Sanson throwing his arms around Guydelot’s neck and kissing him for all he was worth. Putting an end to moons of uncertainty and making his gratitude--and feelings--clear as the midday sun.
Perhaps he was a bit of a romantic. But he could hardly be blamed when his mind had nothing else to focus on.
He listened as Guydelot ran the gamut of his battle songs, feeling his pulse stutter whenever he heard a grunt or misstep in his words. But eventually the fighting and the music came to a stop and then there were footsteps and the Warrior was upon Sanson, cutting his bindings and helping him to sit up properly for the first time in what felt like weeks.
“Are you alright?” the Warrior asked, resting a steadying hand against Sanson’s back.
“I’m fine,” Sanson reassured him. “A little stiff maybe, but--”
“Sanson.”
Sanson raised his head and spotted Guydelot standing less than a yalm away, his bow yet in hand and his face full of unspoken relief.
“Guydelot,” Sanson said, simply. The word rested between them like an offering.
And then the elezen was on his knees in front of him and his long, strong arms were wrapped around Sanson’s shoulders, and he forgot everything he’d thought about saying--everything he’d thought about doing--and simply reveled in the comfort of Guydelot’s embrace.
v.
It must be fate, Sanson thought, that this kept happening. Halfway through his patrols in Central Shroud, on yet another quiet and uneventful day, the sound of a familiar harp and voice caught his ear. Mayhaps Guydelot was making this happen on purpose, Sanson thought, but dismissed the idea as outlandish only moments later. All the same, he made his way towards the music, as he always had and ever would.
Nothing had changed since the day Guydelot and the Warrior of Light rescued Sanson from Nourval’s hideout. Though they’d embraced that day, and they both knew full well it hadn’t merely been friendly, neither of them had mentioned it since. Instead they’d fallen right back into their old rhythms: spending too many hours together, bickering like lifelong rivals, and pretending, steadfast and certain, that there were no feelings between them softer than a summer breeze.
Guydelot came into view relatively quickly, perched on a stone and oblivious to the world. For old time’s sake, Sanson leaned back into a nearby tree and listened in secrecy, letting the warmth and harmony of Guydelot’s voice and fingers wrap around him like a warm blanket. He was playing a love song: a sweet little ditty about a maiden whose love was lost at sea, but returned to her despite all odds. Sanson closed his eyes and lost himself to the tune, until a sudden break in the melody yanked his attention back to reality.
“You don’t have to hide, you know,” Guydelot said, plainly, when both his singing and strumming suddenly halted.
Sanson felt himself flush crimson from head to toe, but stepped out from behind the tree in a huff and stomped towards Guydelot as though he hadn’t been listening for nearly the entire song. “I just happened upon you, is all. I was out on patrol here anyways.”
“Oh, aye,” Guydelot nodded, thoroughly unconvinced. He smiled. “All the other times were mere happenstance too, I’m certain.”
Sanson resisted the urge to crumple in embarrassment. So he’d known every time, then? Gods strike him down for a fool. He rubbed the back of his neck, face yet burning. “Most of them were,” he muttered.
Guydelot grinned coyly to himself and left his harp on the stone where he sat, closing the space between them.
“I don’t let just anyone listen to me practice, you know,” Guydelot said. He folded his arms across his chest and tipped his chin up. “That’s a treat reserved for only the most privileged ears.”
“It’s been a coincidence nearly every time,” Sanson insisted, a bit frantic with the need to cover his footsteps. “There was one time I followed you, after we fought, but every other time I’ve just happened upon you. And I would’ve let you know I was there, but I didn’t have the heart to interrupt you, so I--”
“Sanson Smyth,” Guydelot shook his head, resting his hands on Sanson’s shoulders and stilling him. “My heart’s densest desire.” Sanson froze at those words, looking up at Guydelot and all but gawping in surprise. “There’s no one I’d rather have listen to my music.”
Sanson huffed, annoyed by the insinuation that he was the dense one, but had little time to dwell on the fact as Guydelot leaned forward and slanted their lips together in a soft, tender kiss that sent a tingle from the bottom of Sanson’s feet up to his shoulders. Determined, he wrapped his arms around Guydelot’s waist and kissed back, and soon they’d lost minutes to the simple act of exploring one another’s mouths in a new and utterly unfamiliar way, gentle and sweet and everything Sanson had hoped for, in the deepest recesses of his heart.
“I take it that’s permission to listen, then?” Sanson asked as they parted, neither of them willing to let their mouths stray too far from the other’s. He could yet feel Guydelot’s breath hot against his lips. “At least from time to time.”
Guydelot kissed Sanson’s mouth one more time, quick and feather-light, before saying, “As often as you like.” He pulled Sanson into an embrace, resting the point of his chin against the top of Sanson’s head, and added, “In fact, I think you’ll have a rather difficult time getting rid of me.”