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Walk with me they'd said, and Alphinaud knew things would not proceed as his carefully laid daydream did.
He’d imagined to finally see shock upon their half-masked face - the pleased kind, not the sort that came with the bad news they’d all become accustomed to. But all they’d offered him had been a widening of their eyes, a cock of their head, and silence. That endearing penchant to ever carefully measure their words had suddenly become grating, frustrating even, but Alphinaud could wait for an answer. The invitation had come in its place instead, and, despite the shattering of his plans, he’d taken it.
He’d thought the confession would be the worst part, but the waiting was definitely the true agony. He took deep breaths; if the Warrior of Light had such endless patience, then so would he. It was the very least he could do, he supposed, if he wanted to stand by their side. He tried to focus on the now - the shuffling of their heavy tail against the Ishgardian stone, the clink of their pauldron against their spear - and found that it simply made the moment all the more unbearable to deal with.
He wished they were still in the Falling Snows and he wondered, with a jolt of chilly realization, if that had been the wrong way to go about it. Hot embarrassment filled him to the eartips, quite opportune in providing some succor from the bite of the Coerthan cold, and his mind raced. Had the cocoa been a mistake? Had it been too much, too presumptuous? Could it have been that what he’d hoped would be a soothing balm had been nothing but salt on a wound? He stared at the back of the Warrior’s head in a panic, but nothing about them offered any indication of whatever they were thinking. Immovable, impenetrable, sturdier than the crumbling stone they were headed towards.
The Steel Vigil, he realized. Their walk had turned into more of a hike, but he’d been too deep in his own head to notice. He gazed around the ruins while the Warrior pushed on, and he nearly stepped on their tail when he hurried to catch up with them. They turned to look at him then, then away when all he offered was a clearing of his throat and a refusal to meet their eyes. They walked on.
They exited the other end of what remained of a decrepit hallway. The wind was louder here, tugging at their clothes, at his hair. That did not stop the Warrior from stepping towards the edge of the cliff to look at the round platform past the yawning abyss, even as their skirts were clawed at as if the air itself was intent on dragging them in. Alphinaud followed to stand at their side, and wondered what it was that had happened here for them to stare at it quite so intently.
They spoke before he could ask. “You are a commendable young man, Alphinaud,” they began, somehow clear despite the wind, and Alphinaud didn’t think he’d ever heard them speak so long a sentence without prompting. He whipped his head to look at them and noted with a thump in his chest that they’d tugged their mask down, rare a sight as any - had they always had freckles? Their lips kept moving and he snapped himself out of his gawking. “You are clever. You are brave. And you are kind,” they said, and yet he could not preen under the praise, for he’d gone through enough critiques back at the Studium to know when one was simply being offered a soft landing, “... but such virtues do not make up for the summers you lack."
Alphinaud stared at them, his ears ringing, his heart aching against his ribs. Despite the dread he could feel right above his gut (specifically at the cardia, he would have guessed), there was simply no debate he would ever abandon without a fight. He faced them despite the wind then blowing against his face, and strengthened both body and resolve. "Warrior, in Sharlayan I am already a man grown--"
"Alphinaud." Their voice was soft, so soft he read their lips more than heard their voice - but it was enough to shock him into silence. In all these moons of knowing them, they had not interrupted a single soul. Not in his presence, anyway. Perhaps that was a thing he did not know about them, he realized. As if to spite him, the gusting wind eased down, and the stunned quiet was long enough for them to continue.
"When you founded the Crystal Braves, you felt a man grown, yes?" The Warrior finally turned to him.
They could have stuck him with their lance and the sting would have been gentler.
"And when the Crystal Braves betrayed you..." The pause was long enough that he mistakenly believed he could gather enough of his wits to retort, "You felt small, no?"
Alphinaud felt small then. Small and hopeless and foolish, all the things a grown man would not be. The Warrior looked at him with a kindness and patience he did not think would be offered to anyone other than a boy, and he knew the argument was lost. But like a boy, he did not want it to be.
"I--I would like to believe I have grown since then."
"Aye, you have," they said, catching him off-guard yet again, "But when the seed becomes a sapling, it does not mean it is a tree."
Perhaps this was why the Warrior rarely ever talked, Alphinaud thought; to let the words ferment to a bitter brew that rarely ever tasted like untruth. "Then perhaps once I am a tree of a satisfactory height we will be able to see eye to eye," he said, feeling very clever. The Warrior's gaze dashed his hopes.
"I am no tree to you, Alphinaud," they said, ever so gentle as they made his insides feel taut and brittle. He very nearly crumbled when a God-killer's hand came upon his shoulder, and he was sure that was the first time he'd even so much as witnessed them touch someone. They stopped then, to think. "A conjurer, perhaps." Another pause. "No matter how tall the tree, it can never return what its caretaker gives... and yet it does not mean that they love the tree any less."
Alphinaud wanted to scream. He wanted to kick, he wanted to wail, he wanted to cry like Alisaie had when Grandfather had left them behind. This was not what he'd wanted; this was not what he'd planned. But the last time he'd planned and gotten just what he'd wanted it did not go so well, did it? He remembered the Warrior had been the first to see the cracks in the glass, where all he could see was his brilliant reflection. Where he'd seen himself fit with hot air, they'd remained solid on the ground; perhaps he ought to trust they knew better about the earth and what grows on it than pay the price of doubting their judgment once more.
He at least allowed himself to enjoy the luxury of Estinien never seeing him like this.
The walk back was a cross between mortifying and relief. He opted for the winding road back to Dragonhead as he did not think he could face any people so soon. He’d stepped out of the Steel Vigil first, and the Warrior had gone after him only once a distance had come between them. He knew they were following, watching over him should any strays of Nidhogg’s horde try him for a morsel. The protection warmed as much as irritated him. Was he nothing but a boy to be kept out of harm’s way, whom they did not trust enough to make it back in one piece alone, was that it? Then guilt overtook him. They’d already lost two treasured companions in Ishgard alone; how could he blame them for wanting to protect a third?
He greeted the guard at the entrance with a polite, if cool, nod. He made a beeline to the Falling Snows, and ignored the now cold mugs on the table. Unfortunately, the heavy oak doors opened again before he could make an escape to his borrowed chambers. He changed strategies and fled to warm himself at the fire; being seen running away would be more than he could handle. Hydaelyn chose to ignore his prayers, clearly, and the Warrior stepped in beside him.
They stood together in silence again, in the company of the crackling flames. Alphinaud wondered who would budge first, as if it wouldn’t be him, coward’s knees knocking together to escape the awkwardness of the situation. Once again they caught him off-guard, grabbing him by the shoulders, making him face them. He didn’t think he’d ever seen them look anyone in the eye, their gaze always wandering, deferent, and yet here he was, faced with a piercing white and blue dipped in pools of black sclera. He was rooted to the spot.
“Alphinaud,” they said, and there was something fragile to their voice. “You are still family.” And they hugged him, and they held him. His hands froze in the air, and he recovered quickly enough to grab around them; they were soft under the leather of their armor, and they were hard beneath the softness. He held on as he wondered, for the first time, what family had they left behind to be here today? Was there any at all, waiting for them to return? “You are home.” And he trembled, and he cried, and, as he made a snotty mess of their shoulder and they made no protest, he understood.