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As was so often the case the night before a major battle, Aymeric found sleep elusive. Beyond the palisades, fires burned throughout the Ghimlyt Dark, throwing eerie shadows throughout the camp. With his armor polished to a blinding sheen and his sword as sharp as mortal hands could make it, he had little to busy himself with. His tent was generous by the standards he had become accustomed to in his days of traveling with the Temple Knights, and yet tonight it felt stifling and constricting.
Perhaps a walk would clear his mind and help him burn off enough restless energy to let him sleep.
He wandered through the camp, heading for the open field beyond. Though he did not hide, precisely, he kept to the shadows and the lesser-traveled paths. He didn’t trust himself to be in the proper spirits for an inspiring talk, but neither did he want the soldiers under his command to worry about his morale.
Thankfully, his escape from the camp was uneventful. Beyond the last line of tents, he felt he could breathe easier. The breeze carried away the familiar camp scents of smoke and oil and leather, leaving behind the sweet, earthy perfume of the desert, as well as a scattering of notes from some stringed instrument he could not name. The sound compelled him, resolving into a gentle melody as he followed it further from camp. His imagination called up all manner of stories of men lured to their deaths by song. Yet this melody was so pleasant he could no more have stopped himself than he could have taken flight.
Around the far side of a rocky pillar, he found the source of the music. The young Lord of Doma sat strumming a narrow, three-stringed instrument with a wide wooden tool. When he saw Aymeric, he grinned bashfully, as if ashamed to have been caught, but his fingers never ceased to play across the strings. “Do you have trouble sleeping too, Lord Commander?” Hien’s voice was just audible over the soft strains of the song. Aymeric moved closer, both that he might hear the other man’s voice more clearly and so that he could examine the unfamiliar instrument.
“Aye. I often do before battle.” They had been introduced only just that morning, before the disastrous peace talks with Emperor Varis. Yet Aymeric had been impressed with Hien’s composure when faced with the man who had caused so much suffering for his people. What he would give for such inner strength now. “May I join you for a time?” he asked. Perhaps some of the Hyur’s serenity might still his own nerves.
Hien gave a wry grin. “Only if you don’t mind a few missed notes now and then. I fear I am out of practice.”
Aymeric took a seat next to Hien, leaning back against the rock shelf. “What is the instrument?” he asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen its like.”
Hien let his song trail off. “It would be unusual if you had. This is a shamisen, one of the traditional instruments of Doma. I am told they are rather rare in Eorzea.” He held it up for Aymeric’s examination. “Do you play any instruments?”
“No, I never had the chance to learn. But no aspiring Ishgardian knight makes it through training without spending at least a season in Saint Reymanaud’s choir.”
“You sing, then? Wonderful. Let us see which songs we share. Music is better in harmony.”
Though their worlds were separated by hundreds upon hundreds of malms, they did manage to find a few songs in their common repertoire. Most of their shared songs came from the military camps—marching tunes, or bawdy drinking songs that left Aymeric blushing. They also both knew songs of the Warrior of Light’s exploits, which had recently grown popular in Doma. When those were exhausted, Aymeric sang a few of his favorite Ishgardian ballads, while Hien strummed simple harmonies.
Eventually, the moon reached its zenith, and Aymeric realized that he finally felt at ease, if desperately thirsty from his exertions. Beside him, Hien had lulled into silence, staring up at the sky. “Whatever happens tomorrow, my friend, this night was more than well spent,” the Doman prince said at last. He stood, tucking the shamisen under one arm and offering Aymeric his other hand.
Aymeric took it and allowed Hien to help him to his feet. Once standing, they did not release one another, not immediately, as if by holding still they could delay the necessity of their parting and the horrors of the morning to come.
***
They lived. Where so many others had fallen—nearly including the Warrior of Light—they had lived. Hien’s battle against the Garlean Crown Prince had become the topic of legends, though the Doman himself was shy about recounting the tale. Aymeric him only briefly in the days after the battle; they were both too wrapped up in matters of state and arranging transport home for the dead and the wounded. Though they both lingered on the front lines, they had little time to spend on song or fellowship, and eventually the conflict ended and the duties of leadership called them to their respective homes.
The first letter arrived mere days after Aymeric had returned to Ishgard. His morning mail included a small scroll, no wider than Aymeric’s palm, wrapped with a length of braided leather and sealed with a round of vivid, yellow wax. Inside, Hien’s calligraphic script described his return to Doma and the slow but steady progress of its reconstruction. He asked for details of Ishgard’s own grand rebuilding projects, clearly hoping to compare notes. Yet underneath the vaguely formal matters of statecraft were sprinkled small personal joys—favorite foods, the revival of his mother’s ornamental garden, tales of Namazu crafters and their antics. When he read the letter, Aymeric could almost hear Hien’s voice, warm and full of unshakeable delight with the world in spite of all its cruelties.
Disregarding the mounds of more important paperwork that awaited him, Aymeric took the letter to his desk and began to pen a response. There was so much that he wanted to say. He marveled over Ishgard’s resilience and recounted stories of the Coerthas he had known as a child, verdant rather than icebound. He recounted the strangeness and sudden joys of peace, the lingering wounds of the Dragonsong War, the comings and goings of their mutual friend.
The letter became endless, sprawling on for page after page, and Aymeric realized just how long it had been since he had spoken to someone who was his equal. Estinien and the Warrior of Light were dear friends, to be sure, but their world was made of heroic battles and world-altering events. While he could certainly hold his own in the theater of war, his place was here, amidst the paperwork and bureaucracy and politics of state. Only a fellow statesman would understand.
He concluded the letter with a hope that their exchange might continue, for the sake of their nations at the very least. Yet it was Hien’s friendship that he truly yearned for, the companionable exchange of song and culture and hardship.
Another letter arrived but a week later. Aymeric carefully removed the wax seal and unfurled it across his desk. It began with a report on the progress of Doma’s reconstruction. Progress on the Enclave continued apace, thanks in no small part to the efforts and connections of the Warrior of Light. Even so, Hien felt torn by the struggles of balancing the very immediate needs of the Doman people within the Enclave with their broader desire to see Doma Castle whole again as a symbol of their triumph over the Empire. Now that the reigning questions were now of comfort rather than survival, the path forward was less clear cut.
There, at least, Aymeric could offer his own suggestions. While much of Ishgard had remained intact, the rebuilding of the Empyreum and the repairs in the Brume had taught him much about prioritizing the skill of Ishgard’s artisans. He took a brief break from responding to pen a note to Francel, asking if he might share his wisdom with Doma as well.
Months of such exchanges passed between them, letters drifting back and forth across the world on moogle wings. Though the ever-present threat of Garlemald remained, the Alliance troops stationed at the Ghimlyt Dark reported few disturbances. For a time, it seemed, peace might finally have come at last.
***
When news of the so-called Telophoroi had reached Ishgard, Aymeric made certain that he had a bag packed and ready. With the towers appearing all across Eorzea, another meeting of the full Alliance seemed all but certain; they would need to coordinate their efforts against the threat of the Final Days. Within days, he found himself on an airship bound for Ala Mhigo. It would be his first time in the capital city, save when he had fought to liberate it. He only wished that this visit could be under better circumstances. Having seen such fragmented pieces of the city, he was eager for the chance to explore. The city’s architecture, in particular, called to him, deep in the plans for rebuilding Ishgard as he was.
As it turned out, he had plenty of time to explore between the Alliance’s periodic strategy meetings and organizing the arrival and quartering of Ishgard’s support troops. He had left a sizeable contingent in the city, and more in Dravania, wary of the tower there. The forces he led here were far fewer than those he had had at the Ghimlyt Dark, and his sub-commanders managed much of the day-to-day business.
Had he been a less patient man, and had the looming threat of the Telophoroi not kept his nerves mildly on edge even in the quietest moments, he might have said he was bored.
So when his daily briefing informed him that a delegation from Doma was due to arrive on the morrow, Aymeric found himself checking his pocket chronometer frequently enough that even Lucia commented on it. “Is all well, my lord?”
“Of course,” he answered, guiltily tucking the timepiece back into his vest. There was no guarantee that Hien would be with the delegation. In fact, with all the reconstruction work in Doma—to say nothing of Doma’s centrality in guiding the other Eastern Garlean colonies to rebellion—it was almost certain that Hien’s attentions would be on his own people, as they should be.
Such knowledge didn’t stop his mind from wandering throughout the day. Would Hien feel just as lost in Ala Mhigo’s maze of narrow streets and alleys as he had? Perhaps he could show him what he had learned of the city, tell him all the new ideas it had given him for reviving the Brume. If preparations against the Telophoroi continued at their present pace, he might even have an afternoon to show him the street musicians who performed in the aetheryte plaza, or the gardens of the Royal Menagerie.
He determined to meet the delegation. It was the least he could do for his dear friend, to make certain that the Domans received a warm welcome from a true friend. He didn’t let himself think overlong on the nervous flutter in his stomach as he watched their airship make its slow descent. Of course he wanted to make a good impression, if he was to be part of the Domans’ official welcome to the city. And if Hien was among them—unlikely, he reminded himself, but still possible—then so much the better. They had so much to talk about.
Hien was the first person to step off the airship. In his formal robes of state, he looked every inch the prince that he was, his posture tall, his steps slow and graceful, his expression serene. When he caught sight of Aymeric waiting in the crowd, though, that careful persona slipped, and he broke into a broad grin, quickening his steps. Aymeric’s breath caught in his throat, and he had to restrain himself from darting through the crowd to greet the Doman lord. There were protocols, the Ala Mhigans had plans for managing the new arrivals, he could not interfere with them. He was here to serve as a friendly face, to assist as needed, not to commandeer the proceedings.
Once all the formalities were out of the way—truncated as they were by the exigencies of looming conflict—Hien sought Aymeric out, leaving his people to follow the Ala Mhigans to their assigned quarters. “Has the Lord Commander of Ishgard such leisure that he can spend his afternoons waiting on airships?” The words held no malice, but they cast him into uncertainty nonetheless. How to respond? He had never been good with teasing.
“My subordinates have things well in hand,” he began, “and right now, all is quiet. I had no pressing concerns, and…I wanted to be certain your people arrived safely.” He paused, trying vainly to control the flush spreading across his cheeks. At least in Ishgard, he could always blame the cold for his reddening cheeks; here, he had no such excuse. “I was unsure you would be in attendance, though I am glad to see you, my friend.”
Hien clasped him by the shoulders, then pulled him into a quick embrace. “I am glad to see you, too,” he said, his voice warm with suppressed mirth. “You say things have been quiet?”
“Yes. I…Once you’ve had a chance to settle, would you like a tour of the city?”
Hien’s eyes sparked. “I would like nothing better.”
They spent much of the afternoon and early evening watching Ala Mhigo’s street performers. Lucia and Yugiri had been with them at first, but before long, Lucia had insisted upon introducing Yugiri to a weaponsmith she had been befriending, leaving the men to one another’s company.
Hien surprised Aymeric with his comprehensive knowledge of Ala Mhigan music, identifying instruments and elaborating on the traditions behind different kinds of songs, even if he could not translate their precise lyrics. “As a child,” he explained, “I only wanted to study two things: swordplay and song. There were enough displaced Garlean conscripts around that I ended up learning traditions from across the Empire. It brings me such joy to see them practiced here, free of Imperial rule.”
In return, Aymeric could only detail the history and practices of the religious choirs with which he was familiar. Ishgardian culture had always been somewhat insular, even before the Calamity, and Hien listened with rapt attention. His questions were thoughtful, seeking parallels between Aymeric’s stories and his own experiences. “I wish I had been able to bring my shamisen,” he conceded at last. “There are some things I would like to try, were you willing.”
As if in response, Aymeric’s stomach chose that moment to growl. Hien laughed. “That’s not quite the kind of music I had in mind. But perhaps it is time we quit this place and found some dinner. Have you any suggestions?”
There was a mess hall maintained for the use of the numerous visiting troops and dignitaries, but Aymeric had a better plan. “Follow me,” he directed, leading Hien deep into the maze of the city. The kebab stall he sought was buried deep in the Ala Mhigan Quarter, along a thoroughfare whose purpose he still had not quite identified. With only Hien at his side, the adventure seemed a bit scandalous. He was so unused to going anywhere in the city without at least Lucia to accompany him that this almost felt like sneaking away from his minders as a child. He laughed at the simple joy of it all.
“You seem to be in exceptionally good spirits,” Hien remarked.
Aymeric slowed, his notions of propriety suddenly catching up with him. “I…”
“Oh, I am not complaining,” Hien said, grinning, his eyes full of mischief. He reached out and caught Aymeric’s hand. “Come, let’s go find—where are we going?”
As they wound their way through the streets, Aymeric explained about the kebabs, detailing the richness of the spices and the crispness of the vegetables and the sweetness of the little rounds of bread served alongside them. “Ishgardian fare is often bland,” he concluded. “But this…the food is well worth the trip. I hope I shall have a chance to return when circumstances are better.”
“I am sure you shall,” Hien said reassuringly. “Perhaps we both shall.”
By then, they had reached the stall, and Aymeric ordered for them both: wooden skewers of flame-charred meat and vegetables, mounds of pillowy bread, steaming cups of mint-laced tea. They took their bounty to a low wall and settled atop it to eat.
Aymeric had just tugged the first chunk of meat free with his teeth when he heard Hien make a choked noise. Alarmed, he turned to find his friend watching him wide eyed. “Is aught amiss?” he asked.
“Ah,” Hien began, “I am worried you might hurt yourself.” He picked up his own skewer, turning it lengthwise. “Like this,” he said, biting a chunk of mushroom off the side of the stick, rather than pulling it down the length. “Less likely to stab yourself,” he clarified once he had swallowed. “And…a bit less provocative?”
Aymeric felt the heat creeping all the way to the very tips of his ears. “I…We do not have such foods in Ishgard…I did not…”
Hien laughed, but there was a hint of self-deprecation in the sound. “We all learn sometime. Often the hard way.” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “But this was an excellent choice. How did you come across this place?”
Relieved by the change of subject, Aymeric spent the rest of the meal telling Hien all he had learned of the city, all the ideas it had given him for rebuilding Ishgard and Doma both. They slipped again into the easy friendship they had known before the Ghimlyt Dark and had cultivated in their letters. It was a good night, full of mirth and plans and hopes for the future.
Little did they know that it was both their first and last night of peace in Ala Mhigo.
***
The screams and roars of battle had all died down. The Lunar Primals and their host of tempered Garleans were defeated. Aymeric sheathed his sword at last, then moved to check on his soldiers. They’d sustained no casualties, though there were more than a few with wounds that needed tending. He and Lucia organized a return to their camp, where the chirurgeons would be waiting.
Once the wounded had been passed off into waiting hands, Aymeric turned back toward the palisade gates, wondering if he should set back out to see if there were others who had fared less well. The cold moonlight illuminated Hien approaching slowly, stiffly. Though he could see no visible wounds, Aymeric recognized the posture of a soldier trying his best to ignore the demands of a body pushed too far. Moving forward to offer his aid, Aymeric asked, “Are you alright, my friend?”
“Only the sting of old wounds,” Hien confessed, rolling his shoulder. Though he hid it well, Aymeric did not miss the way Hien gritted his teeth, nor the fact that his range of motion was severely limited. The edges of the scar tissue were a taut, angry red.
Aymeric stretched out a hand, only to hesitate. “Might I…?”
Hien nodded, turning to give Aymeric better access. “The wound went deep. A Garlean spear, years ago.” Carefully, Aymeric began guiding Hien’s arm through a series of small, exploratory stretches, his fingers working the muscle at the joint. “It rarely troubles me. Though I suppose I may have overextended myself. Slightly.” He hissed as Aymeric found a knot in the muscle and began to roll the pad of his thumb across it in slow circles. Slowly, Hien relaxed beneath his touch, his breath becoming slow and even. “You have my thanks,” he said at last, giving his shoulder an experimental roll. “You are quite good at that. You’ve saved me a trip to the chirurgeons, at any rate.”
“You learn quite a bit of field medicine in the Temple Knights. Coerthas winters were fierce long before the Calamity, and there is always a threat of becoming stranded and needing to set a broken bone or mend a twisted ankle.” He was talking too much, overexplaining as he always did when he felt uncertain, as if through force of words alone he could justify himself.
“You were well trained. Full glad am I that you were here.” Hien clasped Aymeric’s arm. “But what of you? Have you any injuries that need tending?”
“No, thank Halone’s mercies. My squadron was largely unscathed.”
“As was mine.”
From somewhere nearby, they heard Alphinaud’s voice raised in uncharacteristic rage. “Damn it all!” the boy swore.
Hien arched an eyebrow. “Shall we go see what that is about?” His tone was light, but Aymeric could see his worry in the tightness of his jaw, the way his hand twitched toward the hilt of his katana.
“Indeed.” They rounded a makeshift fortification and found Alphinaud crouched over the corpse of a tempered Garlean, his sister and the Warrior of Light doing their best to console him. The other Scions and many of Eorzea’s leaders gathered nearby, talking quietly amongst themselves, assuring one another of the victory they had secured.
There would be much to do in the coming days. Defeating the Lunar Primals had not been the end of their fight against Fandaniel’s Final Days. In that moment, though, with the thrill of survival still singing in their veins and the moon glowing bright above, their triumph seemed not impossible.
***
When he returned to Ishgard, a letter from Hien was already waiting for him. He must have sent it from Ala Mhigo before he left, Aymeric mused. No combination of airships and postmoogles could have arrived from Doma so fast.
The letter was brief, and hastily penned. In it, Hien reflected on their time in Ala Mhigo, and wrote of his plans to strengthen Doma’s defenses, against whatever horrors the Ascians had planned. It was a letter filled with all the mixed joys and anxieties of the past days. It ended simply. “I know not what the months ahead may bring. But when this is all over, I wish for you to visit me in Doma, that I might show you the land that makes my heart sing.”
Aymeric’s responding letter, accepting Hien’s invitation, was en route to Doma within the day. Their correspondence continued at such a pace that Aymeric suspected Hien wrote as he did, immediately upon receiving a letter. They soon began to include little gifts: orchestrion roles of favorite songs, local sweets, fine parchments and wax and inks. Rarely was Aymeric’ desk without a half-written letter, waiting for whatever stray thoughts in his day he felt compelled to share with the man who was quickly becoming one of his dearest friends.
They shared everything, from the grand trials of leadership to the mundanities of weather and breakfast. In the months of their correspondence, they did not infrequently have the occasion to mark each holiday as it passed, comparing celebrations that were shared and describing in minute detail those that were not. At Starlight—a grand holiday in Ishgard, and a relatively new phenomenon in Doma—Hien sent him a beautifully illustrated volume of Doman folktales, with a letter suggesting that they and their countries both would benefit from a more prolonged cultural exchange. In return, Aymeric had commissioned a master luthier to craft an Ishgardian lute for Hien, hoping that its music might bring him some measure of peace as the world increasingly spun towards chaos.
For the Final Days loomed on the horizon, and everything the Warrior of Light had told them suggested that if they were to survive, they must maintain hope at all costs. Aymeric clung to Hien’s letters like a lifeline, even as circumstances slowed their deliveries, and the necessities of leadership made their writing fragmented and brief. Every letter was a prayer for the future—a promised visit, a private sanctuary to be shared, a vow to create new memories beyond this seemingly endless grief.
***
Again, they survived. It was a strange sensation to know peace. After a lifetime of war—first the endless turmoil of the Dragonsong, and then the battle for Ishgard’s freedom, then joining the Eorzean alliance to overthrow the tyranny of Garlemald—Aymeric was unprepared for the gentler, though no less frenetic, duties of running a city without a standing enemy.
In the two short months since the Warrior of Light and the Scions of the Seventh Dawn had circumvented the Final Days, Hien’s letters had increasingly spoken of visits between their countries, though they had not yet decided who should make the journey first. An idea had begun to take form in Aymeric’s thoughts, though it left him both giddy and apprehensive. Valentione’s Day loomed at the end of the month, and it was the perfect occasion in so many ways. The holiday was unknown beyond Eorzea, and it was deeply intertwined with Ishgardian culture. Celebrating it in Doma would cement the idea of a cultural exchange between their peoples.
Yet at the same time, he hesitated, fearing how such an exchange would be viewed, by Ishgard, by Doma, by Hien. Valentione’s was…well, while much of Eorzea had extended the romantic sentiments of Countess Arabelle de Valentione’s grand adventures to include all manner of love, including the friendly and familial, the original, more intimate meaning was still preeminent in Ishgard. Valentione’s was a holiday for lovers alone.
The thought thrilled him and terrified him in equal measure. In the months of their correspondence, he had grown increasingly fond of Hien, fonder, perhaps, than was strictly appropriate, given their stations. In all the chaos and confusion of war and the Final Days, he had not allowed himself to think overmuch on what that fondness might mean, or how he might choose to pursue it. Now, in the stillness of a morning that placed no immediate demands upon his time, he found himself nearly overwhelmed by his emotions.
When he thought of Hien, he relived that night before the Ghimlyt Dark, and the effortless ease of their companionship. He remembered the joy of their too-brief exploration of Ala Mhigo, and his deep relief upon finding Hien hale and whole after the battle on the Carteneau Flats. He thought of all the small details of their lives that they had shared, unburdening themselves to one another in ways that he suspected neither of them would dare with another. They had become so deeply integral to one another’s lives that Aymeric could scarcely imagine a day in which he didn’t have a half-finished letter on his desk, or a fresh missive from Hien to read and reread by the fire.
Did that constitute love? In some respects, surely. He knew beyond doubt that he loved Hien as he loved Estinien and Lucia and the Warrior of Light: as dear companions for whom he would defy fate itself. But with Hien, something more lingered at the edges of that love, something for which Aymeric had neither name nor frame of reference. Perhaps it was simply the fragmentary nature of their relationship that created such an intense longing to share the same space once again. Or perhaps, in Hien, he had found a true partner, one with whom he might share every aspect of his life.
Even as he let his mind drift to where such a partnership might lead, he chastised himself for foolishness. They led countries on opposite sides of the world. He could expect no more than he had now: a dear friend with whom to exchange letters and perhaps the occasional visit of state.
And yet…
Those around him made the impossible happen every day. Might he not, this once, do the same?
He closed out the half-finished letter on his desk with a proposition that he visit Hien in Doma in three weeks’ time, on Valentione’s Day. His last letter had mentioned the holiday—had he explained its significance sufficiently? Had he framed it as a romantic holiday, or just as a celebration of love in all its forms? He couldn’t remember, and wouldn’t allow himself to worry about it now. He signed his name, and if his signature was a little uneven, well, his quill needed sharpening. He sealed the letter, summoned one of his servants, and sent the letter off before he could change his mind.
Hien’s response, when it arrived, was uncharacteristically brief.
Dearest Aymeric,
You know my heart in this as in all things. I will look forward to your arrival.
Yours,
Hien
***
He had packed Hien’s letters, and on the airship flight to Doma, he reread them again and again, trying to reassure himself that he had not misread all that had passed between them. There was genuine affection there, but whether that affection might lead to something more, he did not know. So many possible scenarios played out in his thoughts, though he did his best to push them aside as quickly as they came. The possibilities were too varied, and all he gained from thinking on them now was an ever-coiling knot of anxiety in the pit of his stomach.
No. Whatever would happen would happen, and all would be well. His certainty of Hien’s friendship remained regardless. He had nothing to fear. And, perhaps, so very much to gain.
When he arrived in Doma, he found a full delegation of diplomats and state officials lining the airship landing. They quickly faded into the background of his attention, though, for Hien stood just at the foot of the stairway, dressed in an elaborate yellow robe-like garment—the same color as the wax that sealed Hien’s letters, the same color as the box that Aymeric held in his hands—but for which Aymeric had no name. It was so different from his usual battle attire, regal and sumptuous and ornate. On the battlefield, Hien was a samurai, a warrior. Here, it was hard to see him as anything but a prince.
Hien grinned broadly as Aymeric descended the stairs. “Welcome, my friend, to Doma!” he proclaimed. When Aymeric reached the landing, Hien caught him by the arms in a half-embrace. Such a gesture would have raised eyebrows in Ishgard, but here seemed to elicit no response, though Aymeric could not tell if that was due to stoicism or custom. In either case, with his hands full, Aymeric could not return the gesture, though he did lean in to signal that he accepted the embrace.
“Full glad am I to see you, my friend,” Aymeric said, his voice low, for Hien alone. Once Hien had released him, he presented the box. “A gift.” There were others in the airship, the expected gifts exchanged when one country’s leader visited another, but this one was special.
Hien took the box and opened it, revealing rows of bite-sized chocolate confections. “Valentione’s sweets!” he remarked. “I shall have to try them later, when I can properly enjoy them. But come, I have much to show you, and my advisors have insisted upon a full slate of festivities. You are our first official visiting head of state, you know.”
He hadn’t known. He had assumed that one of the others—Lyse, perhaps, or maybe Merlwyb—would have already been in attendance. “I am honored,” he said, simply.
“As are we,” Hien answered. “May it signal an eternal bond between our peoples.”
They had little time to talk as friends. The day saw them ushered from one spectacular event to another: performances and meals and grand speeches and a tour of the reconstruction of Doma castle. Though he longed for an opportunity to speak with Hien as he did in his letters, Aymeric also found himself enjoying the festivities of a state visit immensely. Slipping into the diplomat’s role was familiar and comfortable, especially here, where so little was asked of him beyond that he partake of all of the delights that Doman culture had to offer, with Hien at his side.
The day culminated in a grand fete, with what seemed to be every noble and diplomat and wealthy merchant in Doma in attendance. Aymeric greeted them each in turn, presenting and accepting small gifts, building connections that would benefit both Doma and Ishgard as they rebuilt and grew. It was thrilling work, to imagine the futures that the two countries might build alongside one another, even as it was exhausting.
Hien must have seen his energy beginning to flag, for he moved to join him. “You must be tired indeed after the long day you have had. Your airship would have set out before dawn, I believe?”
“Yes, though I have quite enjoyed myself.” He surveyed the crowd, a sea of silks and early-blooming flowers and ebullient laughter. “Doma is all I had hoped and more.”
His own joy was mirrored in Hien’s broad smile. “And you shall see plenty more of it on the morrow. For now, though, might I escort you to your rest?”
Aymeric acquiesced with little hesitation. Much as he was enjoying himself, the fullness of the day was beginning to take its toll. He would sleep deeply tonight, of that he was certain.
Hien led him away from the party, deeper into the labyrinth of Doma castle. Once they had passed beyond the walls of the inner courtyard, the sounds of the festivities faded away, leaving only the serenity of the cool evening breeze. Hien turned toward him, smiling. “I hope you are not too exhausted from the day’s events,” he said. “I prepared one final, private celebration, if you are willing.”
Aymeric could only bow his head in acquiescence. He could feel his pulse fluttering in his throat and how the shallowness of his breath left him lightheaded.
Hien led him through a series of narrow hallways and silently sliding doors before stepping through an archway and into a garden framed by trees blossoming in pink and white. A narrow stream ran through the space, culminating in a shallow pool where moonlight reflected off the darting shadows of fish. Near the pond, a low table stood flanked by thick cushions resting atop woven mats. Candles burned on and around the table, bathing it in warm, flickering light. The yellow box of chocolates rested in the center of the table. A decanter with two matching cups and a series of small plates of sweets completed the tableau.
“Your mother’s garden,” Aymeric murmured, recognizing the space from Hien’s descriptions.
Hien smiled, “Indeed. I wanted to share it with you before you departed. My apologies that so much of this first day was taken up by affairs of state. It seemed important, for this to be recognized as an official visit. I must confess that I had hoped we would have more time to talk together, though you will be here for several days yet.” He gave a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “I am just impatient, I suppose. Letters can only convey so much.”
He started walking towards the table, his steps unhurried, pausing now and then to point out some minor feature of the gardens. “I had hoped to steal a few moments here before the fete. The gardens are at their best just before twilight. Still, the sake has been kept warm, and the treats were all prepared this afternoon. I thought it a shame that you only ever received them days old.”
Kneeling down on one of the cushions, he gestured for Aymeric to take the other. “But first, I wish to try these.” Reverently, he lifted the lid from the yellow box, its contents untouched since this morning. “I don’t want to presume upon your time, but…I believe the tradition is to make them yourself?”
“It is,” Aymeric said with no little amount of pride. He had managed to lure the Warrior of Light away to Ishgard long enough to have them guide him through the process. “It only took twelve batches or so before I was pleased with them. Consider them a work in progress.”
Hien selected one of the chocolates from the box and placed it between his lips, his eyes closed as if to block out all other sensation. “They are very good,” he proclaimed at last. “I look forward to sampling your future endeavors.”
“And so you shall,” Aymeric promised, thrilling at the thought.
Hien ate one more of the chocolates, then closed the box and set it aside. “That I might savor them even after you have gone,” he explained. “Now, though I did not prepare them myself, you must try the mochi. And the monaka. And—” he reached for a plate of dango, just as Aymeric started for the same. Their hands met for a moment before Hien pulled away, settling back onto his cushion, uncharacteristically still. His hazel eyes caught the candlelight and reflected back infinite warmth, even as Aymeric saw the uncertainty in them.
Twice Hien started to speak before he managed to form a word. “I do not quite know how to ask this delicately, so mayhap bluntness will serve.” Aymeric did not miss the quickness of Hien’s breath, nor the faint tremble in his hands as he poured them each a cup of sake. “When you chose today, of all the days…did you choose to come here now because of Valentione’s?”
This was the moment he had been anticipating, dreading, dreaming of. One word, and their friendship would change, though for better or for worse he did not know. Still, wasn’t this what he had wanted? To know if Hien shared the half-formed desires he had scarcely dared to name? “Yes,” he said, forcing his voice to be steady, his gaze unwavering as he studied Hien for the slightest reaction. “Yes. I did.”
“Oh, thank the kami,” Hien breathed, laughing softly in relief. Then, “Can I kiss you?”
“Yes.” It was Aymeric’s turn to tremble as he leaned across the table to cup Hien’s jaw in his palm. The first kiss was gentle, certain, lingering. It was a kiss that held all they had not been able to say in those months of letters, and every promise they had made for the future.
Hien pulled away with a sigh of contentment. “I have been wanting to do that for months. You have no idea how many times I have thought of stealing away to Ishgard, just to see if you felt the same. I could never find a way to ask in the letters.”
“Nor could I,” Aymeric confessed. “I had hoped that Valentione’s might clarify the matter.”
“And has it?”
He pulled Hien to him once more. “Perhaps a more detailed explanation is needed.”
Ever the gracious statesman, Hien was more than happy to oblige.
Some time later, once they were thoroughly convinced of one another’s affections, Hien produced a long wooden case from beneath the table. Aymeric recognized it immediately. “The lute! Have you learned to play?”
“I have indeed,” Hien answered, unhooking the latches and lifting the instrument free. “I thought perhaps we might end the night as we began. I have learned a fair number of Ishgardian ballads, thanks to the orchestrion rolls you’ve sent.”
The music lasted long into the night, until the first light of dawn began to rise over the horizon.
They spent much of the week of Aymeric’s visit in much the same manner. Their days were filled with all the business of state, building a lasting foundation for friendship and support between Doma and Ishgard. Various little excursions beyond the city allowed Aymeric to explore the lands that he knew only from Hien’s letters and the Warrior of Light’s stories. Every evening was a new delight: dinners and theater and music. And the nights…
Well. Their nights were their own.