Chapter Text
Coerthas – Coerthas Central Highlands
6th Sun of the Third Umbral Moon
11:13 AM
“– and for all that he complains about the heat, I swear he has all but set up permanent residence there,” Altan chuckles.
A slight wind, surprisingly gentle for this altitude, blows past on its way further westward, and lifts the ends of her gold-streaked hair from around her face and waist; she has been wearing it down, unbraided, since her return from Ultima Thule, and trying not to think overlong on what that means.
“Estinien Varlineau: formerly Wyrmblood and Ishgard’s Azure Dragoon, now a veritable self-made dragon-whisperer. Who would have thought? You would be highly amused; and never spare him the teasing.” After a breath, she adds, softer, “I shall endeavor to do my best in your stead.”
Her fingers – just shy of being numb and flushed pink-purple from the cold, as ever, despite how carefully she always wraps herself up in thick layers – mindlessly play with the delicate, pale petals of the brightlilies adorning the ground before her.
She has not brought them.
Her flowers are an offering of yellow and red, loud and violent against the whiteness of everything else, along with a single Elpis bloom – one she had plucked from that vast field at the edge of the world on a whim, and put in her coin pouch; it had somehow, miraculously, survived all that came after unscathed, unlike her heart and mind and soul – that has steadily been turning darker the longer it remains in her company.
She had thought to keep it, for memory’s sake; to add it to her small but perpetually growing collection of little keepsakes that, one day, perhaps, if she ever has a fixed place to call her own, she dreams of displaying on a set of shelves as a sort of abridged visual record of her adventures. The heavy, oily tendrils of guilt and regret, that she found had replaced her insides once she awoke on the Ragnarok and that push bile up her throat every time she thinks of the end of her journey (of the Endsinger, of ground like dark glass and a glowing gemstone sky, of – ), persuaded her not to. Far better to share it with the one who had opened his home to her and raised her from where she’d fallen in grime and suspicion, and thereby made all the rest possible – with whom she’d promised that she’d always share her stories – and let it regain its pristine hue, rather than continue to stare at its shadow-stained aspect for long hours in the sleepless gray of too-early morn.
Once she is better – if, a low, treacherous voice supplies, and she shuts her eyes against it – she can come back and, provided it’s still here and whole, retrieve it. Until then, it can stay with him, for safekeeping. There is very little Altan would not entrust to him, even in death.
Her absent-minded examination of the white flowers that hers lie beside shows that they have not been here long – a day, perhaps two; yet to fully wilt.
She knows they are not from his family – their family, she supposes, but, as dearly as she loves them, the claws of a childhood spent in isolation and solitude are long and sharp and not so easily escaped. She had arrived only a day ago at nightfall, hood pulled up and dashing furtively through the streets, in hopes that no one would sight the Warrior of Light, to find Fortemps Manor empty except for the servants. According to them, Emmanellain had left for Old Sharlayan last week on business, with Count Edmont in tow; to everyone’s surprise – including his own, she suspects – his sons had finally managed to convince the man that a short trip outside of Ishgard would do him good, and there were worse places than the city of scholars. Artoirel has been at Camp Dragonhead since, filling in for his brother.
It warms her to know that, six years later, Haurchefant still receives visitors other than them.
“Alphinaud has gone to Garlemald with Alisaie – his sister – to help with the recovery there.” She pauses again, and worries her bottom lip in that way of hers that causes one of her sharp incisors to stick out. Estinien, once – well into their association, when they had grown familiar with each other’s boundaries between play and insult – had asked her, cheekily, if it was a holdover from her dragon ancestry. She had cheerfully threatened to bite him, and let him determine for himself, expert that he was. “I do worry about them; they’re both still hopelessly idealistic, at their core.”
She stops bothering the flowers, and blows on her hands to warm them, trying to massage feeling back into each finger.
Garlemald is far, far colder than this – and, she grants, fondly, that his assertion of that fact may have been the single instance in which Emet-Selch had not been overly, unnecessarily dramatic, though she had been skeptical at the time – and still hostile, in places, especially to two young Elezen. As long as they keep with the portion of the Ilsabard contingent that remains there, they should be fine; but neither one is particularly well-known for disregarding the counsel of their own willfulness. Not that she has any room to talk, of course, but that is an accusation to which she will readily – perhaps too readily, and she can hear the gentle admonition spoken in the voice of a certain red-haired miqo’te; yet another blatant case of pot and kettle – admit.
“At least Alphinaud is willing to try working even with those he fundamentally disagrees with,” she muses quietly, “and without being drawn into heated arguments; not anymore.”
It’s a useful skill that, wittingly or not, he has been developing for some time. He had been open-minded, on the First; one of only two, not counting herself, that had not reacted to Emet-Selch with reflexive vitriol that first night under the Crystarium’s newly restored sky, and had conversed with him frequently – amiably, genuinely – on history and politics thereafter. And again with Lord Quintus, in the depths of the station where their lingering breaths stood out stark white against the dark, despite the weapons and the soldiers and the collars. And with many others, in between. He may have even been amenable to seeking compromise with –
Altan shakes her head abruptly, the rings and chains on her horns dancing a brief jingle in gold and silver, and shrinks back from the thought before her mind can complete it. There is nothing to be gained from going down that path, though one may be hard-pressed to believe it, given how many times she has caught herself starting to traverse it; nothing, other than pain. It’s pain of the kind that comes from a fresh wound, newly bestowed and unable to keep itself knit together; it starts to scab and it itches and sears, and she picks at it before she knows what she’s doing, and it bursts open again, weeping and angry and raw, over and over again.
“Leadership suits him,” she half-whispers, forcibly dragging her mind from where it has wandered, inevitably, to the end of everything, and back to her body and the lonely rocky outcrop in Coerthas that she is perched on. Somehow, she manages to get the words out without entirely choking on the ball of emotion that has lodged itself in her throat. “He has much growing to do, but he’s a far cry from the desolate, lost child you plied with warm hearth and hot drinks. You’d be proud.”
The wind blows again, and its quiet whistling is the only sound besides the soft, sad swish of her tail, sweeping distracted patterns in the otherwise unsullied snow. It occurs to her that this far out from any camps or settlements, there should be a myriad of noises from the wildlife inhabiting the aetherically-induced tundra, but every time she has been here, nothing disturbs the tranquil hush born of snowfall; as though the world knows better than to intrude on this place.
“Well,” she finally sighs after what seems both like ages and a matter of seconds, and her voice is heavy and reluctant. Leaving here means continuing on her self-imposed mission; for all that she has fought tooth and nail for it, she is not particularly eager to do so. “I do think that's all the news I have for you.”
Altan stands up from her crouch and stretches, raising her arms above her head until her back pops. Reaching forward, she carefully dusts off the handful of fine, white powder that has piled up on the headstone and on the large shield leaning against it.
“It's a bright, beautiful day in Ishgard,” she tells him, gently resting her hands on the granite. All brilliant sunshine and skies as clear as glass, it’s the kind of day that seldom graces this part of the world; the kind of day Haurchefant liked best, that would incite him to action and adventure even more than was his usual wont.
Her lips quirk upwards at the corners at the memory, though the expression doesn't quite reach her eyes, and she gazes up at the piercingly blue sky and the magnificent city set against it, cast into sharp definition by the thin mountain air and glittering in the mid-morning light. The view from this ledge is truly spectacular.
“Freezing, of course,” she amends, some of her characteristic wryness seeping back into her tone. “I could use some hot cocoa right about now.”
A pointless yearning. In her haste to leave the city, she had thrown only the barest of essentials in the small pack currently strapped to her back, and, here, far from half-amused glances and exasperated ‘I-told-you-so’s, she takes a rare moment to mildly berate her own impulsiveness. Even were she of a mind to make the short trek into Tailfeather once she reaches her destination, thereby revealing her presence in the area and forgoing any chance at privacy, the sparse hamlet does not possess such luxuries.
"I introduced Raha to the stuff, you know,” she continues, fingers tracing the carved letters that remain crisp despite years of being at the elements’ mercy. “He's practically addicted. It's a shame the two of you never met, I think you would have gotten along very well; too much so, actually.”
The image of the previous Commander of Camp Dragonhead and the former Crystal Exarch, now turned historian-adventurer once more, trading accounts of exploits, plotting new ones, and causing all sorts of mayhem with their combined near-inexhaustible energies is all too easy to conjure, and –
“There you are!”
She startles at the sound of a voice other than her own – male, smooth, and typically very welcome – and lets a frown cross her face in alarm.
The recent days (or weeks? How long has it been, since they landed back in Sharlayan? She doesn’t rightly know; hasn’t cared to pay them any heed) have passed in a ragingly dull storm of rapid colors and distorted sounds, the sickly sensation that the world is spinning at thrice its regular speed while her body is made of lead, unable to keep up; as though there is water, or sand, or blood, running through her fingers and she is helpless to stop it. She’s keenly aware that she has not been kind to herself of late – neglecting to touch any of her weapons, nevermind training; forgoing food and sleep and even drink, at times – but there is only one path up to the gravesite, and its length is not inconsiderable; she must truly be falling apart, akin to Nero’s Grand Deterger CMXIV that no one is ever supposed to talk about, if she hadn’t sensed him approaching.
Schooling her features so as not to worry him, she turns around and finds, to her overwhelming relief, that the quiet smile with which she greets Aymeric is not feigned in the slightest.
“This is a surprise,” Altan teases lightly, folding her arms across her chest. “Do they let you out of the office, now?”
Aymeric chuckles softly.
It is a smidge out of breath, and her senses prickle; the incline is not so steep. She wonders if this is the result of Ishgard keeping him bound to his desk all these hours, and silently vows that after she puts her own life in order, she will abduct him, regularly, to hunt marks or blasphemies or whatever else still resides in these parts. Or perhaps for a brief excursion abroad – Kugane, Doma, the Azim Steppe; show him her part of the world. Or Radz-at-Han, to visit Estinien. She knows his appetite for seeing new places rivals her own, and, to her nomadic sensibilities reared by the vast emptiness of open plains and endless sky, it’s nothing less than a crime to keep him behind stone walls, no matter how he argues on the behalf of duty.
“I am returning from a meeting with Hraesvelgr, and a little bird told me she spotted the Warrior of Light,” he playfully returns.
A cry breaks the stillness, echoing across the cliffs like thunder without rain, and they both look up to see a white form weaving lazy circles overhead. She waves at it – a large, languid motion, though she has no doubt those sharp eyes would catch even the faintest movement; the Elezen at her side raises a hand in farewell. One last loop and a parting call, and the daughter of Dravania’s great wyrm makes her way northwest, to where dragons roost and roam and roar.
A land where the very soil slithers and the sky writhes with their shapes, and precious little else dwells there or is inclined to wander in. A hooded place, where one could disappear from the world, for a while.
Altan will be making her own way there, soon.
“Well, less a bird and more of a rather large, airborne reptile with a propensity to breathe fire,” Aymeric grants, turning towards her, mirth still in his voice. “Vidofnir was kind enough to drop me off here; she sends her greetings.”
He pauses, his easy smile fading slightly. His eyes dance all over her; they linger on her face, no doubt taking stock of the dark bruises under her eyes, of her almost-cracked lips and not-quite-as-full cheeks, the haphazard flaking of her scales that she has not taken the time to soak and tend to.
It’s plain that he doesn’t much like what he sees.
When he speaks again, it is careful; hesitant. “I was not aware you were coming.”
It’s not an accusation, and she doesn’t take it as such.
“... I didn’t tell anyone.”
The admission crawls out of her only by virtue of the care and respect she has for him, sticking to the sides of her throat as she coaxes it forth. She casts her eyes off to the side, avoiding his piercing blue gaze; his concern burns her skin, and it’s more than she can handle, at present.
“The last few weeks – everything happened so fast. Garlemald, the blasphemies, going to Elpis, going to the moon, fire raining down, traversing the universe in an airship . I can’t even recall the order of things.” She leaves out, of course, the gaja in the room; broad talk of spacefaring is as close as she’s willing to venture. “... I suppose I just need some space… to think…”
The silence between them stretches, taut, until it’s nigh unbearable. It’s an entirely different breed of creature from the ones they’ve always shared – warm coats on a snowy night; mulled wine after a trying day; low lanterns and camphor and fresh bandages – and her tail twitches in distress behind her, ivory scales flaring. They flash darkly, rippling over like spilled ink.
“Sorry.”
“Whatever for?”
The incredulity in Aymeric’s voice knocks her off balance, and the tension in the air is broken with the finality of shattered glass when she sees the utter bewilderment on his face.
Altan opens and closes her mouth a few times, like a fish gasping out of water, before she can settle on words that are as flushed with embarrassment as her skin.
She ducks her head. “I – I feel as though whenever I come here, if it’s not for business, it’s… it’s because I’m running away.”
There is the soft sound of snow crunching underfoot, until a pair of familiar armored boots appear at the edge of her vision.
“My dearest friend,” he begins.
Letting her eyes drift higher, she sees him lift a hand out towards her; a beat later, he returns it, closed, to his side, opting instead to tilt his head downwards to catch her gaze.
“That you would consider my city a place of refuge is nothing but the highest honor. And certainly not a cause to apologize for,” he says gently, a smile in full bloom once he successfully draws her out of hiding. “Especially knowing your distaste for the climate. Though, it would seem you are already on your way out.”
She makes to speak – to explain, to argue – but he forestalls her, raising a finger just short of her lips.
“I will wager you arrived only to find that you are no longer afforded the anonymity of your early days here.” His eyes twinkle with that gleam that appears whenever he forgets himself, the fleeting moments where he is free of high-stacked papers and marble halls and wooden daises, and he laughs at the undignified pout that appears on her face. “It is hardly unexpected for the savior of this star.”
Altan deflates, shoulders slumping in defeat.
“I suppose,” she concedes unhappily; the realization that she can no longer wander around Ishgard at will without fear of recognition has not been an easy one. Gone are the days when she could casually visit the bakery with Alphinaud or sit with Tataru at one of the central main floor tables at The Forgotten Knight, when the most remarkable thing about her was not being Elezen, and – though she would never want to relive them or everything that came after all over again – she misses them, with the sweet-stinging nostalgia of hazy outlines and faded light. “I’m scampering off to Dravania for a bit. Surely no one will find me in the wilderness.”
He doesn’t reply immediately, and she swears she can hear him trying out different words in his head, as one would clothes; lifting them up, setting them against each other, weighing them; tossing them out.
“I hope you find the measure of peace you are looking for,” he offers, finally. There is nothing but sincerity on his tongue, a genuine wish for her well-being; not an uncommon sentiment between them at all, but it sits far heavier than usual.
She wonders what Estinien has told him. Not everything – she knows that for certain, because that's how Estinien is. The things that he determines are not his business are just that: not his business, and he would never presume to share something he did not consider his to tell. (Conversely, the things he arbitrarily decides are his business, he dives into headlong and heedless, with the same single-minded ferocity with which he once pursued dragons, and all anyone can do, really, is simply give in and accept the dragoon’s involvement henceforth).
He must have said something rather damning, though, for Aymeric to be looking at her like this.
“If you need anything, anything at all, you know where to find me,” he continues, in that unfailingly earnest and endearing way of his. “Regardless of the hour.”
“Thank you.” A simple phrase, achingly plain after the sentiments conveyed through his polished speech. She knows he requires nothing more, but she does her best to infuse it with all the fondness and gratitude she holds for him; she hopes he can hear it. “Actually, there is one thing; if anyone asks –”
“The Warrior of Light has not passed through Ishgard,” he states, with absolute conviction, before she can even finish her sentence.
With a sigh and a ghost of a smile, she leans forward into his space to butt her head against his chest, an affectionate gesture reserved for those closest to her that had caught him off guard the first time. The sight of a discomposed, speechless, flame-red Aymeric in his office, after the others had filed out to start tracking the Soleil, is one she will not soon forget.
Long since accustomed to it, he leans down and rests his face against her hair.
She stays there, basking in the comfort a moment longer, before she breaks away to walk back down the snowy path. Expecting him to join her, until the road diverges and they go their separate ways, north and south, she is only mildly surprised when he walks towards Haurchefant instead.
The wind has turned; still blowing lightly, but now bringing with it stray flurries and the burning smell of ice. It promises snow, later in the day, but for now satisfies itself with running through her silver hair to land on Aymeric, playing with his dark waves before curling to hide in his billowing robes.
“You’re staying.” It’s less a question than a comment, and she doesn’t really know why she spoke it in the first place. Of course he would stay – for all that this place is merely an hour or two from the city, depending on one’s chosen manner of travel, he probably has no more opportunity to journey here than she does; less, even.
He nods, confirming her suspicions. “I've been gone all morning; what are a few minutes more? I have not been visiting nearly as often as I have meant to.” Kneeling down in front of the stone, uncaring of the cold and the wet that must be seeping into his leathers through the breaks in his greaves, he looks over his shoulder at her, resolute. “And, in the wake of the star’s assured destruction being averted, that is something I intend to change.”
Altan feels her own determination rising at his demeanor, and she inclines her head in response. Flicking her hand to bid him goodbye, she adjusts her pack on her shoulders and turns to walk northwest – towards the wind, towards Dravania; towards herself.