Chapter Text
I.
It begins, as always, with blood.
It usually runs on far less pristine floors, but I’ve never been fussy. If the amount being spilled is any indication, neither is he. The Vault’s heights have been empty since the siege; the only ones left here now are the remnants of those still loyal to an Archbishop that up and fled without the faintest concern for their lives. For some reason they still fight in his name, or maybe they still believe it’s in the Fury’s. If that’s the case then maybe it's for the best that we make this their tomb.
I normally make a point never to set foot in places like this, but for him I make an exception. Him and a host of temple knights in need of killing. The Vault reeks of hypocrisy and I spit on the floor for good measure. The bodies there won’t mind, in a few days the mess will be polished away and Ishgard will be a better place for it. Playing hero isn’t glorious or honourable or even pretty; it's a bloody mess. At the end of the day whether it's justice or slaughter, whether you’re the hero or villain depends entirely on who is left standing to tell of it. If someone walked in on us now, I wonder which they’d take us for.
The knights keep coming, wave after wave from the bowels of the church and he welcomes each addition with renewed fervor. Blood spills from the heights of the Quire and into the fountains below that are already overflowing with the dead. There can’t be many more of them left alive. His once pristine armour is going to match Estinien’s before this is all over.
It suits him, I think.
The blade is longer than he is used to, swings wider and carves his enemies deeper than that miserable splinter he held upon our meeting. Its weight is greater, its meaning heavier and he lifts both with an ease that surprises him. Fingers curl around the hilt and slide against the blackened metal, and he takes to it with a hunger deep enough to make those in the Brume seem as well fed as the lordlings they resent.
There had been only one sword, and it was the right choice to let him take it. My own staff is comfortable enough in my grip and it’s better he learns these lessons now. Let him feel the sway of the shadows, the hunger of the darkness that is swelling inside of him. He’s an easier read than most; it's painted on his face in the golden light of the cathedral’s vaulted windows. He’s afraid; but he wants for more all the same.
Good.
“Not so hard, is it?”
“Nay,” he answers, brushing the back of his glove against his cheek and smearing the blood across it. I wager less than half is his own; the rest I could conjure away but I’ll let the copper taste steep in his mouth awhile longer. That look on his face tells me he doesn’t mind it so much. He tests the weight of the sword in a wide arc; brings the tip down upon polished marble in a chime that echoes through the room clearer than church bells. “It far lighter than I expected, truly a marvel.”
I meant the dead. Guess that’s an answer as good as any.
“Not going to balk over betraying the temple knights?”
“‘Tis they who are the traitors!” His expression darkens enough for me to see the flicker that put him on the path. It's something deep; black and bitter and stewed for nights uncounted. That was good; those kinds of feelings would feed him well, if they didn’t consume him first. “They dishonour the very notion of being a knight with their conduct, with their actions. They turn their blades on those who would protect us, yet Ishgard is in no state to see them held into account.”
“So you’ll take matters into your own hands?”
I can see the conflict flash across his face. It’s an uncomfortable thing to learn about yourself: how easy it is to spill blood, that there is no shame or regret as you watch the light fade from someone’s eyes. As you realize that somewhere across the blood soaked years you’ve endured, your sword forgot its pause. All you need is the right reason. Sometimes the world gives it to you, that’s easier. Sometimes you have to make it for yourself and own up to everything that means.
But then after all that just happened, he doesn’t want for motive.
“A knight lives to serve. To protect.”
His voice trembles for the first time since walking into a cathedral full of enemies with the intent of killing all of them. The loss of these traitors is a boon; other losses… well they’re not so easily brushed aside. I’d pretend not to know what he means by those words, but it's hard not to when near all of Ishgard already does. I don’t intend to pry though; if it bleeds too much more he won’t be able to handle the fires it calls forth. He’s only just learned to wield it, he’s not ready to drown.
Not yet.
One day he will be.
That will be the day I can tell him everything. All that I see in him and how beautiful he looks in the stained glass’ light painted by the gold of the sunset and the blood of his enemies. He turns towards me and I see him burning.
“Never again will I fail when I am needed. Never again will I be held back while others fight on my behalf, watch on while they suffer attacks intended for me. I will protect them. If this is how it must be done, then so be it.”
Communion will be interesting.