Work Text:
Haurchefant Greystone always expected to die protecting someone.
‘Twas what was meant for him, after all. He is a knight, and knights protect.
(All in all, it didn’t even hurt that much.)
⛨
The guard is not eager to allow the Warrior of Light into the manor.
They don’t press, merely standing there, their body a dead weight, gaze stuck to the stones. They cannot ask more of Count Edmont, not even a moment’s time—not after taking his home, his name, his…son. It only seemed remiss to not even try and bid him farewell. The count had been one of the first to welcome them in Ishgard.
Eventually, though, the guard lets them in. Not opening the door as he usually does; merely stepping aside. The warmth of the Fortemps Manor, which was as comforting as it ever was, feels undeserved. They stand in the foyer and frantically avoid thinking about just leaving; their hand is brushing upon the doorknob when the steward emerges from an adjoining room. His eyes don’t quite light up, he beckons them toward the sitting room, and. They can’t quite leave now. “The master’s been hoping you would come,” he says, knocking on the door.
At the sight of Count Edmont, the Warrior is immediately, painfully aware of how inadequately affected they appear. They’ve been sleeping, eating, keeping their energy up enough to hoist their weapon with adequate fervour. The count, in contrast—his clothes are clean and pressed, but hang awkwardly off of him. The skin around his eyes is dark and bruised. It has not been long since the Cathedral.
Much has happened in not very much time.
Count Edmont regards them more carefully than he ever has, and they try not to look unworthy of Haurchefant’s sacrifice, however that means. Count Edmont smiles at them. He wishes them luck. He gifts them Haurchefant’s shield, with the ugly twisted hole in the middle. He is about as unwilling to let it go as they are to take it, but in the end he lets it go; in the end, they take it.
They hold it and stare at the cracked steel and they burn up inside. They scarcely hear the count’s parting words over the crackling.
#
“Shall we?” said Haurchefant.
They nodded, and turned to face the Cathedral.
#
It’s a memory: it can’t be changed.
Memory opens the Warrior of Light’s senses to Ser Zephirin’s bloodlust—though they can’t help but run, they also can’t help but glance toward Haurchefant when they feel him break away. He’s looking back at them. In all of their memories of Haurchefant, he is looking at them.
The light of the spear burns away everything in their field of vision and beyond.
The stone under their knees feels colder and the blood on their hands more cloying. The wind itself is more biting without him at their back, and they realise how often he has shielded them that even the wind on the nape of their neck has become out of the ordinary. Ser Aymeric’s agony, which had been shocking to them—how he’d acted like—how he’d known that the wound dealt to his friend was fatal—now compounds their own. It swells and warps.
Smile, Haurchefant requests, and they can’t bring themselves to—how can they?—they know what happens. Pop. The light will feast on his flesh. Alphinaud will fail to heal him. He will die.
But they do. Because this is a memory, and it can’t be changed.
#
“Shall we?” says Haurchefant. He’s smiling—had he always had that dimple in his cheek? Had his eyes been greener in the sun? Had his chainmail always had that fist-sized dent beneath his sternum, between his ribs, where Ser Sephirin’s spear of light would find itself in only minutes from this moment?
What is he thinking, at this moment?
Does he know?
The Warrior of Light nods.
#
“You have to be careful,” says Haurchefant. They bite back as a hiss as Alphinaud yanks the bandage tight around their leg; a lucky Temple Knight had gotten the better of them. Lucky for them, it’s just a flesh wound.
“I did like these pants,” they mutter. Haurchefant laughs and for a moment they’re about to smile too before they remember where they are, what is imminent. He is peeking around the wall of their enclave, keeping an eye out for more Temple Knights—they already know there’s none left. Up the stairs and in the Chancel is Ser Charibert—they already know this. Through the doors is the Archbishop and Ser Zephirin and then there is nothing more for Haurchefant.
But they’re crouched in an enclave just off the Chancel, Alphinaud’s eyes shut in concentration as he heals them. They weren’t supposed to be injured here. These events have already happened, and memories don’t change—or maybe they do, but not like this. Alphinaud’s magic soothes away the hurt—it’s not fully healed, can’t be, but their leg won’t give out from the injury. Haurchefant offers them a hand, but they don’t take it.
So it’s a dream. If this can change, perhaps…
Ser Zephirin is supposed to be standing on the right side of the roof, but he isn’t. He isn’t. He’s not there. Such a great change in what they’d previously thought to be unchangeable events takes them a second to absorb; when they do, they turn to Haurchefant, heart in their throat—
“Look out!”
Ser Zephirin is not standing on the right side of the roof because he is standing on the left. The Warrior of Light turns just in time to see the light swelling in his hand; the white-hot spear it coalesces into. It’s bigger than it’s supposed to be. It breaks through the Fortemps shield faster than it’s supposed to. They watch the spear pierce through the shield, through Haurchefant. They see the horror on his face.
The sheer quantity of blood makes puddles on the stone; too fast-flowing to be soaked up. Their knees slip as they take Haurchefant’s hand—their hand is sticky and crimson and they recoil at the sight, but Haurchefant holds them tightly, and his brow is creasing and he’s reaching up to touch their face—they think later he meant to clean away the blood—but his arm drops just as he brushes his fingers over their cheek and his face slackens and he’s gone. Before he can say anything, before Alphinaud can get a whole spell out. With blood in their mouth, the Warrior of Light realises change is only bad.
#
“Shall we?” says Haurchefant.
The Warrior of Light dons their white mage garb. Alphinaud is by no means a poor healer, but if they’re right there, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps—
They don’t make it to Ser Grinnaux. Ser Adelphel cuts down the Temple Banneret, snaps the Warrior’s cane in half, throws them across the chamber; through the blood in their eyes they watch as Adelphel brings his sword down hard on Haurchefant. They close their eyes. They hear him cough, his chainmail scrape against the ground. These are sounds they had never thought they’d ever be so familiar with.
That’s the end of that.
#
“Shall we?”
The Warrior of Light grips their cane until their knuckles flush white. This time. This time. It’ll be this time. The spear comes. They know now that that’s a constant. They catch Haurchefant as he falls. The spear’s point goes straight through Haurchefant and through their armour too and burns their stomach and they’re drenched in enough blood to make anyone gag—if this were the first time, perhaps they too would gag. Benediction comes up, not bile. Crumpling to their knees, they clasp their hands together, so tightly the bones of their fingers creak. Their spells scrape their throat raw. Aymeric holds Haurchefant to offer him some warmth in his final moments—his blue eyes are weary; he knows—and Alphinaud stands with his arms slack by his sides and nobody stops the Warrior of Light because they’re the god’s damned Warrior of Light, gods fucking damn it, so why can’t they stop it? Why? Nobody stops them because nobody is done with hoping, not when Haurchefant’s eyes are still wet and his body warm, if just from the blood and glimmering aether he lays in. They don’t know that these events have already happened, that this is a nightmare of the Warrior’s continued making. They don’t know that Haurchefant is already dead, that they have never managed to save him, not the first nor last fifty times they tried.
Only Haurchefant. Haurchefant hasn’t said anything for the last few times. He simply looks at the Warrior of Light—he is always looking at them. His eyes are blue. And Haurchefant’s touching their hand, prying their fingers away from their cane, saying, no more, enough, it’s alright.
Smile, he requests.
The Warrior of Light tears their hand away.
▶ Save Haurchefant Greystone. [ 0 / 1 ]
[ INCOMPLETE ]
⛨
From the moment Haurchefant Greystone takes up a shield and sword, he knows he will die protecting someone.
From the moment the Warrior of Light, hope incarnate, steps into his hall, that nebulous long-held belief of his comes into clearer focus; he knows it will be them he dies for. Or perhaps he yearned for it so much he mistook it to be knowledge. Perhaps he was just hoping, hoping, hoping.
He’s not reckless about it. His shield will be enough until it isn’t.
He’s content to let go after the Warrior of Light pulls their mouth into a smile at his bidding—he would’ve preferred one of joy, but he can also feel the cobbles against his guts, feel the wind in his stomach, so he supposes now isn’t quite the time. The dead have no need for regrets—the dying ought to put them out of their minds too.
With a sigh, Haurchefant closes his eyes and waits for Hydaelyn.
#
He’s standing outside the Cathedral, and the Warrior of Light is looking at him.
He’s standing.
Is this death? he wonders. He touches his abdomen, the spot his life had been spilling out of what felt like mere moments prior. The Archbishop’s airship goes whizzing over their heads. With a pinched look, Ser Zephirin disappears into the church’s dark arching maw; Ser Charibert follows behind.
Haurchefant lifts his shield.
Perhaps that had been a bad dream. The sun radiates off of the Warrior’s armour.
He looks at the Warrior of Light, and says, “Shall we?”
#
He, to put it simply, is the fool.
Ah, he thinks, dying again on the cobblestones of the Cathedral, so this is how it is.
#
He is standing outside the Cathedral.
The Warrior of Light is looking at him like they have seen a ghost, and then that is when he knows. He’d always known it would be the Warrior of Light he’d die for. He’d expected once—
What does it matter, 998 more times?
“Shall we?” says Haurchefant.
▶ Die for the Warrior of Light. [ 1,000 / 1,000 ]
[ UNCLAIMED ]