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Claudius made only one request, in exchange for his participation in Aymeric’s Grand Melee: he would fight on behalf of himself and the Scions, not on behalf of House Helsingore. Any losses would not reflect on his family.
Thancred, still shaking his head in amusement over swiftly the Warrior of Light could be snared into a competition by Aymeric’s smile, remarked that the harder thing would be to keep House Helsingore from claiming his victories.
“That’s never been a problem in my family,” Claudius said, and excused himself to train with Stephanivien behind the Skysteel Manufactory.
Alphinaud knew nothing of Claudius’s connection to the noble houses of Ishgard. He felt that he should … “ It is unusual, is it not? You were … absent for our flight to Ishgard, but we were welcomed here as wards of House Fortemps. Why would Claudius not mention that he had family in Ishgard?” Helsingore wasn’t one of the Four Houses — Alphinaud studied them well before arriving — but surely they’d still have the sway to secure Claudius’s entry into the city. The city, Alphinaud was discovering, of Claudius’s birth . The very Warrior of Light was a citizen here, and chose to live as a stranger, a fugitive, fleeing a crime he didn’t commit in the first place. Why ?
Thancred gave him the look Alphinaud had grown to detest: the look of an adult deciding whether or not to soften what he had to say. At least Matoya spoke her truths, harsh or no.
“It’s our job to investigate the unusual,” Thancred answered, at last. “ You’re right — there must be a reason Claudius wouldn’t expect the Helsingores to receive him with open arms. It could be dangerous, when the Grand Melee begins in earnest, if he has detractors close to home. But,” he said firmly, the failures of the peace conference still fresh, “you wouldn’t rush to confront a primal on a possibility. You’d do reconnaissance first. Ask around.”
So Alphinaud asked around. He’d turn to Tataru for her assistance in the art of rumor-gathering, but something told him he should settle this affair on his own. It was the least he could do: bring the Scions forward to face the dawn, protect the Warrior of Light, and preserve his good name on the day of the Grand Melee.
Alphinaud was weary of losing what he failed to preserve, and of seeing good people painted into villains.
Amid the bustle and glamor of the Jeweled Crozier, nobles strolling to be seen and servants haggling for their silks, Alphinaud met an Elezen boy — a Duskwight, by the silver of his skin and hair, clad all in purples and clutching an armful of trade paperbacks. “I belong to House Helsingore,” he said, and smiled when he said it. “Picking these up for the young master. He loves his novels.”
“Then please, permit me to introduce myself,” Alphinaud began.
“Oh, I know you ! Alphinaud Leveilleur — you were tried for heresy, weren’t you? Lord Claudius fought for you. Seems to me a heretic can win a trial by combat just as easily as an honest man, but what do we smallfolk know?”
“Do the smallfolk still suspect us?” Alphinaud asked.
“I don’t know about the smallfolk.” The boy turned wistful, shifting on his feet and staring into the sky. “But the highborn say Lord Claudius poisons his blades.”
“The Warrior of Light didn’t choose blades for the trial — he chose Lord Haillenarte’s invention as his weapon, the firearm, in order to prove its efficacy —”
The boy laughed at Alphinaud’s literalism, waving it away with one hand and beckoning closer in with the other. “They mean he’s dishonest. He’ll do whatever it takes to win. That’s just what they say!” He held both hands up in defense. “The young master gets an earful whenever he’s in trouble. They say he’ll turn out like his uncle, one day … a ne-er-do-well, a wastrel, a shiftless adventurer ...”
“ Who says, precisely?”
“Lord Helsingore, but only when the lad’s in trouble. Otherwise the name’s not worth the mention. Lady Helsingore says not to believe the rumors, when Lord Helsingore’s away — but when he’s home, who’s to contradict him?”
“Adventurers are far more celebrated outside of Ishgard.” Alphinaud hoped to sound delicate, measured, fair, when all his idealistic heart wanted to shout at the unfairness. “They work to rebuild Eorzea from the calamities that befell her …and offer solace and protection to whoever calls upon them, regardless of personal ties or allegiances.”
“Or to whoever has coin,” the boy returned. “No — I understand the draw. I’ve read some of the young master’s novels myself. Traveling to other lands, learning other ways of life, seeking out adventure in the open realms beyond our gate … It’s a beautiful dream, something worth pounding out a few one-gil dreadfuls at the foundry. But we like to wear our allegiances here. Ishgardians won’t trust someone who sheds theirs so easily.”
But as the Warrior of Light, Claudius saved all of Eorzea, time and again. His allegiance, therefore, should be to Eorzea herself. Why couldn’t Ishgard see that? Why couldn’t Alphinaud, by force of will and righteousness, make them see?
But no — this was a reconnaissance mission. A time for gathering information, not getting into arguments.
“Lord Claudius doesn’t wish to represent House Helsingore in the Grand Melee,” he said, as calmly as he could. “Will that be a problem?”
“I doubt it. Lord Helsingore’s ready to go do battle with another dragon, while we’ve still got the chance. Peace might be coming, but there are still some borders where war breaks out. The young master would go with him, but …” The boy shrugged. “In trouble again. Neglecting his duties, running around with lowborn children, behaving like a shiftless adventurer.”
“Your young master should not be ashamed to behave like an adventurer, or for forming connections with the lowborn. It’s only by seeking new horizons, and creating alliances outside of our own sphere that we can save the realm from the threats it faces. I’ve long held on to this to belief, and I’ve no intention of discarding it.”
Despite believing in the Crystal Braves. A failure, yes, a mistake not to be made again, but a beautiful dream while it lasted — and Alphinaud no longer winced to think it. “But I must apologize,” he continued. “ You know my name, and I haven’t asked yours …”
“Lord Hamlet!”
The boy’s elezen ears pricked up, and a servant came running — one cut from the same eager, anxious cloth as Honoroit, dashing down the Jeweled Crozier, calling out the unasked-for name.
“Lord Hamlet,” he panted, skidding to a stop, “if I lose you, I’ll get in trouble … Are you buying books again?”
Lord ?
The boy — Lord Hamlet — looked at Alphinaud and mouthed ‘sorry.’ “I told you I belonged to House Helsingore.”